Valentine Chimenem Owhorodu, PhD

Listen!
It is said in the wisdom of the elders:

The plate made of clay

must one day meet the ground.

Yes!

It is appointed unto breakable plate

that breakable plate must break.

But plastic?

Ah, my people, plastic fears nothing.

It falls

and bounces.

It drops

and laughs.

It carries food, yes,

but it carries no memory, no legacy.

No griot sings its name.

No elder pours libation to it.

It knows no shame,

but it also knows no story.

But the calabash?

Ah! The calabash that carries palm wine:

even when it cracks,

its name is remembered

in the dance of the ancestors.

We once danced in the firelight of purpose.

We once knew that to serve

was to risk the fall.

But now,

we sit still like plastic plates on plastic shelves,

safe from scars,

safe from stories.

A child who fears the flame

will forever eat cold food.

Yes!

If you do not taste the smoke,

you cannot cook the soup.

Like plastic, we sit in silence:

Unbothered.

Unburdened.

Unbroken.

But also, unbeautiful.

Safe from breaking,

but safe too from meaning.

We envy the plastic plate

because it never bleeds.

But we forget:

Even the gods were broken

before they became legends.

Only the clay that enters fire

becomes a pot fit to feed a people.

So,

Let the plate break!

Let the bowl crack!

Let the cup spill truth on the earth!

Break for the people!

Break with purpose!

Break in service!

For when the pot breaks,

the elders gather to say:

“This was the pot

that carried the last soup

before the famine.”

“This was the plate

that fed the warrior

before the battle.”

A plate broken in service

outlives the one shelved in safety.