The Summer Tale of an Igbo Nigga Who Knows no Master (Tribute to George Floyd) -By J. Ezike

When they cannot trap him with women like they did to Samson,
When Delilah’s eyes of Venus has lost its blues,
They shoot him with a name to prophesy lies:
‘Gay! Gay! He is… If Aretha, Jacinta, Sunita and Anita charmed him not,
Then,
Gay! He is…’

Taming his proud weakness with the letters of God,
That caught lust by its throat
His many feats like mystery confusing the King’s deities
And eyes like the imperial sun,
Grows wider to search for his hidden rod
‘For if He be the reborn of Moses,
Hell! Hell must fall… and the red sea must never reveal its dust!’

What maketh him so tough,
That he sings alone and dances alone in the den of the White Lions!
And bids his daily dangers with the prayerful silence of Daniel
‘What black slave can we make of him?
His many struggles speaking of Black Freedom
Echoing the anthem of Biafra
Chanting the redemption songs of Marley and of Fela,
Telling the tales of Garvey, of Martin and of Malcolm
Whispering the ghost cry of George Floyd…’

The summer tale of an Igbo nigga who knows no master
Nor praise the thrones that calls him spy, terrorist, extremist and racist
Bringing arts of coffin,
Of speaking skeleton,
So that he who draws the black superman
May cry the ghost cry of George Floyd!

Break him! Break him!
And let his young bones be weak as powder before the wind
Burn him! Burn him!
And let the smoke from his ashes mock his God!

But
The summer tale of this Igbo nigga who knows no master,
Is a tale that fears no king…
Only the King of kings!