“A Benin Bronze bears witness to a chequered, cross-cultural history in this mellifluous, meticulously crafted poem.” Patience Agbabi, poet, author and Orwell Youth Prize 2024 judge
I was born from molten brass, cast
by my own, a witness of time
as it ebbs and flows, heals
and scars, takes and restores.
Sun weathered, brass forged,
glass caged, darkness smothered.
Numbered and named,
your ‘Benin Bronze’
Yet still I am entwined amongst
the mangroves’ roots.
Since time itself, I hung.
With my brothers and sisters,
fathers and their fathers.
Echoed history lining the
palace walls.
I think of my great Oba whom I depict,
he stands proudly, steel rings encircle
his neck, they whisper warnings.
In each hand a leopard swings
from its tail, two mudfish hang
from his belt, conquered.
I wonder what became of him.
Murmurs of a renowned tapestry, it depicts
another nation’s Oba. If I were to rip it,
ship it, to every point of the compass,
the story, lost. His power, forgotten.
As were we.
A rippling chain of history, each a link.
Etchings upon our surface bear
centuries’ weight, centuries of life.
This they cannot understand.
They who stifle yawns, hush whispers,
cast nought but a fleeting gaze.
They who alarm us, cage us,
separating us from our people.
We may line your shelves
and fill your rooms. You sought
to take our voice, replace
it with your own. But now
in stillness I realise,
history always belongs to the conquerers.