Post-Independence

After the year of blackouts.

After the year where the open-eyed crotons in Aba have slept.

After the year of Buicks and 504s coughing up the bodies of interstate travelers.

After the year of the Niger, its tune clear like footpaths made bright by feet.

After the year of telephone booths.

After the year of old yam heads waiting in dark kitchens for the planting season.

After the year of the march of the battalion toward Congo for peacekeeping.

After the cricket year.

After the paper note year.

After the removal of the portrait of the Queen from every airport and school. 

After the year of black ducks on the premises of public latrines.

After the year of the coup that overthrew Ironsi and alienated the Igbos,

my grandmother began to seek god.

Her glaucoma, a moth rind in her eyes.

Outside her brick house,

she laid out blue buckets and tarnished basins

below the mouth of the zinc roof.

It was the month of rain in the year of reconstruction.

Outside, the xylem of trees awaited the accidence of water.

We heard it. From the plateau, a long sentence of wind.

The arrival of thunder bequeathing the coming of rain.

We heard it. Heaven. Falling into our buckets.