We formed a circle under the Ube tree
The moon's blue rays glistening on our black skins,
Listening to tales of our fathers,
Of wars and bloodshed in Biafra

Tales of bombs and starvation;
Of little ones infected by kwashiokor;
How Sounds of ogbunigwe became musical tones;
And laughter was an expensive commodity

As my hair turned grey,
And I witnessed many days,
I recollect my father's tales,
But I witness a different scene
Far from my father's reality

Each story is a coin,
Each side has its own voice
But we judge like the press
That sentences without a jury or defense

Now my children are filled with anger
And Hate for other tribes
The country is filled with so much strife
Because of the tales of fathers,