That culture may flourish——


Born on an angry morning,
the weeping of a woman,
she was a mother;
a mother of twelve.

Her womb was my home,
her soul my blood,
in her spirit was my life,
written on pieces of coagulation.

From birth,
inside the little hut,
of red clay from the river bank;
a black feather was found along
the dungeons of my teeth.

I am told,
I am culture itself,
bridegroom of loyalty,
a stream pool of unity,
a future dream of supremacy,
the swish I saw solemnised.

Bleeding thoughts of me,
under the shrine’s shelter,
where kola dances with solar;
and as they did–
my royalty remains at my ankle,
and along the beads around my calf.

The Village Thinker © 2014


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