In Biafra, when we drank from the tilting
cusps of dank leaves and washed with the spittle
of cassava,
the sun scorched like hell.

Añuruedoahu*, the oasis of war, like worldly
cowrie, stagnant, yet devoid of rural fetish,
calmed our nerves and built in the altar of
our souls hopes of answered prayers.




*A mysterious stream in the poet's village.