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Stanley Onyewuchi

Capoeira - narrative poetry

Forgive sounds good; forget, I’m not sure we should. Why must we alone be ignorant in this matter? The skies remember, as
they leave gaping mouth, cold showers telling chilling tales. The oceans never forget; they pass over the presence that has
become a silent essence. The sun draws a picture of the calamity that befell, spraying red paint, as she converses with her kin,
the ocean. Befell is not so much as befalling. The trees know; they too endured the scourge of the oppressed; their branches
still flaying reflexively at the remembered weight they once bore. The earth knows, for she too bled, her ears bursting at the
cries of unappeased blood. The crows know, they caw the tale to any who cares to listen; the taste of centuries ago still fresh
on their lips; they tell it, but the world shuts them out, casting stones freely at the freemen cloaked in black.

Listen all you who will; for I will not tell the story; I cannot because I was not. The trees accept the challenge to defend their
brethren; for they too have the same blood running in them; an acquired blood, deeply rooted beneath their silent bark. The
world shuts them out; with every rolling, rocking metal teeth driven in they seek to silence the blood, drawing it out, like the
ancient Akhkharu. But the insolent trees only spit at their feet, saliva, white and thickened and coated with ancient wisdom;
they despise their brother, bloodwood, who mounted on the warring chests of the Uhnishinnaba; but even now, in these
modern times, lying atop the linen and khakis, he tells his stories. But, as we gather around and feed the flames of the past,
they tell tales, their breaths breaking in cackling spasms, as they hold down their water, lest it be said that a tree cried. Hush,
crying baby be still, for can you not see; does not your spirit silence. For gathered round are all the stars of the sky, even the
sun listens, as the moon, full in its stead, whispers the words told in darkness into the all-listening ear of the light. All is silent
and still; it has begun.

I bore them across the oceans, making silent conversation with one more ancient than I. From the blackness of the Western
earth, to the acquired whiteness of the South I bore them. They were all here, Akan, Igbo, Yoruba, Dohomean, Hausa,
Bantu. Like impotent men, sold from their homes, marked to make the historic journey across the Atlantic into the Brazils.
Ah, the stories I could tell; stories that would tear the heart out of your very chest; but they out span the lifetime of even the
most ancient of your kind.
So I tell you of just one. No need for Tree to pause to induce suspense, his audience is pining on every word, every breath,
and every cackle. Some say it was there before they came; but I watched from the oceans; story after story passed to me
from the eyes of my rooted brothers, and the mouth of my flowing host. Ah, the blood they shed as the whips cut into their
proud backs; the Almighty in regal sorrow as slash after slash found its mark, altering the beauty of HIS work. I cannot tell
you of the screams that shut up the sky, as the hot brands cut into their skin. Ask that of the cropped horses, and the tailless
dogs, for they too have felt the unkind touch of mankind. The Creator did not sit still, stupefied by his sorrow like a merman,
but made a way of comfort; yea, even of escape, for these were a people of oppressed mind. He sent out from his right hand
wisdom, to tell of something that one such as I cannot know.

They listened and a new culture was born, Capoeira. The origin of that word lost in the air that bore it, corrupted by the Evil
One, who reigns penultimately for a season. Ah, they danced, the ladainha, followed by the chula, and then the corridos. The
berimbaus, with sharpened knives attached - Tree pauses as though unsure, to break up any large fights. The Berra boi,
Medio, and Viola lead the rhythm; the pandeiros, reco-reco, agago, uncertain atabaque, all playing in the bateria. The
dancers assembled in the roda throw their hits, only to dodge the reflective hits of their reflective opponent. For in the roda,
the capoeirista’s greatest opponent is himself, and must learn of respeito, respinsabilidade, seguranca, malicia, and liberdade.
Liberdade, ah the sweetness of the word. The bile leavened in the hearts of the captors, as they learned of this; but not even
their whips could stop the ginga. Time indeed was faithful, preparing the mentally free, from a more tangible liberty. They
became freemen after Wilberforce. Still the ginga swayed, more diabolically now, for the unworked hands, who sought a
means for survival in a new world they had not adapted to. It was more frowned upon now, and the penalty was having the
tendons on the back of the feet hacked off. Still, it went on, the cavalaria signaling the approach of the police. Apelidos
adopted to hide true identities, until persecution faded away.

Now, the samba de roda emerges from the womb of the capoeira. The ginga, widespread, moreso in modern times; flaunted
on the streets, clubs, and even videogames. Everyone wants to capoeira; we have forgiven, but we cannot forget. We cannot
forget…we cannot forget…<his voice fades into the air, as the last cackle dies down, and all is blackness>

I look around the black stub of wood, and all are asleep already.
I will not retell the story for it is not mine to tell; let him that has an ear hear for himself.
As for me, I remember Tree’s last words, and my first. Forgive sounds good; forget I’m not sure we should. So I look upon
the world, and I still see the traces of that ancient evil that drove men from their lands; and I gnash my teeth. My fiery spirit
sobered by the Holy one; as I look to reclaim my pride in a holy anger. As I look at the sad stories of the KKK, the Bloods
and the Crips, I wonder… I just wonder, and I remember, some have blinded eyes passed down from generation to
generation into eternity. Some will never see as I see; smell as I smell; feel like I feel; love as I love, extravagantly. But who
am I? I am but one voice shouting in the multitude, one lamp shining in the darkness. I am one heart ready to forgive; but not
forget; learn always, but forget, never.

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