The Golden Stool
The Golden Stool
Offer me the sacrosanct golden stool
To rest my bottom,
Cursed! And of course abominable it is
The Asantihene possesses it,
I will rather then be banish from being;
And become a bottomless bottoms
A riddle riddled with contour,
It is uncomfortable anyway,
I will rather seat on an armchair
Listening to the howling wind from Elmina;
Telling stormy tales of the beginning,
Of million sunk soul ancestors departed;
In ocean-farer Columbus minute sail,
Neither I examine buttocks of Homo- erectus
With magnifying glasses,
Nor listen to naked maidens cuddling calabash;
Filled with soft breadfruits
Strolling on marble tarmac roads,
But to virgins with unripe chest mangoes;
Dancing and queuing at my hut stepping,
Listen to mothers mingling backed urchins
Hoping in hope load of sacks;
In uncountable mileage
To dispose and bring back joy of cowries;
Labouring farmer hue mounds in hectares,
Rose in a grunt
Nostalgically, looked hazily back and future;
I must do a little bit more, more and more,
Mounds, until I reach tip end of the earth;
The hunegred yawns must be fill.
Copyright © Afolabi Taiwo | Year Posted 2011
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