Tears for Biafra

This is written by my father at a time when the word genocide was not well known. I found the origianl and several mimeographed copies along with a letter of rejection from the New Yorker. He wrote this shortly after he returned from a fact-finding mission to our old home, and his report on the situation there to the U.S. Congress. I post this again today in honor of Nigeria's most well read writer, a man for whom my father had great respect, Chinua Achebe.

Tears for Biafra

George H. Axinn

Beneath the palms the children played

With gentle laughter danced and swayed

While women fired the evening fires

And told each other of life’s desires.

They bore home water in earthen flasks,

And carried on their homespun tasks

Whilst at palaver the men did sit

And with palm oil, the lamps were lit.

Then like a curse the machete fell

From North and West they heard they yell

And refugees told of a living Hell

As they swarmed back home to break the spell;

With stories of horror there to tell

And hopes that the maimed might soon be well.

A people cried… depressed… forlorn –

And out of those tears, Biafra was born!

The lame, the beaten; the great and small

Brothers and sisters were welcomed all.
Cassava was planted where never before
And yams were gathered to fill the store.
Their plea was freedom to live alone
In Peace and safety; to throw no stone…
The Igbo, Ibibio, Effik and Ijaw
Ogoja and Annong, and so many more.
The leaders, in Ghana, their fears did allay
And on Aburi would they stand and pray.
But the Federals refused to let them away
Brought rifles and mortars to pave the way
To death for mothers and children at play.

A people cried… depressed… forlorn –

And out of it all, Biafra was born.

At first the battle went quite well

And both sides had their claims to tell
But then came guns and tanks and planes
To Lagos to enhance their gains
From London and Moscow and Cairo too
While poor Biafra had nothing new
As mortars fired and guns did blast
And no one lived as they swept past.
The world saw not how many died
Nor heard the sounds as children sighed,
Yet hungry dogs and vultures plied
The lanes alone – ‘twas genocide’.
All churches, schools, and markets wide
Were left in smoke, but not denied.

A people cried … depressed… forlorn –

And out of it all, Biafra was born.