My mother’s hut is worth speaking of,
So perfect and peerless,
Many a times and oft,
You know not the wave that draws you to her bosom.
The grass looks lush and lusty as-
I held on to this staff and papa’s green laced bag-
I shepherd the animals to their dinning,
basking in love with the dews.
Lost in the bliss of hunting-
Mama’s shill-sounding voice-call obey!
Running home like a ginger bread man-
My Adire beautifully loose with holes,
I hope to seal the meal set before me.
The cool evening tide tickles in-
The game of Ayo, binds one,binds all.
Papa’s palm wine flows freely like a stream without a pause,
Yea, the orange tree smiled at the sight of green-horned lovers.
The moon cheer at the little feet wobbling around,
Granny oiled us with fauns and fairies till the last oil is spent.
The men sit at papa’s obi talking in circles.
The women chat whilst cooking talking about Adana’s nuptial.
Lo, the aroma of mama’s hut are beautiful spices of eternity,
For in summer,she shall bask in euphoria of her nature.
About the author:
A melting pot of profound African literature and Lifestyle.