I miss the place of the rising sun;
For nothing makes my hair stand here.
No one to sing me my very ‘oriki,’
Nor the slightest ‘se dada loji?’

I miss the place of the ‘gangan’ beats;
For no meals shakes my tongue here.
No one to make me ‘efo oni kpomo’ with ‘iru,’
Nor the slightest ‘garri’ of ‘ijebu.’

I miss the place of the ‘aso ofi;’
For no clothes touches my sight here.
No one to tap me that very ‘emu oguro,’
Nor the slightest good-sauced ‘eja odo.’

For if not for the clarion call,
Oh! let ‘egbe’ come take me home,
With the real speed of ‘monomono.’

Oluwatmilehin Adejumobi Alabi

I found my self in the garden of words
Where air was raining messages
Words waving at me

There was the Noble Laureate
The man of ijebu forest
Seeing you as the words step backward

The cloud wispers to my ears
Looking into the sky it shed tears
With the lightning of the tunder which makes me fear

I searched the sky all i saw was rain
I move with the heavy breeze like the days
The drums beat and the flutes sang

I pick up my pen which will dance on my paper
Vomiting words of hope
Strong and tight like the rope


There was the pen
Which produce leaves of words
With the brack which produce the ink

The stream moves with the tides
The grasses at the shores
Sip to their thirsty roots

The trees wave higher
As the wind blows heavier
Wispering to my ears

There comes the cloud
Fading away from my sight
Moving far beyound my height

The mountains ecoed  
Chanting my name saying
Move close to see my beauty

©️Isah Aliyu Chiroma