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When the snow falls, Stabbing my heart with cold, I long for my mother's hearth That shielded us from the harmattan. I perceive the aroma of burning logs And the golden flame that cooked our food, I inhale the redolence Of clay pots sitting on the fire. I feel the smoothness of cold ash On our soles and hairless skin, I hear my mother calling us For a bath warm and soothing. When night comes with a labyrinth of bulbs And the hubbub of casinos, I remember my humble home Where night and day respect their boundaries. I see the moon smiling from above, Her radiant face illuminating the village square, Where we listened to the exploits of the wise tortoise From the croaking voice of my grandmother. When they tell me I am a stranger, I remember my father’s vast kingdom. An aura of respect surround me As I walk through the bush path With the wild paying homage to me. When shall I shed this coat of fur For the warmth of mother's hearth? When shall I hear from my hut The heartbeat of an undiluted night? When shall I water the mound Where my afterbirth was interred? When shall I roast cocoyam On the smoldering ash of the oil bean wood How I long to cross this ocean To chew a lobe of my father’s kolanut.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022

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