It's not the walk

it is not the walk that is tiring
rather when you go for a walk
and see the tearing down of green
tall trees for a football field and
suddenly you realize this was
the same place the village once
gathered and asked for rain from
the Diviner’s Bag and from the single
sitting the gasping earth had its fill and
seeds flowered rich buds and there was
drumming and dancing in the village I recoil
and remember Akpalu who was comforted
in exile by thoughts of our forgetfulness

only yesterday for instance prayers bloomed
beneath this baobab tree outside the village courtyard
I remember how mothers brought boiled eggs and palmoil
to the grotto and when at last their wishes were heard before
the next dawn they leaped like a wild dog with outbursts of pride
knowing too well their sufferance nourished their dreams

but today long dusty roads stretch from Abor to Tsiame
and young ones clap hands over wine parties and throw
dust into the face of the moon I remember the gourds
of palmwine that once lined the bosom of this baobab tree
and we harvested joy with our feet and heart with music
it is not the dusty road that is tiring but how we plunge into things
too eagerly like a powerful dog not stopping for anything
and now after the wine parties generations are scattered on
distant farms selling nothing but sorrows at deserted spaces

I thought I would grow old with fond thoughts of home
but I’m old and full of sadness with thoughts of the
transience of life hoping for a cool day beyond the skies