The Golden Stool

Written by: Afolabi Taiwo

 The Golden Stool

 Offer me the sacrosanct golden stool
 To rest my bottom,
 Cursed! And of course abominable it is
 The Asantihene possesses it,
 I will rather then be banish from being;
 And become a bottomless bottoms
 A riddle riddled with contour,
 It is uncomfortable anyway,
 I will rather seat on an armchair
 Listening to the howling wind from Elmina;
 Telling stormy tales of the beginning,
 Of million sunk soul ancestors departed;
 In ocean-farer Columbus minute sail,
 Neither I examine buttocks of Homo- erectus
 With magnifying glasses,
 Nor listen to naked maidens cuddling calabash;
 Filled with soft breadfruits
 Strolling on marble tarmac roads,
 But to virgins with unripe chest mangoes;
 Dancing and queuing at my hut stepping,
 Listen to mothers mingling backed urchins
 Hoping in hope load of sacks;
 In uncountable mileage
 To dispose and bring back joy of cowries;
 Labouring farmer hue mounds in hectares,
 Rose in a grunt
 Nostalgically, looked hazily back and future;
 I must do a little bit more, more and more,
 Mounds, until I reach tip end of the earth;
 The hunegred yawns must be fill.