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Fift y Years
By Osaremen Okolo
Okada motorbikes rumble down the path of red to black,
carrying lives, minds salivating for change.
Aft er arrival, out of fuel:
Restock and fi nally return?
Or crash a while, and burn?
Th e December sun fi ercely burning brown to black.
“Exotic, tropical locale” is just another Harmattan.
Red, red, litters the forgotten roads,
a haze of imperturbable dust enveloping, leaving its memory.
Pure, white cotton stained by this dirtying, burnt orange,
the blemish scrubbed away by knuckled fi sts over tired palms
until the garment fl ies against wavering, warping hemp – cleaned and baking.
Folktales heard under a sweet, warm moon,
enrapturing elders twisting tales from their prime;
the marvels of a night lit by candlelight.
magus ~ 73 ~ mabus