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February 24, 2004
The Voice of Olaudah Equiano
Stockton, New Jersey
February 23, 2004
On December 13, 2004, I accepted an invitation to speak on Monday February 23, 2004 at the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey, Pomona, New Jersey. My contact was Ms. Amarachi Acholonu, an extremely intelligent Igbo-American pre-medical student.
During my speech, I drew inspirations from Pan-Africanist thinkers (Garvey, DuBois, and Nkrumah) and synthesized them with contemporary issues (intellectual capital and information technologies) and explored futuristic ideas (African renaissance, globalization, etc.)
I also paid tributes and brought to life "Black Heroes" who were pioneers of science, invention and technology. Finally, I reiterated the need to provide greater opportunities for African-Americans.
I enjoyed the after speech dinner and conversations with the father of Ms. Amarachi.
EXCERPTS:
I read from a poem that also called for peace in African villages.
The poem is adapted from the thoughts of the Ma’zi Olaudah Equiano, an 18th century slave abolitionist who is regarded as the “Father of Black Literature.”
At the age of 12, Olaudah Equiano was stolen from Ala Igbo and sold as a slave to the Americas. Equiano provided us the earliest written account of the culture and customs of Ndi Igbo.
This poem is called “The Voice of Olaudah Equiano.”
The thoughts belong to Ma’zi Equiano, the great teacher, onye nkuzi. The words belong to Uko Chikwendu Anyanwu.
And I thank Amarachi ada Acholonu, an Igbo student at Stockton College who invited me to this event for faxing this poem to me.
My people were a nation of joy!
Our lives were full of festivities
We needed no money, no theatre to smile, to laugh out our hearts.
Before the men in colour of half-baked bread
invaded us
With gifts of arms and gunpowder
To shoot and be our brothers’ killers
Round hats to close our heads against reason
Coloured goggles to deny us the sight of natural beauty.
With gifts of whiskey Umunnabuike became a forgotten name
As the alcohol stunned us to the dance of the crazy gods.
Our assailants alleged we were a people without souls –
They took us as slaves.
“Where are my people?”
I shout along the corridors of this world.
“Where are my people?”
Like a man obsessed with the thoughts of his people!
My people were a nation of poets and song writers.
A nation of musicians and folk singers
A nation of happy and lively dancers
Posted by emeagwali at February 24, 2004 07:10 AM
