The thundering rain came like an unspoken word
And ceased with such lingering suddenness
Welcoming the unbeckonable crowd.
What fever! What fervour!
Studied steps of silence at noonfall
Night-dances dulling the doors of the senses
Hurtling hammers of passion and compassion
No blacksmith can afford to forge
Paralysing promenades of sighs and sympathy
In a December of grave ripeless berries
Fleshed by the tang of harmattan sunshine
The notion of emptiness and sadness
engenders consolation and reflection;
for who in throes of sorrow
Can sport the sportive spurs of rumour?
No wonder the conqueror himself cannot conquer.
No wonder fresh leaves have had to leave their branches.
No wonder fruit-trees can only drop their own ripenesses.
No wonder the heart never burns out in the heat of tragedy.
No wonder no milk-laden messages have come from bosomed distances …
They hurriedly brought in tonnes
of palm wine and lager beer
where there had been no love no life;
The back often eats more than
its fair share of dust and dirt…
Night and day visited and revisited us
Like the musical kisses of sparkling spurious sprays.
Each night was a crescent eye of sleeplessness,
Each day a mindless entertainment of wakefulness
As the cobwebs floated across the crevices in the walls
And perfumed whispers startled the sleep in doleful eyes.