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10
Tongue of our ancestors
<p>'ππππππ ππ πππ πΌππΎππππππ'</p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p><p>The ancestors' voice</p><p>was the first drumbeat I knew--</p><p>Igbo amaka, the slogan of the days.Β </p><p>The language that tastes</p><p>better than ripe udala.Β </p><p><br/></p><p>But now, this generation</p><p>wishes to have no taste of the</p><p>mother tongue.Β </p><p>Everyone speaks of borrowed tongues,Β </p><p>tongues our ancestors knew not.Β </p><p>Tongues unsure of how to knew</p><p>before vowels of home.Β </p><p><br/></p><p>Every 'π£πͺπ’, '</p><p>sounds like an abomination,Β </p><p>magneting furrowed brows</p><p>'I don't know what that is. '</p><p><br/></p><p>Once, our language</p><p>sat proudly in the centre of the heart,Β </p><p>glowing like fresh palm oil.</p><p>Now it lingers at the doorway,</p><p>a visitor waiting to be invited in.</p><p><br/></p><p>I hear elders whisper,</p><p>'ππ΄πΆπ΄πΆ π’π―πΊπͺ π’π₯π’π’ππ’ π―'π°π΄π°β¦</p><p>π°πΆπ³ ππ’π―π¨πΆπ’π¨π¦ πͺπ΄ π΄ππͺπ±π±πͺπ―π¨Β </p><p>π΅π©π³π°πΆπ¨π© π°πΆπ³ π§πͺπ―π¨π¦π³π΄, '</p><p>like river sand we thought</p><p>we were holding tight.</p><p><br/></p><p>Our identity,Β </p><p>blown by the wind of π’π΄πΆπ΄πΆ π°πΊπͺπ―π£π°.Β </p><p>Westernisation,Β </p><p>our foe.</p><p><br/></p><p>From the dust</p><p>and tombs,Β </p><p>the ancestors echo our language,Β </p><p>an identity that must thrive.Β </p><p>Pleas from beyond,Β </p><p>begging us to call it back,Β </p><p>let its glory rest on our tongues,Β </p><p>wrapping generations in it's warmth.Β </p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p>
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