Becoming

I usually let my poems speak for themselves, but 'Becoming' requires a bridge between two worlds. When I first heard the relentless, labouring cadence of Rudyard Kipling’s Boots, I didn’t just hear soldiers marching; I heard the rhythmic thud of hoes against red earth and felt compelled to reimagine that cadence for a 16th-century Igbo maiden, a girl caught between her own fear and her role as a reluctant sacrifice to shield her village from raiders. This is the rhythm of her transformation from a daughter of the soil to Ala itself.

They dig—dig—dig— the red earth

Deep—deep—deep—Alajuru’s wet ground

Soil—soil—soil—falling from hoes

There’s no returning from ala


Nine—six—hands pat my oiled skin

Three—seven—orji laid before my feet

They dig—dig—dig— the red earth

There’s no returning from ala


Don’t—don’t—don’t—look at nne m

Soil—soil—soil—falling from hoes

Heart—heart—hearts are breaking

There’s no returning from ala


Smell—smell—smell—the wet soil

Deep—deep—deep—Alajuru’s wet ground

Soil—soil—soil—falling from hoes

There’s no returning from ala


See—see—see—their uli

Red—curves—like—ugu stalks

Soil—soil—soil—falling from hoes

There’s no returning from ala


Hear—hear—hear—the afa 

His—chants—a—hum—that assures nna m

Soil—soil—soil—falling from hoes

There’s no returning from ala


Try—try—try—to think of  orji

 Of—branches—that—rise—and waves at igwe 

 Soil—soil—soil—falling from hoes

 There’s no returning from ala


I—bear—the grief, the praise, the  pride

But—not—not—the sound of the hoes

They dig—dig—dig— the red earth

And there’s no returning from ala


The—sun—is—low—and all the world is here

For—night—will—come—and I’ll be deep

With—soil—soil—soil—gripping my throat

For there’s no returning from  ala


I’ll—stand—in—time, an arusi for this land

My name—a—wind—to stay the raider’s strike

From soil—soil—soil—soil—that birth the Iroko

There is no returning, for I am ala

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