Writers - the owner of every bleeding pen

why does your pen not bleed the blood of our dead fathers?

why do you save the souls of the white men

whose bodies are white but their hearts black...

ah- they who called our fathers monkies

who rode on our fathers like donkies

I have gone to the slavery museum

the pictures of our fathers on the wall

those pictures are crying and lamenting

I could hear the crying of our fathers

I saw the fall of valiant men

I felt the fears and troubles borne by the old women

I perceived through the picture-

the horrible smell of corpses

the moon there was crying

the sun there was assimilating the "concobilities" of those white devils-

oh writers- so why?

why do you now make your pen sing

sing the name of those white men

those whose "stick of nose" are like the ribs of palmfronts

they dress like onions in their black suits

"many many" "as in as in"; thus they speak their "concobilities of language",

Oh writers- why do you dig in their land with your pen?

digging for their histories

writing them with the ink of our fathers

made from their water and their blood...

is it for fame or for what-

for I know our land is the home of
histories

histories more than the stars

beautiful than a cloudless sky

rich in emotion

rich in wisdom...

why do we write for heraclitus?

plato, shakespear and poe?

why have you forgotten the history of Oduduwa?

why have you erased the ink of Onakakanfo?

the great war of Ojukwu

the great beauty of the Egba people.

And as for the speakers-

I eulogize you for your follies

"concobilities this, concobilities that"

you are proud of your shamelessness

you twist your tongues to mock your ancestors

whose bodies are buried in the ground

but their souls in me.

I leave you to continue

swimming in your endless ocean of rubbish

you are good bastards of good fathers,

you children of "the dog that chases after the fox"

©®Ibrahim Clouds(SWC).