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EULOGY TO MRS (Ph.D) ALIHAJA, AMINAT OLABOOPO                                        
I
From ‘Asabari’, I stand on the moon
Blowing the flute of ‘Okere’
Telling the tale of your heroic arrival.
Through the river of Osun – Osogbo
I paddle your name, crossing the boundary
Of pilgrimage journey.
Olaboopo, daughter of Alabi-Amo.
They say you are crimson
an ember clad in colour of scarlet
some say black - a coal coated in colour of darkness
But I say no!
Your garment is that of green colour.
Singing the anthem of liberty and hope
Who then say our land has not got a freedom fighter?
Fighting the course to victory.
Aminah,
You are the moving train of lights
Your heart is the Canterbury of holy grails
You are the sage of season, dove among human creature.
You are the griot of Sahara
Your rhetoric the mantra of holy apostles
Calling drunk mortals away from their shamed Babylon.
	II
Olaboopo.
From the womb of your mother
you’ve tamed knowledge to your heart
tamed the truth to your belly
You’ve found fecundity, father of all.
You’ve swallowed the sacred egg of wisdom,
Now you are goddess whom from the heavy arm
Of his lore the sun of new dawn rises.
Ayobami,
I weave my mind under the ushering of the wind 
To gather the fire-wood of your wisdom retold,
that zinced the wounds of weeded grounds.
Your words are like sheds a mystery of words.
A wisdom we hold, that have sowed the
Beards of many hearts,
Drinking from your ‘Igba’ [two hundred] of
Noble words.
Mama.
I will always make my saliva
A libation at the shrine of your 
Beowulf being.
So the day of my fame can be long.
Olaboopo.
My grandmother once fore-told
When the rain will cloud
Hmm, 
he who knows not herbs call
It bush leaf.
My grandfather once, said my son,
Ile ni awo ki ato so omo ni oruko.
Amina,
Don’t say I called you by name
Kings are called by name
Mama, may you munch kolanut for long.
May you rub grey hair with palm,
May you live long as ‘Iroko’ in thick forest.
          III
Olaboopo.
Ignorant men do not blow the horn
It’s griots, men of armpit
Made of folklores and history.
If I stand on this threshold as your winsome face
Do not see me as itinerant bard
Singing songs for juggling cowries.
I hold the pledge of my song for people
Of  noble source people like you,
Fulcrum setting world on moving path.
Ayobami
You are the syllables
At the tiny eye of my
Golden pen.
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