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While you are sleeping, like a crescent amidst flame, mother appears to you. She says; Dear son, when are you coming home? Have you thrown into wilderness the land That harbours your umbilical cord? Aren't You aware that a black man whose left hand writes a descriptive essay of his Fatherland, has successfully hung a Pouch of misfortune above his kinky hair? You should know that the river that will float legacy holds her source in her belly. Like a thunderclap, mother's voice Snatches sleep from your eyes. You wake up, your mouth is too heavy To say the morning prayer. Your knees Are too weak to kiss the cold floor. Your Blanket, pillow, bed, and the ears of the Walls of your room are the only witnesses to your woes/worries that will never stop Biting your chest. Now, you're thinking about home. Then you remember, that Home is still a furnace for your youthful soles/fleshy palms. You tap your Thumb on your phone screen, and what you see sinks you into a trance; A Facebook notification From an African man that reads, hearkening to one's Mother's voice is a rope that shouldn't slip off a son-Of-the-soil's hands .