CREATIVE: HOME WE CALL
By John Bukunmi
And one day,
We will find the road dusty with no ray.
The once enchanting moon,
will not be shielded by noon.
And the forest birds will find no home to roost.
Be it the formless joy, on the face of the youngsters.
Be it the conflicting noises, of the market women.
Be it the dwarf iroko tree, where we learnt to do "Jan gi rofa"
Be it the masquerade display, at the centre of the sloppy "ita-baale" compound.
These, are what we found no name for than Memories.
Was it not the day we dared the "isale-osun" river?
haunted the shadow of night by hunting crabs with bare hands.
sounding like the voodoo when climbing the muddy road that led to "oko egan".
Preferred to be called the husbands of old folks to lurk around these modern-day human dogs.
All, we called "iya agba" and "baba agba",
None with grey-haired we called bro or boss.
The "Osepotu" canes were always fashioned like belts under their Agbada,
Small town, but big happiness in esoteric form.
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