The child's craving for his mother's nipple,
Warapa's thirsty for a dance of shame,
the warlord's starving for his death by blade, but-
my eyes long for quietus,
my hands yearn for consecration, and
even my ears pray for forgiveness.
Before I go to lay,
I need to speak to my soul:
Dear soul,
I know not if I'll wake by daybreak, but
consider the sky,
take a look at it dark robe.
Can you see it never appear like the sun would rise any moment from now?
Grasp a quill and write all I say!
Go to the west,
east, north and south!
Sneak into men's psyche,
drop my words and run away.
"Oh yee men, you caress your bed and
forgot to read the holy book beneath your bed; believing aurora will come.
I fear gravely for you.
But if perchance you wake, do not cry.
Stand up, smile, perform the water consecration, get a palm-oil, pour it on Esu's shrine, go upon your mat, bow your head towards the west and say your prayers in Aramaic.
Come out of your hut with your wealth, go down the street and bless the Lord of the street with it.
On your way back home, you'll see parents weeping over the death of their child; who heard the sound of a cow mooing.
Be kind enough to compose a dirge then, go home.
Now, cut your hand and swear by your blood not-
to tell your children that Nigeria is the giant of Africa".
©Ayòmí
