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time's infinite stretched hind-limbs remind me that life is no man's mate ask your forebears, they met this ageless historian here in life's classroom with eyes-fluttering nursery rhymes & since mine too have fluttered into a heritage of discovery, i realised, we all meet this stage for a play of passion & when time rules out our stays, we must saunter out whatever our roles, we immortalise our characterisations in the scripts of next generation's story arc this poem is a bird of panegyrics in the palace of legends plucking some epic notes on the strings of orature it sings of men who mounted a pedestal of literary trajectory if not for Chinua, Soyinka, Osundare, Okigbo, Nwapa, Emecheta... would our winged arms soar with such momentum carrying our fathers' coloured tales across the seas? /Adichie, Teju Cole being the nexus of ancient mantles/ even so, i write of emergent grassroots men these are merchants of our dear intellectual art i write of Eriata's 1000poets4change & PIN, Kukogho's WRR & authorpedia, Badmus's inkspired & all who became Àràbà of pecuniary attires covering nakedness of saplings to bud into Ìrókò. i leave this note on the lips of tomorrow, let them say, these souls live on, with immortal footprints on this terrain of african poetics embodying our narrative experiences.