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Elda Stories Blog

Stories that gladdens the heart

HISTORY: IGBO HISTORY

Several historians of Igbo culture have written various accounts concerning where Igbos originated from. Anyone writing an historical account of Igbo people must have facts to back it up.

However, no historian can claim the historical accounts of other historians are either truthful or falsehood, because no historical account is nobler than the other.

Here are two (2) historical accounts of Igbo origin:

Igbos are descendants of Jacob who later became known as Israel. Israel had 12 sons one of which was known as Gad. When famine caused Jacob and his sons to migrate to Egypt where there was an abundance of food at the time. They remained in Egypt for many years; before the Egyptians became envious and began to persecute the Israelites.Gad who became the patriarch of all Igbos had 7 sons – Eri was the 5th of them.

Before the Egyptian persecution began, Eri in company of his family and associates left Egypt after catching an inkling of impending persecution in Egypt.Eri and his people then traversed several rivers and hills. They crossed river Nile and entered Southern Sudan, and moved onto Chad. From Chad, they crossed river Benue and came to Lokoja.

From Lokoja, they sailed through river Niger and came ashore at Aguleri around 1305 BC. they settled close to the confluence point of Ezu and Omambala rivers. But Eri and his people did not stay there for long, because of the consistent flooding of the two rivers. At that confluence point of the two rivers, Eri built a shrine where he regularly offered prayers and spiritual rites to God, and to honour his own father – Gad. After Eri finished setting up his shrine, he had a dreamt, and in his dream, an entity changed his name from Eri to Igbo. From then onwards, Eri became known as Igbo.

He loved the name  so much that he named his fourth son Igbo. The name Igbo started trending, and became popular across the Eastern side of river Niger. The word Igbo (derived from I puru gboo, which means You left early) had great significance to Eri and his people of the, because they left Egypt early enough before the great persecution began.

Later on, Eri’s descendants started to migrate to other parts of the South-East in search of livelihood. The rest has become real history.

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Another story by some Igbo historians say that Igbos didn’t descend from Jewish people rather that they were originally inhabited West Africa.Just as Igbos believe that “if someone says food tastes good, he should also say what it tastes like.” 

Scholars of the second school of thought believe that the second story is based on discoveries and excavation of great works of art made in various parts of Igboland such as Igbo-ukwu, Okigwe, and Nsukka to support their viewpoint.

They are asking why do Igbos not share similar skin colour and hair texture like the Jews? Again, that if sunburn was responsible for darkening the complexion of Eri and his associates, does the same sunburn the cause of the dark skin of their offspring?

Merife Obinna’s Blog
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POEM: GOODBYE

I will miss you
But can I say that about you?
I will always love you
But it seems I have seen the last of you

It worth the time
We joked like we were spiced with tyme
Listen to the blues and rhyme
And all that life has to mime

Now it seems I’m the only one hurt
Well, let me live in this hut
And take a glass of malt
Knowing that everything has come to a halt

I rather keep my purity
Than to become a nonentity
Turning my life to a pity
Because I have no will written

He’s better than me, right?
Goodluck to your Mr Right!
I pray he has the might
Guarding and protecting you with all his might

POEM: INSIDE OUT

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I can’t help but remember
The memories we shared this ember
It stays there like white part of a cucumber
And it pains to remember

I remember when I meant a lot
More than the wife of Lot
You never mind if I had a hut
Now it all but hurt

When I can tell you my worries
And we laugh like sounds of lorries
Its just now memories
More expensive than the Tories

I see that smile
From a mile
And I start missing the smile
More than Tekno Miles

POEM: TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

image

Hello, dear
Look over here
Do you know I got love to share?
Please listen to me dear

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I’m trying my best to forget
But your walk away, I don’t get
I notice you ’cause you are not a migget
I don’t need you cause of what I get

Listen to me
I’m pouring my heart out in a meal
This is just me
I’m not a cat to meow

Listen babe
You are my only barbie
I will care for you like a baby
I will not leave you, maybe

When I die online
Would you be offline?
Trying your best to stay in line?
Or just talking out of line?

When I die Israel
With a train hitting me in its rail
Not getting your last mail
Would you remember the nail?

When I die
Though it sounds like tie and dye
I will still wear my tie
Looking so fly

When I die over there
Don’t ask for me here
Just saying you don’t care
No matter the sand in my hair

LOVE DIED

Love lived in Biafra
Till that solider fired the first shot
Even in Afara
No one could take a shot

Love lived in North
Till someone who has no nut
Siting and hiding in a hut
Started to bomb the north

Love lived Libya
Till they felt Gaddafi doesn’t live here
Shouting and shooting here
Bombing and killing there

Love lived in us
Till we started living like cat and mouse
Playing each other like a computer mouse
Now, we can’t live in the same house

REPOST: THE TESTIMONY

2q4

I stood up and straighten my navy blue shirt and walked with the best posture that I can imagine. I joined the queue as a slim lady on black gown joined this same queue, making me the third person. I unconsciously notice the beautiful stripes on the gown, turning it a school uniform of some sorts. The nose-blocking perfume of the man behind me kept oozing. I had to control myself from leaving the queue. The man, who was on a suit, with a white shirt to match, wore a look of one who just won a lot of money. He was just smiling to no one in particular.

Our church, an L- shaped complex with a golden painting round about every wall, stood majestically in the early morning sun. The first person on the queue had already finished narrating “the Lord doings” in her life and was stepping down from the platform but my mind was somewhere else, though I consciously moved forward with the others. I have waited for years to give this testimony. I have prayed, fasted and read, though nobody seems to believe the reading part.

I tried my best to remain calm, which was difficult in my present situation. I was so lost in thoughts. Who more can I thank if not God, as my pastor, a huge man with a blue suit and sitting not more than a foot from me, will always say whenever he teaches the Word.

The lady before me was called up next. I waited on bated breath for my own opportunity to thank God. I have imagined this moment for years, animating it alone in my room several times.

With the edge of my eye I noticed some members of the congregation whispering to themselves and occasionally nodding towards me. I smiled.

That was the moment I was called. I took a deep breath as I walked up the platform. I have finally gotten my testimony.

 

 

This story is in for the Etisalat Flash Fiction Prize. Kindly Open the link and like. Click here to read.

Four girls took lift in a car full of Engineers. Since no place available, they sat on each Boy’s lap.

After 5 minutes.

Girl1: Are you an Electronics & Communication
Engineer?
Boy1: How do you know?
Girl1: Your tower is communicating with my
Unreachable Area.
Girl2: Are you an IT Engineer?
Boy2: How do you know?
Girl2: Your Pen drive is trying to connect with my USB port.
Girl3: Are you a Mechanical Engineer?
Boy3: How do you know?
Girl3: Your Piston is trying to move into my cylinder.
Girl4: Are you a Civil Engineer..??
Boy4: How do you know?
Girl4: Your dam has broken and flooded my village.

THE TESTIMONY

Angry man in suit and tie with arms akimbo.I stood up and straighten my navy blue shirt and walked with the best posture that I can imagine. I joined the queue as a slim lady on black gown joined this same queue, making me the third person. I unconsciously notice the beautiful stripes on the gown, turning it a school uniform of some sorts. The nose-blocking perfume of the man behind me kept oozing. I had to control myself from leaving the queue. The man, who was on a suit, with a white shirt to match, wore a look of one who just won a lot of money. He was just smiling to no one in particular.

 

Our church, an L- shaped complex with a golden painting round about every wall, stood majestically in the early morning sun. The first person on the queue had already finished narrating “the Lord doings” in her life and was stepping down from the platform but my mind was somewhere else, though I consciously moved forward with the others. I have waited for years to give this testimony. I have prayed, fasted and read, though nobody seems to believe the reading part.

I tried my best to remain calm, which was difficult in my present situation. I was so lost in thoughts. Who more can I thank if not God, as my pastor, a huge man with a blue suit and sitting not more than a foot from me, will always say whenever he teaches the Word.

The lady before me was called up next. I waited on bated breath for my own opportunity to thank God. I have imagined this moment for years, animating it alone in my room several times.

With the edge of my eye I noticed some members of the congregation whispering to themselves and occasionally nodding towards me. I smiled.

That was the moment I was called. I took a deep breath as I walked up the platform. I have finally gotten my testimony.

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