cleanse me
from these sticky myths
of a roasted ceramic body

deep me
into AFRICA-
into her pure waves
of sentient air
near running streams
and full moonshines

lead me
from these broad roads
of strangling strangers’ strenght
in spirited sweat

guide me
into twisted ‘iyekowa’ footpaths
where mothers and fathers lived
in the oneness of past and present
in savoured seasons

keep me
from these stormy breath marks
borne daily by a mixed albumen
of an AFRICAN yolked egg
who is torn between these closing
footpaths-
that once sailed us on cocoyam
leaves into folklores,
and this pouring consuming glitz
of a riddled hunger

wash me
even naked as I am-
and by that flowing tide
of the sugercane oracle,
deep me deeper still
in AFRICA’S own bossom.

-Kenneth Christie-Atiti. (c)2016