By Noel A. Ihebuzor
If my tongue does not move to mourn you
it is not that I am now dumb
sorrow like a furnace has dried up the dew
that freshens this soul, now numb
inside me all is dry, parched
save moist eyes from whence sorrow
tumbles down to an earth drenched
in the blood of a suddenly closed tomorrow
Juanita, if you could hear me
broken now, forlorn me
my wooden tongue stuck to my palate, me
throat dried, cracked and broken, me
If you could decode my silent sobbing,
you would sense my inner voice,
linked with a thousand others, hurting
wailing and railing at failed social services
in a continent that is yet to learn to rise and live
mourning a star departed
on the morning before her arrival
***** I got news yesterday PM of Juanita’s death. Juanita was/is a colleague, friend, soul mate, poet and one with whom I shared several intellectual coffees and visions for inclusive global development. Now, she is gone..and what pains most is that this death could have been avoided! Sleep well, Junaita…Juanitissima as I would tease you!
Reflections 