there's something about war; its cicatrixes are always mint. how does diplomacy wash a land drenched with blood? do biafrans forget the massacre? do we forget our progenitors who chose death to bondage in the belly of fishes? there's a woman cooking, probably, a last supper, there's no husband to caress the bowls only children staying alive to grieve their father. a boy is on an alley with a searchlight finding his mother's face on cadavers heavy with vengeance. there's something with war; it leaves you with raw memories.
