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14 The Plague Yugo Gabriel Egboluche The moon surely won’t tell why their crimson caps fade but the sun will. For only it knows the birth of the bleached streaks lining the once reddened caps of our Chiefs, making null the sunlit dance of eagle feathers feathers now bowed to the heat; that eerie burden of needs, the weight of compromise, the proceeds of injustice in this dawn of cowry count. The moon surely won’t tell why their clever counsel fade but the dawn will. For only it knows the malady of sycophant verses greeting the morn, muting hope from our town criers gong, making silence from slumber hum our elegy elegies graced in dissonant rhythm; of muted gods and mouthful of cowry the finger of culture and arm of alien law the exodus of seers and rise of prophets in this morbid dawn of crooked identities. I heard them say ‘…they’ve made new titles 15 for our chiefs, fooled them into a fall, from stools of grace to sparkly floors of marble mirage. They’ve stricken them with obscure plagues, plagues invisible like the Agama plague of harmonic silence’. ...


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