My Village Shrine

My Village Shrine

I placed my feet one after the other in movement

Swirling red African dust settled on my feet

As I ate the distance between me and my destination

The laterite road surrendered to a leafy pathway

Noise of occasional passing cars and human chatter

Lost to the quietude of this enigma of a forest

Pulled forward by an invisible force of curiosity

I moved further into the forest towards the stream

From where they say my village shrine reigned

Even before the days of the father of my fathers'' father

And the deeper I went into the belly of the forest

The more fearsome the trees grew to be.

The shrubs became phantoms by tricks of my mind

And the eerie silence became loudly menacing

Running waters drummed to startle as I got near to it

And then, remembering the wisdom of the elders

I liberated my voice to hoarse shouts of the mortals

That the water spirits would go in and grant me safe passage

Between the water that gives life and the land of the African gods

The journey ends for the mortal female except the few favoured by the gods

And even those initiated into the revered cult of priesthood.

Just as the secret of the owl shall never be made known to daylight

So is the shadowy ancient trail to the seat of my village shrine.

My fathers'' father told me that I was initiated ahead of my mates

And so, I should not be afraid of a handshake with the gods

I shook off the cobwebs of trepidation hanging all over me

Looked around and in a leap of faith and courage

Sailed across the stream and walked into the thick undergrowth

Unnervingly evident that I was all by my curious self

It was a journey across the fabled playground of the gods

I knew about them – revered messengers of the gods

Right onto my path they sent chills down my spine

I had come too far to tolerate thoughts of going back.

The apes considered me with fearsome judging eyes

Found me worthy of an encounter with the abode of the gods

Left me to my fate and continued on their tour of duty

Cries of unusual birds I did not see bade me welcome

I ventured yet nearer my destination.

Excitedly, I sallied forth into the last of the shrubs

Before the sacred grotto but as nothing prepared me

For the extraordinary spectacle that beheld me,

I was bewitched and enthralled.

I cautiously moved my unwilling legs

Towards the subject of my visit

I sat down on a carved ancient wooden stool

Right in front of the cave and picked a piece of white clay...

Clay of the gods

I crushed a little and applied on my eyes

With a gradual comprehension that

I was really in the presence of a force

Beyond my mortal understanding,

My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness enveloping me

And I beheld it - my village shrine

Emeka Amakeze

The Soul Of Ndi Igbo

How a people think is deadlier than what they think; and such has become the circumstance of the modern day Ndi Igbo.

“Egbe bere Ugo bere, nke si ibe ya ebena, nku kwaa ya”,

“Ọ baara isi, ọ bara agụba”

The above are wise sayings that used to be integral parts of the supplications of Ndi Igbo to Chi okike from their first encounter with the sunrise till the sun sets. But sadly, proclaiming that both the eagle and the hawk should perch; while the one that says the other should not perch should have its wings broken in bits, and that what is good for the goose is also good for the gander have all become the proverbial cloth that was swept off by the wind when Okoro; who was yet to become an odogwu tied it around his waist. Ọ were bụrụ ego emekwara mmọnwụ for one does not request a refund of the money sprayed on a masquerade.

A lot of water has passed under the bridge and how Ndi Igbo think has now become different from what it used to be mgbe ezi ka di n’ukwu ukwa. In the days when they recounted their heroic deeds, myths and legends in the presence of the moonlight and often times with children seated in semi circles while Ani - the earth goddes that does not spare evil doers witnessed. In the days when elders were respected for their wisdom and for those things that they saw while seated which the youthful age could not see even from the top of the Iroko tree, rather than feared because of the number of people they diabolically and jealously sent to the world beyond.

A ka na-agba ọsọ ọchụ? Gone are the days when elders cleared their throat to speak and the spirits listened.  Elders of Igbo land have learnt to fly without perching by killing the ones that call them father and the spirits learnt to shoot without aiming by looking the other way as elders are served pounded mbana instead yam. Ụmụaka were na-eresịzị ndi okenye adaka na ọnụ enwe.

The few wise ones still weep for the days when women were won by those who deserved them and the men, by the valour of their strength. The winds have swept away the days when elders, ndi diokpara and ndi ada were given their due respect irrespective of their financial status.

The water that passed under the bridge washed away the days when begging and stealing were considered abomination by Ndi Igbo; because one of the ways they measured their self worth was how hard they worked and how well fed their families were considered to be. Those were the days the Ndi Igbo believed that one’s neighbour was one's sibling; and that righteousness and purity were essential in his day to day activities. Those were the days they thought positively and it worked for them

It is no longer thus. Mmadụ ọ nọkwa n'ụlọ egbe were buru mbe?

But the child that says that his mother will not sleep will of course have no sleep.

Ndi Igbo man murdered sleep when they sacrificed their essence on the altar of self-importance and vainly chose to call themselves ọ kwụ ọtọ ekene eze and taught their children that wealth rather than truth and justice, is the final arbiter; akụ na-ebi okwu, ụmụazi were iwe bọsaa okpesi.

The vanity of Ndi Igbo and largely, how they now think has become a knife that has severed the thing that spiritually held him together, o wee buru oke n’ụlọ, ngwere n’ọhia. The soul of Ndi Igbo man left them and they fell apart.

But until Ndi Igbo agree that their mother will sleep by changing the way they think, they will continue to be denied sleep.

Emeka Amakeze writes...

My Village Shrine

I placed my feet one after the other in movement

Swirling red African dust settling on my feet

As I eat the distance between me and my destination

The laterite road peters out to a leafy pathway

Noise of occasional passing cars and human chatter

Lost to the quietude of this enigma of an abode

Pulled forward by an invisible force of curiosity

I moved further into the forest towards the stream

From where they say my village shrine reigned

Even before the days of the father of my fathers'' father

And the deeper I went into the belly of the forest

The more fearsome the trees grew to be.

The shrubs became phantoms by tricks of my mind

And the eerie silence became loudly menacing

Running waters drummed to startle as I got near to it

And then, remembering the wisdom of the elders

I liberated my voice to hoarse shouts of the mortals

That the water spirits would go in and grant me safe passage

Between the water that streams life and the land of the gods

Apart from those initiated into the revered cult of priesthood.

The journey ends for the mortals not favoured by the gods

Just as the secret of the owl shall never be made known to daylight

So is the shadowy ancient trail to the seat of my village shrine.

My fathers'' father told me that I was initiated ahead of my mates

And so, I should not be afraid of a handshake with the gods

I shook off the cobwebs of trepidation hanging all over me

Looked around and in a leap of faith and courage

Jumped across the stream and walked into the thick undergrowth

Unnervingly evident that I was all by my curious self

It’s a journey across the fabled playground of the gods

I knew about them – feared messengers of the gods

Right onto my path it sent chills down my spine

I had come too far to tolerate thoughts of going back.

The ape considered me with fearsome judging eyes

Found me worthy of an encounter with the abode of the gods

Left me to my fate and continued on its tour of duty

Cries of unusual birds I did not see bade me welcome

I ventured yet nearer my destination.

Excitedly, I sallied forth into the last of the shrubs

Before the sacred grotto but as nothing prepared me

For the extraordinary spectacle that beheld me,

I was bewitched and enthralled.

I cautiously moved my unwilling legs

Towards the subject of my visit

I sat down on a carved ancient wooden stool

Right in front of the cave and picked a piece of white clay...

Clay of the gods

I crushed a little and applied on my eyes

With a gradual comprehension that

I was really in the presence of a force

Beyond my mortal understanding,

My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness enveloping me

And I beheld it - my village shrine

an Emeka Amakeze poetic expression.

The Soul of Ndi Igbo

How a people think is deadlier than what they think; and such has become the circumstance of the modern day Ndi Igbo.

“Egbe bere Ugo bere, nke si ibe ya ebena, nku kwaa ya”,

“Ọ baara isi, ọ bara agụba”

The above are wise sayings that used to be integral parts of the supplications of Ndi Igbo to Chi okike from their first encounter with the sunrise till the sun sets. But sadly, proclaiming that both the eagle and the hawk should perch; while the one that says the other should not perch should have its wings broken in bits, and that what is good for the goose is also good for the gander have all become the proverbial cloth that was swept off by the wind when Okoro; who was yet to become an odogwu tied it around his waist. Ọ were bụrụ ego emekwara mmọnwụ for one does not request a refund of the money sprayed on a masquerade.

A lot of water has passed under the bridge and how Ndi Igbo think has now become different from what it used to be mgbe ezi ka di n’ukwu ukwa. In the days when they recounted their heroic deeds, myths and legends in the presence of the moonlight and often times with children seated in semi circles while Ani - the earth goddess that does not spare evil doers witnessed. In the days when elders were respected for their wisdom and for those things that they saw while seated which the youthful age could not see even from the top of the Iroko tree, rather than feared because of the number of people they diabolically and jealously sent to the world beyond.

A ka na-agba ọsọ ọchụ? Gone are the days when elders cleared their throat to speak and the spirits listened.  Elders of Igbo land have learnt to fly without perching by killing the ones that call them father and the spirits learnt to shoot without aiming by looking the other way as elders are served pounded mbana instead yam. Ụmụaka were na-eresịzị ndi okenye adaka na ọnụ enwe.

The few wise ones still weep for the days when women were won by those who deserved them and the men, by the valour of their strength. The winds have swept away the days when elders, ndi diokpara and ndi ada were given their due respect irrespective of their financial status.

The water that passed under the bridge washed away the days when begging and stealing were considered abomination by Ndi Igbo; because one of the ways they measured their self worth was how hard they worked and how well fed their families were considered to be. Those were the days the Ndi Igbo believed that one’s neighbour was one's sibling; and that righteousness and purity were essential in his day to day activities. Those were the days they thought positively and it worked for them

It is no longer thus. Mmadụ ọ nọkwa n'ụlọ egbe were buru mbe?

But the child that says that his mother will not sleep will of course have no sleep.

Ndi Igbo man murdered sleep when they sacrificed their essence on the altar of self-importance and vainly chose to call themselves ọ kwụ ọtọ ekene eze and taught their children that wealth rather than truth and justice, is the final arbiter; akụ na-ebi okwu, ụmụazi were iwe bọsaa okpesi.

The vanity of Ndi Igbo and largely, how they now think has become a knife that has severed the thing that spiritually held him together, o wee buru oke n’ụlọ, ngwere n’ọhia. The soul of Ndi Igbo man left them and they fell apart.

But until Ndi Igbo agree that their mother will sleep by changing the way they think, they will continue to be denied sleep.

Emeka Amakeze writes...