We do not need violins to announce dawn here,
the cock is the master of the day
and the pound, pound, pound of mortars lure us into the night;
we do not need pounds to remember our beginning,
our mothers swim in colourful cowries;
our fathers— a barn of yams for pride and a sack of shillings, to flaunt —
we are the sons and daughters of a blue crisp day
that has never gone wrong,
we are the dancers, mud feet kissed,
the mothers who flaunt their ligali, to stun the planet.
Our fathers are engraved walls of storied emblems,
this colour do not crack,
black is the pigment of God
yet the sky never betrayed His shadows,
this colour do not crack,
our faces — an hamlet of running lines,
of our sprouting and harvest,
of belonging and heritage,
of reminders and old age truths,
that our mothers are not walnuts cracked by passers-by,
that are fathers are agile palms that never loose sap,
these running lines would bring us home,
this colour do not crack,
we are sons and daughters,
whose skin colours is a warehouse for memories that never fade.
Watch us,
watch us as we rise, slowly,
like smokes off the fireplace,
watch us as we rise, slowly,
like yam flour studded in burning water,
watch us as we rise, slowly,
like the melodic voice of the King’s bard,
we are of the hazy, dried throat yet not vague dawns,
we are Africans,
sons and daughters of the night,
where the night crashes into silence
yet our unity do not break,
even before half(s) of obi abata.
_BAMMY
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