My father spoke of a world 
I am yet to know 
Where trees stood by his compound 
Overburdened with fruit.
Where too many yams would push through the earth
And so, a drunken yam festival would take place
Of rivers that ran deep 
Which young boys would wade through 
Scooping ferns and algae from the river bed.
Of streams that were clear
Clear enough to look upon one’s own face
Or to cleanse away the burdens of each day.
He spoke of nights where the moon would cast a light 
Upon the earth 
So that all who dwell may find joy in the evening 
So, children played and grasshoppers sang
And elders debated on a future 
They hoped time would allow them see.
When I was a child, my father said
Chineke God did not need to be drawn 
You did not ponder on the features of his face
For you would encounter Him all the time 
In the grooves of the bark of a tree
In the sweet taste of a ripe orange 
In the eerie stillness of a moonlit river 
And the hymn sung by a bird before dawn.
Yet, today, he is unsure of the world he will leave me with.
He is mournful as he looks upon the stump of the old fruit tree
As the dry, unexpected heat causes the soil to turn brittle
And for very few yams to be victorious in its struggle to survive
What of the river? That is now slick with mud
With juts of plastic intermingled between the ferns 
For a river once deep is now fishless and shallow.
What of the farms that he used to walk past?

That are now cement buildings 
And when did raining season become like this?
Last as long as this?
Damage as much as this?
When did the wealth of oil warrant the decay of life?
But at least his memories are ripe with a beauty 
That nature does not always reflect now
A climate that welcomed peace and not anxiety 
Of human hands which toiled with an absence of destruction 
What of the youth who do not have these memories near?
Who have a nostalgia for an intangible time?
Increasingly aware that things will only worsen.
So, I do draw the face of Chineke
But this time I draw a community
That discovers a resilience once unknown
Of doctors who now accept climate as a threat
Of young people who are fuelled by an anger
That becomes a seed for action
And the wildfire of change that then ensues
I draw the birds that still fly and carry out its song
Ken Saro Wiwa and the legacy he left behind.
But I find myself also drawing something else in particular.
Something undecipherable
Shapeless yet large
Colourful yet opaque
Distinct yet fleeting
It seems that I find myself drawing hope.

Written by – Svetlana Chigozie Onye