“Where your answer(s) resides”
In an auroral glow upon the plain.
A butcher's knife (Òbē Ālápātà) fidgets in his skilled
hands. A blank-stares and dry-tongue, his parched lips
press tight as sweat drips onto the parched earth, a desperate plea.
Syllables modulates in a whisper of prayer:
“Blessed lord of grace(ōlórūn ōlòrē òfé), give a new ray(fún wā ní ìmólè)&
allow the harmattan rain(òjò ōyé) to wash away
the night sorrow(ēkún ālé)”
But, the painter(āyàwòrán) did not pause as she paints a torn
nation so burnt & shredded, a guffaw
on the wide canvas but an anopheles mosquito
buzzes around the canvas, as a rainbow(ìràwò) streaks across,
holding clues.
Eyes reflecting the rising sun, stretch across the canvas like an Oracle(ífá).
A swaying tree, & a female goat(ābō ēwúré), slow-legged on the grassy plain,
blood-stained *******(ōmú tó díròèjè) & ragged breaths
as she uttered a short-lived answer:
“Please, patch up the wounds(ēgbò) on my chest(àyà), and let your word(òrò) be my thesis.”
A single breath of life cycles on,
as legs crawl homeward,
the scent of cooking food betrays her belief.
God does not remember the deed, nor foresee the butcher's sigh. But
the butcher's knife sweat, and his heavy breath casts a spell
on his children. A nation's supplication, pledging loyalty to the
deity's quip. The final answer
lingers, as the world falls silent, stroke by
stroke, on her canvas.
~ Mikelson