THE NIGHT OF POUNDED YAM - BY OLANIYI ABDULWAHEED

         I
The moon gathers us at the ribs of the dusk
At the hut of the village, in the heart of the tales
To unfold the giggling rhythm of pestles
And mortal, singing;
Stars danced at the façade of female chest
While pounding yam at the village square,
Nipples must hold the sweat
Lest the fluid would poison the yam
Fart not before the guard of mortal
Lest the god would hold your gut,

Now gathered, we were
At the table of the night, dinning:
With the drumstick of stubborn chicken
That winked at my eyes previous night;
Father’s teeth imprisoned arrogant cheetah’s limbs
That dared his trap in the farm;
Mother un-earth the heart of the whale
That licked her bowls while fetching.
Vegetable wore the garment sewed by the oil
Aroma lifted hampers of locus beans
The garlic of soup, the belle of taste
Here with our chortles eyes,
Morsels skated in the boulevard of our throats.

               II
The night of pounded yam, heralded
The moment for chortles
Children held the flute of the night
Lit the candle of glee
Burnt it to the butt of the dawn.
Belle never escaped the night
After the dinner, her belly swelled
And born heroes of another night-game


Pounded yam!
Cleansed my gut, glee in my heart
Strength in my arm, dimes from my farm
Who refused to dine with pounded yam?

  

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