Ode to the Heart of our Land

To Chukwu Okike, The Great Carver of All Things

Before the cock first crowed in the hills of Umunze,

Before the first yam split its belly open to feed a child,

You, Chukwu Okike, stretched your hands across the void

And painted the sky with fire and breath.

You whispered into dust and called it man.

You carved rivers with your fingers,

Hung the sun like a lantern in the sky,

And told the eagle: “Guard the air.”

To the Sun, Keeper of Light and Labour

Oh Sun, Nna Anyanwu, you rise from the belly of Land

And walk the sky like a proud elder.

You dry our wet mats, ripen our bitter kola,

And lead the farmer to his hoe.

You blind the eyes of invaders who hide in the bush,

Yet warm the backs of children

Playing naked under your gaze.

You are fire without rage,

Blessing without bribe.

To the Forest, Silent Mother of Struggle

O Forest of Ngele,

You do not speak with tongue, but your voice is thunder.

You hide the herbs that heal us,

You shelter the hunter,

And test the feet of those who think themselves brave.

We ran into you when war drums beat,

You wrapped us in green silence.

You gave us bark for fever, leaves for wounds,

And trees strong enough to build alters and keep our lost alike.

To the Mountain, Watcher of Men

Mountain that sits like an elder above the town,

Your back has not bent since creation.

You see both feast and funeral,

You keep secrets the village forgets.

When lightning dances, you do not tremble.

When children cry, you echo their names back to the hills.

You are the eye of Ani,

Watching, always watching.

To the Warrior, Living and Fallen

To you who wore red feathers and went into the forest with only a blade,

To you who stood when your brothers fled,

We remember.

We speak your names at the breaking of kolanut.

Your blood became the rain that washed our fears away.

Those who live walk with silence in their steps,

Those who died now walk in stories told at moonlight.

We do not forget.

To the Blacksmith, Maker of Fire and Iron

You who wake the day with hammer and flame,

Who beat stubborn metal into beauty and power—

We thank you.

Your hands birth spears, hoes, knives, and crowns.

Without your anvil, our warriors are naked.

Without your work, our farms lie silent.

You are not just a man, you are the muscle behind every victory.

To our Land, our Pride

Our hone Land, red with history,

Rich with sweat, tears, and laughter

We do not walk on you; we walk with you.

You carry our footprints,

You swallow our dead and raise our children.

For every tree, stone, stream, hill, and shadow

We acknowledge.