The Benin Mask
Ivory gleams like moonlight carved into memory—
the face of Idia, Iyoba, Queen Mother of Benin,
whose spirit breathes through the silence of exile.
In 1897, they came with fire and iron,
tore open the palace of the Oba,
looted not only gold and bronze,
but the heartbeat of a people.
And still, the mask sits—
caged in London, imprisoned in New York,
while its spirit longs for the red earth of home.
You teach your children that Africa gave nothing.
But what does this mask whisper in your halls?
What story do its eyes tell as they stare back at you?
To us, it was never ornament.
It was our bridge—
a vessel to cross into other dimensions,
to speak with star-brothers from the Pleiades,
to walk with Arcturians, to dream with Sirians.
Through it, we measured not the body,
but the consciousness of the soul.
And you, with your pride,
could never see its truth.
For true intelligence wears humility like a crown,
but you clothed yourselves in arrogance,
and called it civilization.
The Benin mask remembers.
It mourns, but it waits.
For pride is the burden of fools,
and what pride destroyed—
humility will one day restore.
Return it,
for in its eyes still burns
the dignity of Africa.
Copyright © Chanda Katonga | Year Posted 2025
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