He Lived

In 1934, The Big Drum of goodwill Reeled out pleasant rhythms To the people of the City of Aluu. Unto us, a child is given; Unto us, a warrior is born. Not to interlock hands and arms With girating feet holding grounds In the Ikwerre Wrestling Matches But born to spill the African ink On the creeks of Rivers State Down to the Mediterranean Sea Of the Colonial Masters To retell our beautiful stories, Not as monkeys jumping from tree to tree But as humans blessed with crude melanin, Rich in cultured culture of morality. Indeed! He retold our stories, Painted great masterpieces On the canvas of their karfa. He sold and retailed our tales in the Stock Market At an expensive price that their pockets respected. Even though his anticidence Was a coincidence of incidence That made him a fish on the beach But glory be to Chokike Who molded his paths with wisdom To discover the pipes of inks Flowing stories so legendary in him. As I play pun of his pen product, Just come to the know that There is no penny of penitence When the Concubine fight over the Great Pond. But when the Sun sets in Biafra, Isiburu will gladly sip some PepperSoup Escorted with fresh palm wine At the Roadside as he watches The Dancer of Johannesburg Dance the dance of the Slave Taught by the Woman of Calabar To express the Ethics of Nigerian Culture On the vibrating waist of an African woman Beaded with rainbow beads of beauty Singing and Speaking the spoken word poetry Of her raw, crude, uncut tale of her beauty. But When God Came, Isiburu was not ready. He existed not, he lived. His words lives on in our hearts, he lived. He cannot be late coz he lived. His memories living in our minds, coz he lived. This is just my splash of colours of words On the canvas of your minds To a man who refused to exist but lived. He is no other than the legendary Captain of the Pen, Capt. Dr., Elechi Amadi, I'm just your poetic son, 2'WYTH.