I’m back in this place where the moon rejoices
at the hearing of melodious lullabies
sung into the cranium of crying babies
who are stuck to mother’s backs at the end of noon tide.
.
I’m back in this place where death raises the deads of the cemetry
and hades and the grave bow their ugly heads at moonlight
to listen rapt attention to the tales told by mothers that were alive
on the day when Obatala ‘came’ here. .
.
I’m back in this place where stones were currencies of exchange
where we display our goods by the quiet road paths
and birds of the air serves as sales reps by lonely roadsides
until a viable buyer surfaces from the side of the hills.
.
I’m back in this place where all spirits are gods
except Alujaanu which is the only evil one
that swallows our morsels of ‘fufu and eats our ‘mangoes’
under the huge Iroko that sits in the horrible Irumole forests.
.
I’m back in this place where pestles pound the heart of mortars
and the thistles from this blessedly cursed grounds
sweetens hearts of mortals still
where the birth of a new born is marked by the death of an old bull.
.
In this place where babies are not thrown in ‘kitten sacks’
but on blessed backs that were bless’d of God
A place where there is no food for lazy fools
Fools who sit on the labour of the masses have no place at home.
.
Home is not blocks and walls
It is not bricks and clays
It is not delicacies and strife
Home is dry morsels with peace.
.
I’m back in this place again
I’m back to my roots
Home! Sweet Home! I come
where honey is a feeling and not a nick.
