CLAN KIND: An Ode to Ufuma of old

I                                                                                                                                                                  

I beheld the grinning mask of pleasure;

Of the masquerade of the ancestral treasure.

It was a vision without measure.

In the great silence of the night

The spirit of the trove stood bright

And beamed upon my wondering sight

I heard his roar, and the voice was thunder

Briefly fear quaked me asunder

And as suddenly submerged under.                          

II                                       

Through the mist of fire, I basked

In the glow of understanding with the masked

Messenger of my forebear, and my mind was tasked.    

I saw the secret of the ancient trinity-                         

My forebears, the masquerade and I in unity.

T?was then that I saw that my new age pride was vanity  

I realized that I knew so little, I also knew no fears            

Nor will I in ignorance again forget the tears

For a generation that denies its forebears.

III

Timeless beauty sparkled in his being

The fragrance of sweet traditions

Was exuded in soft and pleasing

Tides of warm radiations.

And as if with springs under my feet

My hand extended forth to meet

The great ?Mgbedike?.

 He came to my cordial hand

To greet in ancient salute

And from a silver band

On his mirror studded head

He drew forth the mystical ?oja? flute

It was golden with a single red

Bead of a glittering jewel

And my Silver cross I showed him

He understood and smiled, well pleased.

I had chosen my path and the vision was now dim

I picked the ?oja? and blew it, it was cute!

And...Ah! I glimpsed into the citadel

Of ancient lore and wisdom!

Even now; I still feel it?s magic

As  I touch it to my brow

And stopped to ponder the tragic                                                                                                                             

Fate of our traditions.

THE WARRIOR?S DRUM

I have heard it told                                         

I have heard it said                                         

Many times, in many folktales of old             

That there was in ancient days                        

The drum of drums.                                         

From where did the drum come?

Not even the most ancient and wizened

Of men could say for sure.

But it is believed that even before seasoned

Warriors wore loin-cloths and scabbard machetes                                

The drum existed.                                                        

The drum was only beaten

With war chants renting the air

It was an instrument of spells

And was beaten by the gentlest of men

With stringed tinkling bells

Wound round his legs

It was never beaten in anger

But throbbed in the sight of danger.

It readied the brave and strengthened

The weakest of men to do battle

By setting their blood to boil

In mystic rhythms, in their veins.

Many an enemy warrior was entranced

By the spell-binding beats

-And with weakened hearts

-And with marred courage

They were felled to the earth

Never again to dance to the music of warriors,

It was the mystery of bravery betrayed.

And so many villages fell?.

There is this beautiful old drum

That I have seen several times

In my grandpa?s inner room

He talks to it like a friend

And I?ve never seen him beat it.

It looks exactly like the drum of the tales

Maybe someday I would beat it

 -without anger, and gently

And see what it will feel like

Do you suppose it?s the same drum?