| ESIABA IROBI Arboreal (for Obi Maduakor) Master, It is only the pigeon who
has left the loft and journeyed forth and
has been brained and bloodied in wing, beak
and claw, who returns to recite anew the
myth of the land I am winging homewards
now. The homing pigeon is
winging homewards now. I am nosing homewards
now. Wending southwards towards
the equator. From the North! But the
landscape has changed. The pools of
water have dried up. And from these heights,
even when I bank low like a
jetfighting plane scraping the leaves on the
tree tops avoiding the jagged edges
of the mountain tops I cannot tell the
landmarks anymore. I cannot see the
milestones anymore. Cannot see the tarmac or
the anthills. The trees we planted, the
branches wherein we nested to be
nearer to the sun have been caterpillared;
bulldozed by the beasts, trodden
under by the cloven hooves of donkeys and camels and
lame horses… Once more I have to live
in a church, under the ceiling of an
undertaker. Once more I have to live
in the village council hall Under the roof of a thief
and sorcerer Where are the landmarks,
the crossroads, Where we used to wing
rightwards To the farms to share the
final cornseeds From the harvest with ants
and weaverbirds. Where are the little pools
of water In whose liquid mirrors we
could see ourselves In flight, diving
homewards with glee Feeling the strength in
numbers, undaunted By the smoke and cannon
balls they are firing Near the village square to
celebrate the death Of a thief who was
christened and crowned a chief. There are no more streams
I hear To drink from after the
feast of grubs And worms. The earth has
crusted over They tell me, and the
sunbaked mud Speaks like a traitor
eager to trap my claws In its fissures concealing
the dirt, if I land. There is, as I understand
it now, No rest for the wicked in
this country And its polluted
provinces. So I am turning back To where I came from,
North, to find a nest Somewhere on the sixth
floor of a building Along Broadway in New York
City, And wait till it is safe
to travel South again. Master, I am winging
Northwards now! But I shall return. Yes I
will return When the nsa-nsa smiles
again and the cockerel Begins to crow at dawn
again. Meanwhile, I nest here sharpening my
tool in this workshed You helped build, knowing,
like all exiles, that: It is only the pigeon who
has left the loft and journeyed forth, and
has been brained, And bloodied in wing, beak
and claw, Who returns, to recite
anew the myth of the land. Arboreal was first published in Sentinel Poetry Online in March 2004 Top | 
Esiaba
Irobi – a poet, playwright, actor and scholar was born in
the Republic of Biafra on October 1, 1960, and lived in in
exile in Nigeria, Britain, United States and Germany where
he passed away on May 3, 2010. He studied at the
Universities of Nigeria, Sheffield and Leeds, and held a
B.A. in English/Drama, M.A. Comparative Literature, M.A.
Film/Theatre, and PhD in Theatre Studies. In 1992 his play,
Cemetery Road won the prestigious World Drama Trust Award.
His books include Nwokedi, The Colour of Rusting Gold,
Cotyledons, Hangmen Also Die, and Why I don’t Like Philip
Larkin and Other Poems. He leaves behind a wife, Uloaku and
a son, Nnamdi.