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Student, Copywriter, Photographer, Poet, Philosopher @ Ibadan
Chains of the Wind
<p><br/></p><p>She was just a girl, with beads in her hair,</p><p>Dancing in dust with feet bare and fair.</p><p>The drums of her village sang under the moon,</p><p>But silence came swiftly, far too soon.</p><p><br/></p><p>They came like shadows, cold and grim,</p><p>With iron hearts and voices dim.</p><p>She screamed for her mother, clung to the land,</p><p>But they stole her dreams with a ruthless hand.</p><p><br/></p><p>Across the sea in a belly of wood,</p><p>She lay among tears, misunderstood.</p><p>Salt in her wounds, blood on her skin,</p><p>The pain of a life that would never begin.</p><p><br/></p><p>Her tongue was foreign, her gods now gone,</p><p>Her name erased like a morning song.</p><p>They called her "slave"—a word like a knife,</p><p>Stripping her soul of family and life.</p><p><br/></p><p>In fields she bled, in chains she grew,</p><p>Under the sun, with skies so blue.</p><p>But her heart beat strong beneath the pain,</p><p>Whispering stories of home like rain.</p><p><br/></p><p>She wore her sorrow like silent art,</p><p>With fire still flickering deep in her heart.</p><p>For even in bondage, hope softly stays,</p><p>Like roots in soil that never decays.</p><p><br/></p><p>She is the voice in history’s breeze,</p><p>The cry in the hush of ancient trees.</p><p>Not just a slave, but a stolen song—</p><p>A girl of Africa, fierce and strong.</p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p>
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