and my CNN opened on a breaking news on a dark street in Libya,
about Nigerians chained to be sold as slaves.
the television slide and roved over,
their tears shattered and their blood spoke of pains on the blazing ground.
the newscaster hid her face,
the screen went into chaos,
the remote ceased as their tears quaked the entire earth.
from peoples’ basket of wailing, my heart shrieked and three cities were built:
graveyard, hell, and death.
This was the totality of manslaughter,
a trade made by Africans against Africans.
they made their souls like an old nest,
torturing their brothers as if night and day are not the same to a blind man.
another ship has capsized in my body and my eyes are yet to find fins.
I have to die for these men!

Storried And Libya Saw

I will hold down Libya for this blood!
I will decorate their cities with skulls and be cracking cackling ghosts.
I will spread black demons on their grounded farmland.
I will break the bones of your infants,
Make their youths desolate to the world.
I will curse their old men and women,
Their rivers shall be blood like Egypt.
Not in this season will my brothers wail like this and my government is silent!
Libya! Libya!! When I shall start my dirge, your home shall be my starting point.
I have written my national diplomacy,
the world has seen my woes howled,
I have consulted the embassies of the UN
remember, butter is not made for monkeys!
when those blood shall start singing an elegy, none of your ears shall stand.
the last time I visited Libyan cemetery,
Nigerian dust was what I saw.
if you see my mother looking out for me through the window, tell her I have gone to Libya for my countrymen.

I am not a streamline to be wasted,
I will like to see if there are survivors,
I will like to see my people even their dust because I will take them back home
If my government is silent, I won’t be!
these are men that have children,
these are women that need husbands,
these are youths, our pride, to run our memories, to sip our memories, to occupy those bed back home.
Libya! Libya! Where are my seeds seized on your border of sin and destruction?
leave me with a piano, I will play a note of your cruelty and music of sadness!
Bite your own tongue and see how painful it is to engage in a war.
and these weaknesses of my people you won’t see in me,
I shall stand like Okonkwo to kill and make life to those who want to live!
I will anoint your head with sore palm wine that forsakes fermentation.
those blood you wasted is the sap of ancestral trees.

till then, if see my father looking out for me, tell him that I have Libya on my palms, our weaknesses they saw yesterday is not cowardice but strategies and passport to reach the world.
it is a martyrdom, making me wax stronger.
we walk our sagging lips
through a street of walls and emptiness
we hold our hopes and they fall like sands creating cascaded dreams like a rainbow in the sky.
Nigeria is blood, not water!

image credit:


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John chizoba Vincent is a poet, Novelist, Music Video Director, cinematographer, film maker and Editor. He hails from Abia state, Nigeria

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By John Chizoba Vincent

and my CNN opened on a breaking news on a dark street in Libya,
about Nigerians chained to be sold as slaves.


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