because it seems the araba1 has grown too tall
& knocked it off the sky.
perhaps, the araba is tired of shedding leaves, &
it’s rested in the bosom of the soil.
perhaps, the soil is too too soft & marshy
from the thrashing of the rain.
perhaps, the rain is too strict a teacher to teach
that coldness freezes the heart with wind.
perhaps, the wind carted the echoes away, far beyond
the hills, beyond the seas, beyond the horizons.
perhaps, the echoes are the “alo o, alo”2
calls & responses.
mama says her grandma heard them last while in the cradle.
papa says his father was too young to follow grandpa
to the farm when he heard them last.
those were the words that called the smiling moon
to rest on the araba tree & listen to tales woven around
the cunning tortoises to delight & instruct little ones
sprawled on mats, peering at the aged figure sitting
in the agbantara3 before them.
nowadays, we hold water in our mouth,
yet kiss the withering rose goodbye.
say our mouth is a potsherd housing the
sizzling sea that burns yesterday.
when last did our tongue
wear the colour of our skin?
the night is too cold for the moon to stroll,
and our tongue & heart is too frozen
for the drenched bonfire to thaw.
1 a kapok tree
2 “story, story”: usually chanted at the beginning of moonlight tales
3 a chair made specially for old people
Muheez Olawale writes from the crazy city of Lagos, Nigeria. His poem won the Chief of Army Staff Literary Competition. He has works forthcoming or published in Kalahari Review, Copihue Poetry, Poetry Journal, The Muse, African Writer, and elsewhere.