If every woman is a concubine of pain
My mother is that everyone –
A shepherdess flocks of pain.
Barely each day gone by without her back
Become animal skin that pastes on a mahogany tree
And beat every day with maestro-stroke of shame.
When you ask who can dance most in public places
Set a cause of rev for her husband
And let his conductor stick direct the pace of tempo
As her waist and legs muddy in eruption
When King requested for another town crier
The deepest deaf can hear the echo of her thunder roaring
(The decibel of her cry is louder than the harp of David)
In the drippy night of fireflies and owls
He woke her up with a stick of romance
And pounded her legs to bend in the morning
When you ask what did his wife do to him?
Nothing than she’s an Ijebu woman
That didn’t want me to marry another wife
If you think your union is coarse
And cursed by the pectoral of his muscles
Come to my house and witness
Mockery of cat race gathered at baraza
To feast on the duel of cock and hen
Yesterday is historical and reflective
Today recall songs of interment dust on their graves
But the volcano of their eruption, echoing
It still smoking on the alpine end of my brain
May their souls rest in perfect peace
Amen.
The tremors of melodious drama as read in “Ours is no accident” and “The alliance” in a book titled “The palm of time” published by Abubakar Othman help me to dip into the graveyard of my childhood experience, of a village-city boy, recounting on the duel of been in a polygamous family.
