They say, ”to hunt the red antelope in the sacred forest is a taboo”
So, they prefer feeding on the motionless snail
They say, ‘’the diligent fisherman will one day latch on to the golden sea goddess’’, but who?
They kiss the banks of the river and return to mend their unbroken nets at canoe’s tail
Under the straggling Onyina tree, they playfully gulp from a broken calabash
All day, they sit staring their broken faces at inverted mirrors
Counting nights and moons, they hope for when the rooster will offer a hatch
Failed! They say, ”we are evidences of Odomankoma’s errors”
Our fathers did not bequeath to us fortunes of gold dusts
What will our wandering soles offer?
Our ancestors failed to bestow on us treasure pots transferred from the past
How then do we mend our tattered coffer?
Tuesdays are forbidden to go into the weeds
Fridays are sacred for the gods by default
Wednesdays are not fertile to bury the seeds
Saturdays, their bankless tears will sail the departed soul to his vault
Sundays they sit in the palanquins of idleness basking among kinsmen
Yet they dream in the fantasies of day-break; bards singing their appellations in Sikakrom
They are, but nature’s abusers
They are, but life’s losers