I
speak for my nation. I speak for its undue advantage- because of the north
balcony. I am unashamed of its unkempt nature- because it belongs to me. I have
decolonized my heart long back. Thanks to Mr. Chinua Achebe. Last night I had a
dream. A night mare actually. There were foreign forces lapping up my nation. I
was unable to battle. Not because I was weak, but because sleep has crippled
me. I understood they were taking over my space, my straits, my rivers and my
pillow too. Unable I was. She cried, she wept, she yelled. She was raped into
an organized lady. My madness was raped. She was killed. And I lied etherized
under a half-conscious sleep.
Suddenly
I woke up. Sitting on my bed I stared at the street light seeping into my
nation. No she was there. Just there. As mad as I know her to be. Perhaps a bit
more restless- seeking my intensity. I shut the window and darkness dissolved
us into one. My room and I were no longer separate. We were as one as two souls
in conjugal climax. My nation, my room. I’d never judge her. I will always make
love to her. That is patriotism for me. Perhaps fragmented. But then, it’s the
unit that shelters me in this vast country…in this unknown world, in this
opportunist universe. Yes my nation is my room. I’m unashamed of my
disintegration.
