Echoes from Biafra. - by Divine Miracle Christian

The sky once split over the Niger’s bend,And brothers woke as enemies.In the red dust of the East,Drums of harvest turned to drums of war,And the marketplace learned the language of fear.When the guns thundered in 1967,The map was torn by trembling hands.From Nigeria’s wounded heartRose the cry of Biafra—A name stitched with hope and hunger.Mother wrapped her child in silence,For even lullabies were dangerous.The moon hid behind smoke,Ash drifting like cursed snowUpon cassava fields gone bitter.Roads became rivers of fleeing feet,Suitcases stuffed with memory—A photograph, a wrapper, a Bible,And the stubborn beliefThat tomorrow must still exist.In villages hollowed by shellfire,The wells tasted of sorrow.Markets emptied.Palm trees bowed as if in prayerFor sons who would not return.And hunger—Hunger was the loudest soldier.It marched through kitchens without knocking,Sat at wooden tables uninvited,Counted ribs like rosary beads.Children’s bellies swelled with silence,Eyes too large for their fragile faces.Kwashiorkor carved its cruel signatureAcross tender skin,While mothers searched the horizon for mercy.At Onitsha the air burned;At Enugu the nights trembled;In Port Harcourt oil and bloodShared the same dark sheen.Each town carried its own obituary.Fathers who once tilled the earthNow held rifles with shaking resolve.Some whispered prayers before battle,Calling on God to rememberThat they had once been gentle men.Hospitals filled with broken dawns—Bandages thin as promises,Medicine scarcer than peace.The wounded lay listeningFor footsteps that might mean survivalOr surrender.And yet—Amid the ruin, humanity flickered.Strangers shared their last handful of garri.Churches became shelters of trembling faith.In refugee camps, women formed circles,Weaving courage from cracked voices.The world watched through distant lenses,Images crossing oceans—Ribs like cages around fading breath,A generation learning too soonThat politics can starve a child.When the guns finally hushed in 1970,Silence did not mean healing.It meant counting—Counting graves without markers,Counting years stolen from youth.“No victor, no vanquished,”The leaders declared.But the soil remembered footsteps of the fallen,And rivers carried storiesThat refused to drown.Today the harmattan still blowsAcross the scarred earth,Whispering of unity bought at a costMeasured not in currencyBut in bones and hunger.Listen closely—You may hear them:The mothers who buried lullabies,The children who outlived their childhoods,The soldiers who never returned home whole.Their suffering is not a footnote.It is a drumbeat beneath the anthem,A shadow behind the flag’s green and white.It asks us to rememberThat a nation is fragile as breath,And peace is a harvestWe must guard with gentler hands.

Other insights from Divine Miracle Christian

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons