Erinle

Erinle Eventide. Night unclads at the riverside with her gown perfumed with silence slowly droping on a mat of clams and gasping tilapia. Pillow of pebbles that turns into gold when the morning sun kisses the earth with Midas lust. Her eyes searches every ripple returning from errands unsent to her bare thighs. The exiled moon returns home to inspire the chicken-hearted lover on his thousandth unread love-letter. An anthill poised like a forgotten god standing on the border of a lost territory on whose sacred shrine now stands the cricifix. Invocations awakens the river god sleep-walking to her bed. She births the fishermen fortunes on nets, fish hooks and the praise of proud housewives. Morning takes desperate strides to take the glory of night when the fishers bow before the black sun that warms the heart of Africa inconsolably mourning her sons that were dumb at home but now sings her songs in a strange land.