Motherland carnival

The sky was draped in night’s black cloak, With a sprinkle of white specks in bloom. The yellow moon slipped into a gibbous cocoon, As sunshine fretted in crescent-shaped kites. But the streets today were painted in bright colours— They cloaked the rainbow in a toga of envy. Many danced and sang in melodious harmony, Dressed like masquerades with neither masks nor veils. The clouds were clear and gleamed with a faint glow, Since the last drop of rain they’d stored was in October. It was the music, played on hand-held instruments, That shook off harmattan’s dryness from trees and grasses. "This carnival is like no other," A lady in red and white whispered to her husband. They, like many others, had traveled from far and wide, To sway their hips and jiggle their feet to Motherland Africa. The hordes of strange faces mingled with local ones— Each year, new loves are sparked, and babies are born. Many a mulatto grows with one half of their roots in photos, Yet every year brings memories sweet and strong.