Arboreal by Esiaba Irobi

Arboreal

(for Obi Maduakor)

 

                                                Master,

It is only the pigeon who has left the loft

and journeyed forth and has been brained

and bloodied in wing, beak and claw, who

returns to recite anew the myth of the land

 

I am winging homewards now.

 

The homing pigeon is winging homewards

now. I am nosing homewards now.

Wending southwards towards the equator.

From the North! But the landscape

has changed.  The pools of water have dried up.

 

And from these heights, even when

I bank low like a jetfighting plane

scraping the leaves on the tree tops

avoiding the jagged edges of the mountain tops

I cannot tell the landmarks anymore.

I cannot see the milestones anymore.

Cannot see the tarmac or the anthills.

 

The trees we planted, the branches

wherein we nested to be nearer to the sun

have been caterpillared; bulldozed

by the beasts, trodden under by the cloven hooves

of donkeys and camels and lame horses…

 

Once more I have to live in a church,

under the ceiling of an undertaker.

Once more I have to live in the village council hall

Under the roof of a thief and sorcerer

Where are the landmarks, the crossroads,

Where we used to wing rightwards

To the farms to share the final cornseeds

From the harvest with ants and weaverbirds.

 

Where are the little pools of water

In whose liquid mirrors we could see ourselves

In flight, diving homewards with glee

Feeling the strength in numbers, undaunted

By the smoke and cannon balls they are firing

Near the village square to celebrate the death

Of a thief who was christened and crowned a chief.

 

There are no more streams I hear

To drink from after the feast of grubs

And worms. The earth has crusted over

They tell me, and the sunbaked mud

Speaks like a traitor eager to trap my claws

In its fissures concealing the dirt, if I land.

 

There is, as I understand it now,

No rest for the wicked in this country

And its polluted provinces. So I am turning back

To where I came from, North, to find a nest

Somewhere on the sixth floor of a building

Along Broadway in New York City,

And wait till it is safe to travel South again.

 

Master, I am winging Northwards now!

But I shall return. Yes I will return

When the nsa-nsa smiles again and the cockerel

Begins to crow at dawn again. Meanwhile,

I nest here sharpening my tool in this workshed

You helped build, knowing, like all exiles, that:

 

It is only the pigeon who has left the loft

and journeyed forth, and has been brained,

And bloodied in wing, beak and claw,

Who returns, to recite anew the myth of the land.

 

Esiaba Irobi - a poet, playwright, actor and scholar was born in the Republic of Biafra on October 1, 1960, and lived in in exile in Nigeria, Britain, United States and Germany where he passed away on May 3, 2010. He studied at the Universities of Nigeria, Sheffield and Leeds, and held a B.A. in English/Drama, M.A. Comparative Literature, M.A. Film/Theatre, and PhD in Theatre Studies. In 1992 his play, Cemetery Road won the prestigious World Drama Trust Award. His books include Nwokedi, The Colour of Rusting Gold, Cotyledons, Hangmen Also Die, and Why I don't Like Philip Larkin and Other Poems. He leaves behind a wife, Uloaku and a son, Nnamdi.