I saw my half seated in the mist of—
four white beared old men.
Stood greying bright was their hairs;
as the fire around which they sat shone like gold.
I slept on a grass mat under a cocoa tree:
but here am I sandwiched by these grey splendor men.
One thing was so special about them—
they had in their palms calabash filled with a foamy palm wine.
Their sayings were like the dews of the farm.
For they spoke in soft voices of words—
so laced that they were so deeply filled with wisdom;
and their lips blending for true words not of this age.
Deep in their throats I could feel—
the rhythms of strong heart beats of pains.
Through the eyes of their words and sayings,
the neglect of their predecessors for traditional truth and values— stung them!
They were ancestors of the four poles of Africa:
North— south, east— and west.
And they held in their beards words which perishes not!
I was woken to my half to tell their tale—
tales seasoned on palm wine and of godly filled counsel…
to souls of this age.
The Village Thinker © 2014