We all, young and old, understood.
Lie not, son, and do not steal;
For naught in the world should you kill
My father’s words—they were fresh
As I lived circumspectly in only things good;
Ere the stranger came to weary my flesh,
Good and bad I knew and understood.
And now, I copy his cough and his sneeze,
And am carried away by his norm’s breeze
And forgot the words my father told me—
The wise words of the elder under the tree!
He gave me a gun, for my enemy,
And told me my brother was he!
He gave me a plast for my privy,
To go in unto my neighbor’s ‘she’!
My brother rise against my father,
And my bark deafens the ear of my mother!
Now, I see Papa, and call him dude,
And to all grayed ones, I’ve become rude!
With what charm has he bewitched me?
See, I am yet his slave though he be gone!
I spit on my culture—my very identity
And I’m left alone, a foolish and confused one.
Written by: Ani Michael Onyedikachi Jr.
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.