In Benue…

By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon

NO one screamed.
There was no time.
They came like dusk
slow, quiet, red-coal fury.
The old man who could not run
was slaughtered mid-prayer.
The child who knew nothing
was beheaded, as he called – “Mama.”

God posed
like an ngbeke model
as they tore the womb.
Foetus and entrails gushed
tabooing the earth
against its will.

We buried them songless.
Not because we had no songs,
but because
our mouths forgot
how to open.

Now, the farm is still.
The hoe sleeps beside the blood.
The yam has not returned.
The birds no longer sing
over Yelewata.
They hover,
watching,
wondering
why the greedy earth
swallows so many
yet stays hungry.

But the earth is not to blame!

We carried bodies
wrapped in silence.
We dug,
and dug,
and dug
until our hands forgot
they were hands.

Now the soil knows their names.
But the government does not.
Benue is emptying
one hut at a time,
one child at a time,
one name at a time.

We no longer count the dead.
For what use is counting
when the count means nothing?
We now count only the ones
who haven’t died yet
because they’re next
on the herdsmen’s menu.

So, we sleep beside packed bags,
ready to run.
But to where?
Where do you run
when your soul
has already been sold
by the hands
meant to shield you?

In Benue,
there is no justice
only eulogies
no one hears.
There is no help coming.
Only headlines,
and the rustle of white paper
promising tomorrow.
But tomorrow
has forgotten the way
to our door.

They tell us: “Say their names.”
But we dare not.
For the foxes might remember
and return for more bloodbath.
So we go numb instead
to God,
to ghosts,
to anyone
who will not forget
that
once,
a people lived here
and
then,
they are
no more.

* Ebhohon is writer and author of the play, The Great Delusion