Poem: IF I WERE THEM – By Princewill
If I were them,
I would have laid down my sword,
I would have silenced my tongue,
And buried my envy beneath the soil,
For how long can a man wrestle with a mountain
And expect the mountain to fall?
If I were them,
I would have surrendered long ago,
For every arrow they shoot at him
Returns as a feather in his crown.
Every stone they throw upon his path
Becomes a stepping stone beneath his feet,
And every storm they summon against his sail
Only teaches his vessel how to dance upon the waves.
They have fought him with whispers,
With rumours dressed in the garments of truth,
With tongues sharpened like poisoned spears,
With tales woven in the dark chambers of envy.
Yet, like the iroko that has weathered
A thousand seasons of rain and thunder,
He remains rooted.
Tompolo.
A son of the Ijaw soil,
A name carried upon the tides of the Niger Delta,
A man whose story is written
Not merely in ink,
But in sacrifice, struggle and scars.
He has given pieces of himself
To a people he calls his own.
He has walked through fire
So others could find warmth.
He has carried burdens
That many would have dropped by the roadside,
And stood where the wind of adversity
Blew hardest.
Yet, strangely,
Some of the very people
For whom he bore the weight
Have chosen to repay sacrifice with suspicion,
Service with hatred,
And goodwill with envy.
But the heart of the man remains wide.
Like the river that does not ask
Whether the thirsty hand once cursed it
Before offering water,
He continues to give.
Like the sun,
He shines upon roofs
That sometimes curse the brightness of his light.
This is the mystery of Tompolo:
The larger the wound,
The larger his heart seems to become;
The louder the hatred,
The deeper his silence;
The harder the attack,
The higher he rises.
They said he would fall.
He rose.
They said his name would fade.
It became louder.
They opened another battlefield.
He crossed it.
They built another wall.
He climbed it.
They dug another pit.
He walked around it.
And when they thought the night had finally swallowed his star,
Morning came,
And there he stood,
Brighter than before.
If I were them,
I would have asked myself:
What manner of man is this?
How many battles must be fought
Before hatred becomes exhausted?
How many arrows must be released
Before the archer realises
That his target is made of steel?
How many storms must be summoned
Before the storm-maker understands
That some trees grow stronger in the rain?
His enemies count his steps,
But destiny counts his victories.
They watch his doors,
While providence keeps opening windows.
They measure his troubles,
While the gods measure his blessings.
And perhaps that is why
The more they curse his journey,
The more the heavens illuminate his road.
For the gods of his fathers
Have not forgotten the son of the soil.
May the river of his life
Never run dry.
May the breath within his lungs
Be long and strong.
May prosperity sit at his doorstep
Like an honoured guest.
May his days be multiplied
Beyond the arithmetic of his enemies,
And may his name continue to travel
Like a canoe carried by the current,
From creek to creek,
From kingdom to kingdom,
From generation to generation.
Let those who love him
Love him without fear.
Let those who oppose him
Learn the wisdom of retreat.
For there is a point
Where opposition becomes obsession,
And obsession becomes exhaustion.
If I were them,
I would have given up.
Not because Tompolo has no enemies,
But because every battle they bring
Seems to sharpen his sword.
Not because he has never known adversity,
But because adversity itself
Appears to have become his teacher.
Not because the road has been easy,
But because every difficult road
Has somehow led him
To another height.
So let the drums of hatred grow tired.
Let the tongues of envy lose their voices.
Let falsehood stumble beneath its own weight.
For a man who has survived
The thunder of many seasons
Does not tremble at the sound of rain.
And when history finally opens its book,
May it not remember only the battles,
But the heart behind them;
Not only the controversies,
But the sacrifices;
Not only the man they fought,
But the man who continued to give.
Tompolo,
Ijaw son of the Niger Delta,
May your river flow long,
May your lamp burn bright,
May your heart remain large,
And may prosperity walk beside you
For as many years as the Creator permits.
And to those who have fought him
Again and again,
I ask only this:
If I were them,
I would have given up.
By Binebai Yerin Princewill
About The Author
