Down Here in Uyoma


March 2013.

Down here in Uyoma
we read newspapers no more…
instead, we read writings on sisal leaves and pit latrines,
there you will find news than you can find nowhere.
we read empty palms of wise men and watch their eyes
every sunset, for news.

Down here in Uyoma
we no longer tune our radios to 7 O’clock news
instead, the tides offered to entertain us with their sundown music
crickets promised to chirp new melodies every evening
frogs gather their families to resuscitate old compositions
and alas! the wind assured all our men of her feminine whistle,
more saccharine than those radio voices reading regurgitated propaganda

Down here in Uyoma
we watch the barren sky every day at 9 O’clock in the evening,
and behold the growing moon as she moves from one corner of the sky
to the other. for us nothing is newer than this.
we admire few clouds scudding and stars that we shall one day be,
we appreciate the black clay soil, the soul of our land.
we watch oak trees as they relay news of the breeze.

Down here in Uyoma
newspapers only make sense in lighting fire…
or in wrapping the butcher’s meat, and afterward,
in pit latrines and bushes, after returning a comfortable call of nature,

Down here in Uyoma

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