—-“Papa’s whispers”—-


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Before Papa could have
transported himself
through the eyes of the myth of death
he lived like an oak
a double edged axe among
the serving matchetés
of the village gods

The loyal among the lots
the green butterfly that never browned
his feet fed the sweat beads
which took her toll on my chin
like harmattan does to
the soles of her victims

Papa once said,
Abeiku Abronoma, my son
“To pay heed to the silent nods of a lizard
is like watching a fool sing without pains”
and with these words
I shivered like a sweating toad.

Watching his tongue rolled
without billed sour sweat
he whispered once more
when I had taken the clap of the hairs
on my young fledged chin
with chains of his old tongue
he said, note my son that
“the honour of the calabash
does not lie in it carving
but in it ability to satisfy
the tongues of the gods
to whom libation is”

I have grown living with my pen
under the soft touch of my papa
won an ivory of hope with his charisma
before these motioned cowries
and these tempting feathers of this bird
but Papa,
I pray your ghost today
to come whisper again
into my pensive thought
before I visit my in-laws
to pay my bride-price

The Village Thinker © 2014

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