By Ted Ebute
O ay’Idoma, hear the talking drum!
The hills of Agila tremble in sorrow.
The wind carries the cry from Utonkon to Otukpo
—Our people fall like ripe mangoes in the season of grief.
Who will speak for us in the market of men?Who will rise when the leopard devours by daylight?
The killers from Futa come like bushfire,
Their feet do not touch the ground.
But when we raise our cutlasses in defense,
The king in Osa Rock sends thunder.
His soldiers march not to protect,
But to break our bones and silence our drums.
Oh Land of Idu, land of the red earth!
Your womb is soaked, not with rain, but with blood.
Even the river Apa weeps,
Even the palms of Orokamu bend low in mourning.
But the gods are not asleep!
Alekwu watches with eyes of fire.
The spirits of our fathers
—Ejeh, Abutu, Édé, Ogbadibo
—they stir in the dust.
There shall come a day!
A day when the flute calls not for dance,
But for war.
A day when the sons of Idu shall rise
From under the ogbu tree, from behind the yam barns,
With charms on their necks and fury in their eyes.
They shall rise from Orokamu’s groves,
They shall assemble at Oladegbô
And from the caves where the wise men speak to stones.
They shall cross the Apa like lions crossing dew,
And their war cry shall wake the deaf ancestors.
O ye traitors who dine with the invaders,
Your names shall rot in the mouths of your children.
You have sold the land for a pot of oil—
You shall eat, but never be full.
When the drums of Ogbadibo speak,
The earth shall shake.
The masquerades shall come with fire in their feet.
The bones of the fallen shall rise as one voice
—A voice that says:
“This land is ours!
”Let the world hear it:
The sons of Idu are not dead.
They are waiting.
And when they rise,
Even the gods shall stand.
