…I was sure most people who came across the written piece while flipping the pages of the newspaper for important news would have dismissed it as nursery rhymes of meaningless poetry. I didn’t care about the rhyme scheme like Shakespeare would. Neither did I give a hoot about the metre as Elliot would. I never set out to be graded. I only craved to be heard. And that was where I found my voice.
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On that day, Kenule Saro-Wiwa was killed.
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I was broken. I wept. So Abacha didn’t read my poem. Not even Mustapha his henchman did. I could not hide the pain I felt. Uche asked me what my business was with him. Little did he know that Kenule’s death is our own death. He didn’t know either that the injustice done to Ogoni land is an evil done to us. At night, I tore out a clean sheet of paper and wrote: …
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Few days after, Nigeria was suspended from the 54-member Commonwealth of Nations. Economic sanctions flew in from all corners. People were missing. Those who were bold enough to talk aloud were being haunted and assassinated. Neighbouring countries were under compulsion to shut their borders at us. The masses felt the brunt of it. Abacha turned a blind eye to the storm that was engulfing the land. He began to launch campaign after another to build a dynasty where he’ll be our goggled king forever…
At the passing of each day, I got restless with my emotions upturned like the spirit of the nation and her people. I would write letters, poems and scribble incorrigible things on paper and then edit them to appeal to the reader’s soft spots. Nneka said I could write all the stories there was to write in the world but warned I must shut my eyes to the affairs of the country…
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