Captive No More (Part VII)
Captive No More (Part VII)
22
The mighty and resplendent Iya Iroko
tree had remained rooted
near the Oba river
for three hundred and sixty-four seasons
watching the ways of humans
from the viewpoint of a plant
under which folks sat
to rest, to trade, to love
and frequently to battle,
without care for human life
to hurt, to maim, to kill
while she provided them shelter,
food and often healing herbs
which they took without asking
and which she gave without grudging.
Under her watchful eyes
Iya Iroko had witnessed
many civilizations with promise high,
rise, fall, tumultuously pass away
while cities swelled and evaporated
as mighty monarchs steamed and vaporized.
23
Like babies, warriors had sobbed
under her canopy of leaves,
where valiant women stood firm
below the branches of her foliage
from one generation to another
passing down their cultural batons,
as change became most abiding
above deities, divinities and gods,
beyond and exceeding any idol
that people worshipped, hugged or hailed.
Fateful was that afternoon
when weary and teary-eyed
Iya Iroko bent her head and watched
a chain of mere toddlers
pulled by a gang of four men
paused under her umbrella
to rest and fuel
before proceeding on their journey
through a path forking the river
that fed the roots under her aged trunk.
She saw them coming
miles before they reached her shade,
as other roots below the ground
were relaying the message
of the oncoming train
where the plants reached out
and touched each other
forming unbounded networks
of streaming communication without borders
outside the ken of human eyes
no sooner than the human carriage
left the city of Oyo
entering the forest banks
heading toward the Oba river.
24
It was the first Apa tree,
a male stalwart that had seen many wars,
that began to shed tears
upon setting his hoary eyes
on these motherless babies
led like a body of cows
driven with hidings of whips
without caution or heed
for the tender fleshes of skin
that the switches tore
off the skinny bodies
of the wobbling infants.
Cursing the blades of sharp grasses
cutting the legs of these infants
the old Apa tree warned other plants
to handle the train with care
for the sake of these children
who must break through thorny bushes,
kept off the beaten paths
to hide them from human views.
Soon afterward as the rainstorms fell,
other trees began to wail
unable to protect these babies
from the howling winds
that were bending supple branches,
and tearing the hair off the plants.
25
Iya Iroko, watched the drama
her head fifty feet from the ground
and her limbs buried deep
fifty feet below the surface
wondering what to do
to avenge the callous ways
of these wicked felons
filing in a train of blood
toward her majestic presence
where she reigned undisputed,
the oldest and wisest plant
in that county of green residents.
Suddenly, as she scratched her head
an idea from nowhere came,
the very moment she saw
a heavily pregnant woman
chained to the rear of the caravan
hardly able to walk–
Iya Iroko waited with patience and vengeance
ticking off the seconds
as this caravan of hate
filed its march of death
within the radial periphery
of her hundred-yard roots:
she was going to teach them a lesson,
she made up her mind,
which they would never forget
if any of these villains
survived her trap
wherever they tramped.
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