Wish you were like halcyon days that came before you, when brothers dipped fingers in one pot without fear of poison. No, you are the very sword that rips apart, sundering song which sends hearers on journey of no return.
Your dawn brings not dew of heaven that waters arid regions and enriches green sheen of south. You steal in from the east, heavy with sleep, and cast a pall of pain over a somnolent land and take away the suturing glue.
The forest calls, summoning the hunters to lairs of lions and stomping grounds of elephants. The forest calls…the forest calls, bringing blood to boil.
Today’s the day of long knives, day of hunting the big game. Behold forest is set ablaze and game run for dear life. Overhead the vultures circle,talons trained for the swoop.
Oh, wish to God you have not broken; wish you were erased from the calendar, for your coming these several seasons reopens scars of amnesia. For to remember is to return.
This remembrance, your advent of pouring rain, troubles the shaky prop of the common hovel. You point too late to the road not taken bringing grief of wasted past. But look up, see a brighter sun!
@ Chris Anyokwu
Dept of English, University of Lagos.
