so I walked on
along that thin glass
of flowing men like plenty water
and women whose hair were snakes like Medusa

before noon
I was an ordinary man
who was carried like a baby
on the back of many worrying spirits-

they were my kindred
from future times
and were only here
to break the endless tide
of mother and child in an open market

but they would tear my tongue at noon
when they sought feathers of eggshell sublimities
at the fiery festival of tangled rhythms
where they spoke in scents of a sleepless bride

and still there
I saw her proud again in flashing memories –
like a clan-country-continent
dressed in colourless robes

yet if we must call names
let us not Trump all in one hole –
where black cocks claim innocence
at the unconcerned rites
that would cut their brothers’ throats
and then cry fowl

but we all came from God’s loin
at the breaking age
where we washed our navels with dew drops
by the side of the Martyrs’ blood
at these comings and goings
of a groping “igbakhuan” ancestry
not knowing that gods stay home
in their own shrines

and I will wear my beads proudly
and not let this error of darkening clouds
prevail in his mouthing judgment
even if it is still noon –

for his words run from him too
as we do from our unkempt shrines

–Kenneth Christie-Atiti.
©2018.