We'd had hoes and matchets in agreeing cords;
All the paths and streams running to one only joint
Where the sun and the rain only talked to us in seasons.
Only yams in barns
And cassava in the straw sent greetings to visiting fellows.
Even the leaves by the wayside had calling voices to merchants from far away lands.
Every fish in our streams knew the taste of our vegetables.
Our soles were never hurt not with the sharpest thorns.
We made pretty friends with every rising bud.
Our soil sent messages to every crop in our yards.
It often mentioned the albino who tempered on the once black heart.
This letter read that,he never smiled at the colour of the planting man.
Many had seen tears rolling down the cheeks of our tall palms.
Our wines were left for being fairly white
And almost every family begged to taste of that red blood the albino brought.
I watched how father cleared the plots we'd wanted to cultivate
That morning,the albino handed him those pounds.
That became a school during the next planting season.
For no one knew the paths to the farms anymore.
The only stream I could remember
That same,became unhealthy for our health.
There's been nothing to gain outside the fields I tilled.
The best hope mother shared with me last night
Was how our farms yielded bountifully after the albino left.
