On the local sofa, by the limpopo,
There I sat, regaining the lost strengths,
in the cool hour.
Comes a minute nap, tagged a minute vision.
The I saw from afar, very far.
In the innermost section, in the world's dungeon.
Where life seems entangled with more rigour;
Lies the Black's pride, wearily and lonely.
Nearer, I drew to him in quest,
My pride!
What ails thee in the world's dungeon?
How hath that got to be captured?
Where is your garments, and your sound health.
Your costumes, and your weapons.
All that makes you is nowhere to be found.

Says he;
O' you wicked black!
Wicked black with ferocious act,
What joy have you offered me?
Has forsaken and putting me in the world's dungeon not your greatest joy?
Alas! My body is tired and my beauties have faded.
May I ask if my music, and my myths?
My folks and my festives;
Haven't all they faded away like the morning snow?
Where my juicy moonlight stories not forgone?
What a shame!
Now, tell me. How do I regain my lost identity?
My sound health and all that makes me,
Lo, am getting weary and soon passed away.
The nature; waters, mountains, and vegetations with which I befriend,
were all demolished.
Wicked black who let down the trends of BOUBOU, SANYAN and KANZUin me;
And disposed my SUKU, EDANBURU, BANTU KNOTE, NGARACHA in the word's dungeon.
Wicked black who got to broke my IKOKO, ASANKA, and TSUSI water pot where OMIN IFOKANBALE settled.
Those acts of respect that claim the true OMOLUABI in the days of your fathers,
Where the young ease the olds from their burdens of load were now deprived of.
The natural EMU OGURO; now a liquor for the poor
AYO OLOPON, the joy giver; now a game for the fool.
The rotten IKUNLE and IDOBALE makes me tarry.
The sweet sounds of ASIKO, DUNDUN, and BOUGARABOU were out of tune;
All in the name of OJUTILA.
Now, there's nothing to hope;
Alas! the white boo dog has taken your hope.
Then ask no more my state of being.


Ah!
The black is doomed!
Lord, what has befallen us,
Behold, and see our disgrace!
Our inheritance has been turned over to strangers.
Our homes to alien,
We have become Orphan, in our fathers'land.
We must pay for waters we drink,
The wood we get must be bought.
With a yolk in our necks, we were had driven.
We have given hand to white;
And still remain reliant, to get bread enough.


Oh my heritage!
My culture, my pride.
Beseechingly, I called the out of exile;
come back!
And replay for us our fathers' tune.
Tru, I know.
The waves of negligence have taken you afar,
Fir we too are feeling the negative sensation.





© Omorh(New African Series) NAS.