Thinking of earliest recollections and those to protect,
from a mix of culture and colour excellent to that location
My world was beautiful for that purpose.
In the highlands of a village in Muanenguba,
Where my grand parents reared livestock and tilled the fertile soil
the taste of palm wine was perfect for their audience but now rare.
In a culture that last night transcended to eccentric experience
in prison thought where we can no more actuate ancestor’s lifestyle.
In madness and in me, I see this colony within prison walls,
that even the sun of the time has disappeared from its view
For we knew no days except that from counting local markets
And no clock existed except the chirping of timely birds.
These melodies and the direction of herds from distant hill,
Signalled to all abandoning the last casual treaty of farm bed
heading towards narrow roads where birds home snug on both sides
till the usual evening class at the fireside where mother,
with children listen tales from first, second and third ears of ancestors
narrating antics and tricksters and of myths and legends
from the Nile as Zambezi and from the suez like the bight if biafra.
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