Chattahoochee River

Walking the trail

Rewarded by the view

Of soft gliding water

Going about its business

Into it I gazed, seeing the bottom

No longer the Chattahoochee

Flipping, it sent me

Back many years to girlhood

Straddling that river

My Nja-aba River

Coursing through proud veins

The river of my instruction

Father’s masculine voice booming

Chanting encouragement

For this girl to master that river

Float, immerse, swim, stroke

Conquer the river, father coaxed

Encouragement the elixir

Propelling me to be its mistress

Scaling tree branches

Jumping like a lioness into feet of river

Landing like a silvery fish

Into my Nigerian river, Nja-aba

Cradled gently like a babe just born

Through civil war of self-abuse

Three tribes against language and greed

Of dusk and dawn journeys

To refluent ebb and tide to bathe, fetch

To launder, fish, drink, play

To sustain a proud village

During childhood escapes of coolness

Away from the city’s clamor

I traveled beneath the Chattahoochee

Touching the other clear bottom

The pebbles, the dictator of color

Of my Nigerian river unlike this one

Brown from abuse and neglect

With trunks discouraging friendliness

Dissuading interaction

My Nigerian river, Nja-aba

One of several nourishments

Endowing proud banded people

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.