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Poem
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.
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