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Poems from Igbo

1995, Anthropology and Humanism

66 Anthropology and Humanism RORY TURNER Department of Sociology and Anthropology Goucher College 1021 Dulaney Valley Rd. Towson,MD 21204 Poems from Igbo Udummili Ourfacesshowed quiet strain as we waited. Every night the winds blew and the clouds scudded, but granted us nothing. Why you no give rain Chineke, what medicine ties your hands? At last, yesterday it fell soft and full deeply soaking the red earth, plumping the leaves, quickening the roots. And today it fell as well! My heart is quiet, subdued like a plant that waits for rain in this place of happy strangers. They welcome me, they give me companionship and life. But it is not the same as the joy of the lines of your face, the curves of your body, the sound of your voice. I am not whole, but whole I wait in this rainy season that softens things. Even the hearts of the villagers, even my heart. Egedege They dance the Egedege, the dance of the fashion queen, good conduct for an essentially joyful people whose lives arefilledwith too much pain. They dance, these girls with the shakers on their ankles, joining the music in intricate oneness, celebrating their proud queen, while the cords they tie dig grooves in their legs. Who cannot say that the Igbo people are trying, fa n'anwa, they try so well, I fall in love and they dash me with their bodies at the end of the dance, I have not known such a thing, in conduct a sweetness, a counter to the hours of care. Volume 20, Number 1 Poems Imoka Why did you die Ezeugo? Why did the bees that called you to the shrine call you away? Was it the raffia wine I gave you, a mistake we thought we had paid for? Am I really a thief of your culture? Maybe it was the simple failure of your body in a trying season. Or is it the malice that builds up between your people? I only wish the bees had chosen differently. Mammy Wata Down in the farmlands, beyond the yam fields, the bamboo brakes, the mango trees, I travel lightfooted wary of snakes. The sun is hot. I hear the sound of water, pick my way towards it. Down the rift in the red soil the stream gushes, cool and dark, part of another world. Is it this spirit that haunts me in the night? Okeke Okafor Making Snuff Okeke sits in his obi making snuff. Legs astride an ancient stone quietly he concentrates on his task, pounding and grinding pounding and grinding the dark leaves crumble into dust. Soft roar of dry harmattan wind, roosters, distant talk, the rhythmic thump of stone on stone. Soft soosh of grinding. His body is an old muscular root from seasons of farming. This man patient and deep as the time smoothed stone. 67