It was a free fair day. A day void of premonition.
A weather worthy of forecast. A morning stealth of action.
A "people" unaware of the lurking disaster.
Children were busy throwing sands in the air.
You can hear the rhythmic sound of mortar and pestle;
Produced by breastfeeding mothers,
"Gbim Gbim, Untroubled fathers and sons drummed in the farm.
It was hardly hot in the afternoon,
When we heard a heavy noise in the air,
"Gbowaaa! Went the deafening noise,
Another came, another, more followed...
Then we realised the devil could wear a uniform.
They came in loads, like market wares waiting to be offloaded in onitsha market.
Confusion, awe, fear, anxiety gripped us,
Like birds left without feathers,
Beaten by angry storm,
We felt the pain of cold
In a second, the untroubled fathers lay motionless,
The breastfeeding mothers went lifeless,
The singing mortar and pestle came silent,
The glorious weather was filled with sorrow.
I lost my leg to the guns,
My father to the drones,
My brother to the machetes,
My future to war.
But the effort of our fathers
Shall not be in vain.
Together we'll come stronger.
Nothing shall pull us back, not even the pain.
