Help is appreciated.
Mama tells me stories from long ago
The words she carried in her mouth
From her mother who heard it
Perhaps, from the first mother ever
She doesn't wear a mask to dance
But her face bears traces of our past
I ask her for another story
About the thirteen months in our calendar
"Our time is our own, son," she says.
"Tomorrows are carried in yesterdays."
Her closed eyes take me to my land
I am an Igbo again,
Perfectly happy under the open sky
Content underneath my skin
Stories echoing in my blood
Speak of my great grandmother
Beyond the things I see and I don't
Bigger than the pigments and fragments
Of my immigrant identity,
I am whole again, home again.
Based on this poem, the Igbo people:
A. value honesty and hard work.
B. have a rich oral tradition.
C. do not migrate very often.
D. consider nature as divine.