(With the world still learning how to borrow a wondering leaf)
I
That number sounds so heavy
I can hardly lift it with my tongue
Its span springs a distance un-measurable
By the stretch of any ruler
The sun’s silent steps across
The infinity of the sky
The concourse of the clouds
Which drill and drop the rains
Night after night after night
We sleep in the songs
Which sleep in us, dance with the dawn
Whose drum provokes our day
We rise, unaware,
As those songs sizzle into see-suns
Stir into seasons when the tree’s green promise
Yellows into edible consumations
And the seeds which broke the sod
Laugh soundlessly at harvestide
Time always tells its story
Even when our ears are usurped by jubilant echoes
Unforgettable,
Those dusky days in Akure Oloyemekun
When Dawn lifted its delicate dust
And a new and complex day was born
II
You frolicked through that dawn
Distilled its dew
Rose above its grass
And foresaw its noon
Those were days of stirring drums
And soulful dances
Of songs which sewed the seasons*
Into skeins of wisdom and timeless wardrobes
Baked brave by the native sun
Your feathered heels embraced the world
From Ibadan-Ife to Edinburg, land of the Scotts
Then to our Caribbean of rooted bondings and kindred voices
When our fledgling letters cried out for a way
Out of History’s pit, yours was a clear
Refreshing voice in the chorus which pledged
Our commitment to the common good
The aching necessity of Positive Change,
And the possibilities of Hope
Values which build the Whole Person
Visions which enable the Future
In every brick of The Edifice is a story
Which foretells the blind bullets of The Combat
To Borrow a Wandering Leaf longs for a key
Which unlocks those Memories of Our Recent Boom
The Scales have not fallen from the eyes
Of those who pronounce The Curse
Season of Migration to the South
Surely needs a new compass
Having gone from The Theatrical Into Theatre
Our painted faces crave a million mirrors
The traffic between street and stage
Is loud with unquenchable visions
It is still Just Before Dawn
Countless seasons after the primal moon
Woza Africa. Behold your faithful Griot
As he joins the Venerable Conclave of Elders
*Riff on Sew the Old Days, Molara Ogundipe’s memorable collection of poems.
Niyi Osundare