When we carry calabash on our shoulders
And our identities on our chins,
We’re judged by the battles our fathers fought and lost,
For their scars were just new tribal marks.
We do not hit the head of a chicken
To stop her alarm when she sings her songs,
While yawns are chorused from Hamlet to Hamlet,
Or pause her blues until rays of light rests on our thatched roofs.
We come in squares under the unapologetic sun
To dance to the reggae of the spirit’s talking drum,
As our arms and feet tell the old tale
Of a rat chasing its own tail.
While an oyinbo fire is caged in a room like a prisoner,
And smokes directed like its lost it’s eyes,
The African fire is wild and free,
And does not crackle just for the warmth,
For there’s always a roast for the belly.
You do not need a novel in the village,
For life there is stranger than fiction.