The morning breaks in Bakassi with moist painted sky.
Rains with heavy hands of a forgotten history –
a forgetful mother. Children here gather at the
mouth of the sea, seeking what is left of themselves;
and some watching: here, a quest; and there, a ritual
that hungers to be performed, to heal the land from
its history. God! Whatever it is, this land is not
adjacent with history, as its mother never
remembers it – since they were given out to bury
the history of a people, a dot on the map that they
forgot; it forms the significant part of the map.
Bakassi, your waters remember not its beginning
again. It wanders into a land that thinks less of it – a
booty gained in forgetfulness. Bakassi, your
children wander, thinking home is not a place of
lucent dream – enough, but wait. In your wandering
feet, in your hands of waters, your names are
retained, floating home the will of the people to live
again. Bakassi, your sons are rising, seeking home
in the breast of their once-mother, who is now
ashamed of taking the blame for selling her own
child – when it should have asked for its equal rights.
*Photo by Seongkyu Bae on Unsplash