The Frozen Room

Here, the air remembers him.

A desk holds its breath,

a typewriter waits with patient keys,

as if Achebe has only stepped out

to gather one more story.

The chairs keep their silence,

yet echo with the weight of voices—

students, seekers, wanderers of words.

The books along the wall lean inward,

guarding his legacy like sentinels.

This is no office.

It is a shrine of thought,

a room where Africa found her tongue,

and the world was made to listen.

Achebe is gone—

but here, his spirit lingers,

unfolding still,

in every story that dares to rise.