1. Tale of a Popular Griot
A griot—
pregnant,
heavy with
baby woes,
stripes,
and swaggers.
A ravisher,
in a verdant gown,
***** him—
poured syphilitic *****
into his ***
The griot,
courted by four fancies,
bared his behind
like a cheap ****
unaware of two jokers
dangling below the belt:
Bomb Dele,
and **** the Griot.
Jail Fela,
and **** the griot
Sap the masses,
and **** the griot.
Lock Gani,
and lock the wisdom-house.
Seal the lips—
that sang the truth.
And **** the griot.
Pain, not pleasure—
his wriggle is labour pain.
Griot pumped full
by sadistic ****
We wait,
chin in palm,
for the birth
of his cantankerous fume.
2. The Silent Drum
The talking drum
once called the dawn,
but now —
it is quiet.
The market women whisper:
"Where is the griot?"
"Why does his tongue rot in silence?"
His drum,
once a lion’s roar,
now sleeps
like a stone in riverbed.
Children ask—
"Did he die?"
"Or did he run?"
"Or did they pluck his tongue
and hang it
like a thief’s hand?"
The wind brings no answer.
Only the rustle
of history, afraid.
And in the shrine,
a calabash cracks.
3. Return of the Griot
He came back
like a curse breaking loose,
like harmattan smoke
that refused to scatter.
His lips were cracked,
his eyes—red with old fire.
He called the town:
Come!
Gather!
Your griot returns—not to sing,
but to warn.
Call (Griot):
Ẹ gbọ́? (Do you hear?)
Response (Chorus):
A gbọ́! (We hear!)
Call:
Ta ló ki eto re bomi ipayinkeke?
(Who turned your birthright into a bowl of sorrow?)
Response:
Ìjọba jagidijagan! (A government of madness!)
Call:
Ta ló dáná sí ilé-ìmọ̀?
(Who set fire to the house of knowledge?)
Response:
Àwon olóṣèlú! (The politicians!)
And the griot
pointed to his scars:
“These are my verses.”
He raised his drum
and thunder shook the silence.
4. Fire on the Talking Skin
The drum speaks now—
not with rhythm
but with rage.
Each slap a sermon.
Each beat, a bomb.
Each silence, loaded.
Boom— for the lies.
Boom— for the stolen votes.
Boom— for the buried truth.
Boom---- for Fela
Boom----- for Dele
Boom— for Gani.
Boom— for Funmilayo.
Boom— for every market burnt in riot.
The griot does not dance.
He sets fires.
In his mouth:
proverbs sharp as blades.
On his tongue:
lightning.
He becomes
a god with a talking skin.
And the people
begin to remember
how to fear
truth.
5. Elegy for the Deaf
He sang.
They clapped—
but they did not hear.
He warned.
They danced—
but not to his drum.
Now the sky is grey
with unwept tears.
The roads crack open
from too many blind feet.
And the griot—
he does not mourn himself.
He mourns
those who made mockery
of his madness.
Call:
Ta ló sọ pé òtítọ́ yóó máa sùn?
(Who said truth will sleep forever?)
Response:
Kò sẹ́ni! (No one!)
So he walks into the wind,
his drum still burning.
His voice—
a ghost that grows louder
each time they try
to forget.
© Lanre Adebayo
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 1:51 PM UTC
1. Tale of a Popular Griot
A griot—
pregnant,
heavy with
baby woes,
stripes,
and swaggers.
A ravisher,
in a verdant gown,
***** him—
poured syphilitic *****
into his ***
The griot,
courted by four fancies,
bared his behind
like a cheap ****
unaware of two jokers
dangling below the belt:
Bomb Dele,
and **** the Griot.
Jail Fela,
and **** the griot
Sap the masses,
and **** the griot.
Lock Gani,
and lock the wisdom-house.
Seal the lips—
that sang the truth.
And **** the griot.
Pain, not pleasure—
his wriggle is labour pain.
Griot pumped full
by sadistic ****
We wait,
chin in palm,
for the birth
of his cantankerous fume.
2. The Silent Drum
The talking drum
once called the dawn,
but now —
it is quiet.
The market women whisper:
"Where is the griot?"
"Why does his tongue rot in silence?"
His drum,
once a lion’s roar,
now sleeps
like a stone in riverbed.
Children ask—
"Did he die?"
"Or did he run?"
"Or did they pluck his tongue
and hang it
like a thief’s hand?"
The wind brings no answer.
Only the rustle
of history, afraid.
And in the shrine,
a calabash cracks.
3. Return of the Griot
He came back
like a curse breaking loose,
like harmattan smoke
that refused to scatter.
His lips were cracked,
his eyes—red with old fire.
He called the town:
Come!
Gather!
Your griot returns—not to sing,
but to warn.
Call (Griot):
Ẹ gbọ́? (Do you hear?)
Response (Chorus):
A gbọ́! (We hear!)
Call:
Ta ló ki eto re bomi ipayinkeke?
(Who turned your birthright into a bowl of sorrow?)
Response:
Ìjọba jagidijagan! (A government of madness!)
Call:
Ta ló dáná sí ilé-ìmọ̀?
(Who set fire to the house of knowledge?)
Response:
Àwon olóṣèlú! (The politicians!)
And the griot
pointed to his scars:
“These are my verses.”
He raised his drum
and thunder shook the silence.
4. Fire on the Talking Skin
The drum speaks now—
not with rhythm
but with rage.
Each slap a sermon.
Each beat, a bomb.
Each silence, loaded.
Boom— for the lies.
Boom— for the stolen votes.
Boom— for the buried truth.
Boom---- for Fela
Boom----- for Dele
Boom— for Gani.
Boom— for Funmilayo.
Boom— for every market burnt in riot.
The griot does not dance.
He sets fires.
In his mouth:
proverbs sharp as blades.
On his tongue:
lightning.
He becomes
a god with a talking skin.
And the people
begin to remember
how to fear
truth.
5. Elegy for the Deaf
He sang.
They clapped—
but they did not hear.
He warned.
They danced—
but not to his drum.
Now the sky is grey
with unwept tears.
The roads crack open
from too many blind feet.
And the griot—
he does not mourn himself.
He mourns
those who made mockery
of his madness.
Call:
Ta ló sọ pé òtítọ́ yóó máa sùn?
(Who said truth will sleep forever?)
Response:
Kò sẹ́ni! (No one!)
So he walks into the wind,
his drum still burning.
His voice—
a ghost that grows louder
each time they try
to forget.
© Lanre Adebayo
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