Solomon Itsoghole | + Follow Poet |
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African Night Storm Dream

The last I think I saw of the rustic scene
Of the age long lore and antiques
Before the spell was cast
Was a dancing constellation in the sky
To the throbbing of drum and flute.

A full moon in golden attire watched keenly
Smiling over the quiet thatched huts
And all around the planes of furrows
Where our backbone ache from tilling
Where young cereals countless had sprouted.

Then we reclined on our bamboo beds
Having over-fed with yam porridge
Yam boiled in red oil, dry fish and hot spice
Watching the live coal glow under the tripod
And transfixed by the distant throb of life.

Suddenly a gust of wind descended
Routing from the western valley
The moon quickly puts off its smile
The throbbing ceased, the stars disappeared
And the coal dispersed sparks of its last ember.

I saw the trees bowed to their lords
The sky mumbled with iridescent light
To the distant vale of palms wriggling
Their braided heads to the dissonant rhythm
Of disco and afro night storm.


First there was only a patch of pool
The pool turned to a running stream
And the stream became a flowing river
And the river expanded into a great sea
And the sea brought forth a white monster.

And the monster foaming and roaring 
Routed the huts and tossed us into the sea
In the wild turbulent waves set adrift
On a piece of raft, once our bamboo beds
In dark storm and thunderbolts drift amiss.

Then I was woken by voices of weeping
And complaints; doused and shivery,
There was no thatch or mud walls standing
But a great flood washing away
Remnants of our toils and inheritance.

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