Chief priest say water no get enemy.
The lean figure of Koola Lobito strolls down
the fire-dancing god’s shrine, sax hanging
from a chain minted in the forge of Goree.
It is the prerogative of icons
to look and laugh at the teachers of nonsense,
the bare bottom of the sax –
since its incarceration, it no longer wears
trousers – farting sorrow, tears and blood
as zombies in parambulators execute an army
arrangement. Coffins for heads of state.
Kalakuta grass is hemp, not green,
spouts the Trinity College grad in Timbuktu
cell, whose crime was spoiling an army bicycle.
All hail expensive shit.
Back home,Togolese women conjure miracles
in large tureen pots, communal meals
to the crunch of confusion breaking bone,
till death, the August caller, sprang a rhythm
from the pouch of greatness.
‘Niran Okewole is a poet and psychiatrist.