The Sound of the Rain

       
The rain---sounds like catapults fired on our roof 
drops like palm kernels---splash on the back cover
 of our black pots, Stamping the roof like horse 
galloping on a narrow bridge. Is it war ? we ask
 ourselves. And its comes along with Jealous wind 
beating trees to pulps. The plantain treesare no more
 standing with their toes but lying belly faced to the
 ground, the palm trees in razzmatazz dance to the
calypsos Of the wind their hips fixed but their hairs
swirls
           The sound of the wind
 plays the tune of an invincible piper who was well
 paid and skillfully trained. The African rain Is like
a tornado sent by a weird mate to greet a foe his,
competitor So as to end the play of his dancers stop 
the beat of his drums and gongs. On his feasting day
as he refuses to settle the ground
                  We in groups
of seven, eight, nine ten---at the heart of the town,
nooks and crannies and front of our compounds 
with belly flashed open unto the maker chanting 
poems in unison to tell how beautiful we love it
                                                  when it pours.
With sandy coloured panties,
 we dance In ecstasies to the unrhythmic beat of 
the rain drops, splashing dirty waters on each
 other body parts a sign to depict our new happy 
days ahead whoever misses out this fun is a loser
 we dance dance!! dance!! and dance the winner
 the best dancer Is carry on the shoulders with
 awards of applauds and joyous loud wailing
 calling loud his name in repetition.

 At times we catch little fishes In the frontage
 of our homes as the  nearby rivers, and
 streams overflow into the dirty clean streets
with drainages stock by polythene nylons---
and our joyful mothers, who sing songs of 

melody In their heart for a heavenly pour
 to greet their water pots for a cool drink,
are seated in poetic manner l while some
 stand at akimbo thinks the disasters it 
might cause them their roof to cure. 
Usually at nights mother goes around
Our beautiful clayed hutmaking little 
amendments to our brown blistered
 basket 
mouthed roof and the drops it had
sneaks through. And the prayers our
hearts we pray its rains no more---lets
little ocean is our comfort.





https://youtu.be/hdZqDP0vMfk

Copyright © Gideon Idudje | Year Posted 2020

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