Secret of the Sun

Raised by the bare bones of nature’s grace,
my home held hands with the feral forest,
where nature hid her gold.

I have heard palm trees whisper their stories
I have listened to the silent full moon quietly teach
lessons of those who had lived.
I know of the green secrets of the earth
Soft voices of searching roots that sprout forth, cluster
around my hut to tell.

I am from the bowels of Africa,
I understand the tongue of the wild.
I have swayed to the blue songs of humming birds that fill the
tree branches with their nests.
I have had breakfast plucked ripe off the tree
and lunch caught right from the river.
I have aimed a stick in the forest and secured supper.

I am from the bowels of Africa,
where nature’s breast milk flows from palm trees
and every suckle leaves a smile on wrinkled ebony faces.

I am from the bowels of Africa,
I have seen rains held up at the summons of wooden carved gods.
women foretell events of the next day, and men
hear voices of elders long dead.

I am from the bowels of Africa
I am carolled to dreamland by
crickets, frogs and fireflies
that mime nature’s song at night fall

I am from the bowels of Africa,
I am the dark secret held by the sun


                                                        ( c )   KONYE OBAJI ORI



Dance of a God

Life is beating the Ayara-Ekomo drum-
And I am dancing like the priestess of the river
possessed by the mermaid spirit of Anansa-

Even the Sun rises to applaud my passion

Fate has cooked for me- the black soup-
I lick it with the zest of a starved child

I run from the statues of my negriscent
that sing to me the songs of the spirits
and expect me to dance the dance of the dead

I run as far as I can under those hunting eyes of the night
through the thicket of the gathering spirits of the forest.

I can fall to the ground like a Yoruba man
to salute the full moon that illuminates my escape path

From time to time, the daunting drum-beats of life blends with
the crying drums and wailing flutes of my native land
and the music of  a sun-heated people fill my ears-

And like a funeral-dance in a wake-keeping
I am demanded to tap to its depressing melody
.
But I dance the dance of a god.

                                                        ( c )   KONYE OBAJI ORI


                                                                                                             
Crying “Africa”

Once the color of the night,
graced with starry skies

The full moon left little to wonder
of the morning sunrise
Then we were singing “Africa.”

Lightning flashes struck our clouds
and raging thunders burst open
the sky and let the rains pour.

We are flooded in austerity; we flow
scrambling for support,
tramping over one another for a gasp.

The current of diseases and hunger
washes us away. We slop in the
tides of corruption and war.
And as we are washed,
we flounder and we cry “Africa.”

Shivering like sparrows in winter
we are thrown from side to side
like trees, dancing unwillingly to
the music of the wind

Bruised on rocks and stunted tree roots
As we drift helplessly in the flood;
Choking, wailing, crying “Africa.”


                                                        ( c )   KONYE OBAJI ORI


African Night

I lay there on that rat-shredded raffia mat;
my thoughts running through the bush paths
to meet my dreams at the bottom of the Iroko tree.

Full moon comes and goes,
I still lay on that mat staring at agama lizards creeping
up and down the bamboo sticks that hold my mud hut up.
Hope sneaking away like smoke from the burning fire woods
through the holes in the thatch roof of mother’s kitchen

I am like a tilapia fish roasting
on the woods of time, In the heat of harmattan

I am deaf to the sounds of
talking drums and crying wooden flutes
that play me to our ancestors
in high notes on traditional clefs.
Sightless to the heart melting site of
naked pot-bellied children
laughing and playing in the mud

I push the burning fire wood together under the steel tripod stand
and splints of fire, fly to the air like in a performance to cheer me up

my dreams have uprooted the Iroko tree
but my reflection in the eyes of reality hasn’t changed,

I have learnt to chew with content
when boiled yam, dipped in palm oil meets with my watering tongue,

The man drinking palm wine and breaking kola nuts with
my father in his thatch roof hut after a long day in the yam farm
lights a picture of me painted on the walls of tomorrow

At mid night when the moon smiles down
And when we gather to sing and dance;

I dance until my hope is tired
and until my dreams lay down to sleep;
to sleep through that long and vibrant African night.
                                           
                                                        ( c )   KONYE OBAJI ORI