Death: Fear

The fear of death
is the fear of everything.
The fear of dying
is the fear of living.

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Who Sat and Watched My Big, Fat Head?

Who sat and watched my big, fat head,
when sleeping on my queen-sized bed,
and tears of sweet, planned revenge shed?
My brother.

Don’t Forget My Children

Little children who can’t pronounce war yet;
children who shouldn’t know what it is.
Running, their bodies plagued with beads of sweat,
with kwashiorkor and tuberculosis.

“Uncle, where is mama? Where is papa?”
Parents’ bodies are lifeless on the farms.
“Mama, why did you leave me here with master?”
Babies are starving, dying in their own arms.

Don’t try to make me shut my mouth
when I get possessed by pain and cry.
  
But if we return to the past, we’re going south.
Can brothers forgive other brothers if they try?

Take flowers to the sea for my children,
who could’ve been all they wanted to be.
At least, admit it was not okay for grown men
to snatch my children away from me.

hunger

Biafran War (6 July 1967 – 15 January 1970)

One, Two, Unbuckled My Shoe

One, two,
nobody knew;
three, four,
I was so sore;
five, six;
he gave me licks;
seven, eight;
then he laid me straight;
nine, ten,
he was uncle Ben;
eleven, twelve;
until I was twelve.

P R O T E C T     T H E     C H I L D R E N:
Nobody is your child’s wife or husband, whether or not they refer to your child as that as a joke. Let the children be children. Listen to them, check their bodies if you are their parents, assess their behaviours, and be their defence against the world. Don’t “protect the family name” when your children are involved; if a family member molests your child, report them to the appropriate authorities.