Under the Tree In Africa

Under the tree in Africa, we sap strength from the songs of the sparrows before sunlight. as we walk to the farm, the morning breeze brush our body from the billowing branches. We pick up our hoes and cutlasses and keep our basket and calabash, the big Agbadas of the elders and our little catapult hang on the bole as we plough and plant. Under the tree in Africa we relish the radiance of reality as we rest after the rigor of raising ridges. we break the dried branches to make fire to roast the harvested maize; we stroll with the spirits as we slumber, listening to the whispers of the wind and wake up to feast on the roasted maize with some cold water from the serene stream. Under the tree in Africa we share the shield of shadows, shying away from the sun as we walk back to the village. We use our traps to tame birds; making some meat available mama's, meal by moonlight, throwing stones at some ripe fruits we have a feel of freshness and get some fruit for friends and family, we get locked in luck as we get lots of grains and goodies that gives us passion and pride. At twilight, under the tree is a place to be in Africa, the elders drink from the cup of culture. Passing the calabash with love; there is enough Palm wine and bush meat to go round, quarrels are settled, feuds are finalized as the echoes of the evening resounds. The day's delight are shared, friendships are found and formed as fresh fragrance flows. The children chant with vibrating voices, moral melodies are mimed with clapping of hands under the tree in Africa. Graceful games and spirited sports go on as communal creeds cruise in their conscience. The elders feed their seeds with the water of wisdom as they share folktales and facts,the children are charged to be charming as they listen to the tales by moonlight.. In Africa the women sings with virtuous voices as they make mats, beads, basket and raffia under the tree. nursing mothers keep their sucklings on the mat for the cool breeze to caress their soft skin, at twilight, women roll out local pots, mortal and pestle, to prepare pounded yam and melon soup for their household, as the food-is-ready alarm sounds, folks and friends gather to dine and wine as the moon peeps through the leaves under the tree in Africa.