Okanga

i sit by the wayside
i listen to Okanga
the drum that brings back the dead,
The drum throttles
Apkele klaxons wildly,
like the scream of a mourner.
The wind is a story-teller!

An infant, i toddle in the heritage
of undying chorus
i toddle in that sand
where the stampede must rump
from Idi to Ogboli
i am son of Isu
i embrace all echoes
i clenched my fist to grip Akpele
to play it, hone it
with nostrils ballooning with the forming
of ancient cantus
to empty my lungs to Anioma!
To take from us our resolute songs,
Seized from the wind;
rock it, jazz it, and pour upon you
our libation, our boundless poetry
of imitable piety

Our jazz of war...

Henry Ajumeze