I.

Bring back home
the broken calabash
bring, bring, bring
and don’t leave a piece

Our hunter sings
with his tongue cut,
he sings with a strange voice
the voice of hoots and giggles

He said, weevils
and crows had been
disturbing the corn-farm
which cried helplessly,

The trap has
caught the trap-setter
who told us of
what this shrine-mind

II.

Bring back home
the peeled pelt
of the deer harvester;
don’t leave the field with stench

Tell our women
who weep of
the fall
of butterflies,

That this war
is not of
their leaking tongues
and knotted kaba pieces

It is for
the mourning
bards of
Odikro’s hut

III.

The River goddess
of Okye
has rounded
her facial appeal

She sits with
her laps-over
muttering aged-proverbs
towards the forest

Our hunter dances
with his feet-backwards
backing away
where his groin germinated

Where are the gods
that nestled their
fingers through
the throats of immortality?

IV.

Bring back home
the sack that united
gun-powder with shells;
don’t leave snores for termites

O’ child
of the dwarf,
do not sleep
where snails lament

O’ son
of Oson,
do not walk
where an okra has wept

Lament not daughters
bewail not mothers
for this hunter shall re-unite
with the three paths . . .

‪#‎NanaArhinTsiwah‬
‪#‎TheVillageThinkers‬