When shall we yet sing again,
The beautiful songs of the season,
The dateless songs of the morning,
The dreadful songs at our shrines,
And the ancestral songs of the ara-orun.
When shall we behold the colourful stripes and melody of our flutes again,
Which accompanies the red oil and roasted yam at nights,
And lay the ancestral spirits to a warm sleep,
In the heart of the Evil forest.
When shall we anticipate for the next full moon again ,
When our girl shall be betrothed to her man,
With broken pots littering the way of the new maid,
And warm water ushering her feet into her new home.
When shall our girls shake their waists again,
After their induction into womanhood,
With our ripe boys admiring the shape of their waist beads,
And our elders washing their mouths with wine in their wine skins.
When shall we yet sit round the mighty mahogany tree again,
To listen to tales from the old sage,
To learn lessons from the greediness of Basorun Gaa,
And from the wickedness of Efunsetan Aniwura.
When shall Okonkwo fight the village cat again,
Or when will the voice of the man of the people be heard again,
When our second class citizens now dance on their husband’s grave,
And our children now crave for white collar job.
#Songs of the morning.
#Olatujayan Caleb seyi.
Ondo State, Nigeria.
The poem you just read has been chosen for publication in the prestigious Muscular Dystrophy Foundation Anthology, one of the finest anthologies in Nigeria…