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Under the moonlight, the voices chant. Young voices, and nearby, the old men rant Over kegs of fresh palm wine and kola nuts Spitting out proverbs and some, with coconuts. The locust chirps purifies the atmosphere Mingling with the scent of fresh brewed corn beer For which my pals and I salivate while skipping On the "Tabala" conscious, there was none for tasting. The Village "ngong" beats it's music, As the maidens shake their waists and tunic Exciting the lads who gaped in ecstasy Rubbing their hands in frenzy Grandpa, in solemnity poured libation, With proverbs, rumbled out incantation While creating a link with our ancestors Who sat side by side with out predecessors. As the Moon weaned, we scampered homeward. Accompanied by drums beating skyward, Jostling lads, professing feelings with gifts of groundnuts Many of them shy and without guts. With bowed head under the moon I sit. The yard void of kids with just a seat, Reminiscing the good all days Now so altered in many ways. The "ngong" shed lay besieged by dust The drums reside in frost, And while from afar, Agatha Moses does chant I realised our kids no longer play "tabala" and rant. Such longing for the past brought into me, fear while down, I let go a tear. © Temajung Michael T.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021

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