For Chinua Achebe
The gods have eaten your cake
But we still have it
Some with dirty hands
Stalking your pages
And others virgin hands
Talking your pages
With seething hope
Above you a shrine, a wreath of letters.
The father of stories
Where children never sleep
The auditorium where curtains never fall
The age mate of gems
The gods have eaten your cake
But we still have it
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