where-children-play

Hearts

Big, black, bold and beating

Yet emptied of all things

That go to make heaven on earth

We have drunk of a brew

More crude than earth’s first bacteria

All sense and sanity banished

And sentiments rule our minds with a fevered grip.

So what if we were born

At the feet of the Baobab or the Iroko!

Or bred under the shade of the Udala

And the Oil palm tree!

Do the children not tell tales

Under eyes of one same watchful moon!

What if we choose freedom

Under the weight of the Cross

Or look to a Crescent Moon

And Blinking Stars for light

Or pour hot drink on the likeness

Of long gone paternity

For wisdom to walk life’s path

Do not our excrement

Make the nose wrinkle all the same!

Then what impertinence

Raises one above the other!

When the mother womb

First spat us out

Warmth was our watchword.

Labels and logos are the mighty

Constructs of broken hearts

Mightier still,

They are iron bars behind which

The sanest amongst us languish

Unaware.

Though with different names

Do the children not play at the same games

Kindred spirits miles apart

What if we could tame our hearts

And just let the children play

As we sit on stools carved from the Iroko

Drinking  strong palm wine

Under the canopy of the mighty Udala

Listening to tales of the ancient Baobab.

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