When at the break of day,
I can hear the crowing of the akuko,
accompanied by the rhythmic bleating of the goats,
with footsteps walking down to the stream
gingerly and orderly.
As the sun reaches its peak,
the early morning birds form a choir
delivering to the ears of the villagers
a song so beautiful, so sonorous -
soothing and blissful.
I remember the children running around gleefully,
happy and full of energy.
I can hear the sound of the mortal and the pestle,
joining forces to make the delicious iyan
and the ọlọ performing its magic
to grind the Egusi and the pepper.
Late at night,
I remember gathering around the ààrò with the other kids,
waiting patiently for the fresh àgbàdo from the farm,
hot from the fire, ready to soothe our tongues
and warm our body.
With our corn in hand,
we run gingerly to our next stop - the ìyá àgbà
who always waited for us under the big igi iroko
to tell us the tales of our ancestors and sometimes folktales...
Oh! How I miss the heydays of my childhood
when Africans were still Africans
and not some strange and confused set of people
lost in both their fatherland and foreign land.
Thank you for your time.
My pen doesn't bleed, it speaks, with speed and ease.
Still me,
My tongue is like the pen of a ready writer.
Olawalium; (Love's chemical content, in human form). Take a dose today: doctor's order
Sometimes I believe my childhood days and memory were the best. At moonlight, we seek games to keep the night warm and at daytime make creative things from sand, kite from leathers and papers.
This present set of generation seems to know nothing
You did justice to this and you carefuly analyzed while understanding what the post stands for. Thanks for this.
Always welcome
😊😊