The Story of the hunt (A Poetry) The stories we tell are quite simple Like the stream behind our village house which flows to a stop When a tree falls across its path, Like the oil running through us, lubricating our body; But put off to put on over again. Maybe we are just a white wool hugged by a dusty street And are then called blacks. Maybe not, Maybe yes, we are just blacks; Like a blackboard, which must be written on with a white chalk So that it makes sense; Or we are a whiteboard But our destinies were written with a black ink, so the black retained And just as the story we tell, lost its fancy and wouldn’t be heard But if one day we cry a river, it could swell higher than the streams Flow faster than a spring and with those rivers behind our village house Join force to sway the tree off its path Maybe then we would become whites Or seen to be whites And our stories would be told, and be heard without objection; Not again as folklore, or as goodnight tales from the lips of our ancestors But by the gods themselves and by their angels Then our rivers of tears can dry, or flow into the precious bowls of our grandmother We would preserve it carefully at one end of the world and show to the next generation That there's something special here; But if we fail, we will remain blacks, as a white chalk thrown into a black paint And the story of the hunt, will go on glorifying the hunter. Chiemena Ndukwu