Tales From Nkporoland

In Nkporoland, filled with milk and honey We read the hand written on the wall under The milky moon with our stomach painted with the earth When we ate those roasted black yam with red oil, And pink kola nut in grandpa's mouth speaking He would gather us under the Ugba tree. He told us tales of Ndimgba, the tortoise The tales of Nzogbu, the oracle How Eze aja was coronated on those stone age We sat under the smiling pretty moon smiling No one to murder our joy and dreams. We were in the world of our own ruling fate and passion. so long and sweet, they were, Nkporo tales So delicious and appealing that some times we left our food And forget to wear our pants after excreting So we could listen to those tales told in a fantastic and refined way Nkporoland, where the ikoro never cease to sound like drums Of emotion and passion hold high in admiration. Nkporo Amaka... no place like home We said rubbing our stomach down of the delicious food. We ate with tales, sleep with the tale of evil Spirit sounding their gong in our ears and fear Gripping our heart, we never give in but Strife to chase them away just like Grand pa told us. Those tales reminded us of peace and purity of man Kind but all those are gone. Tales are gone because mother and Grand pa had gone beyond. Now we hear of wars, fabricated tales mixed With watering mouth which makes the ear bitter sad. Those they told us are foreign made not home made