Fire White

The sun has gone down after the booming sound,
it has left us a cloud with no thunderlight.

Ebimobowei whose face is like liquid black gold
is in the fortress of angry spirits cooking crude oil...

Someone is being rushed to Chapros Clinic,
someone whose heart has won all...

Women could no longer allow hands down;
They carry them on their heads like headpans

The men are like coiled cobra whose head is bowed in its body.

Something heavy has waged war upon us,
something that has made our women forget loosed wrappers,
something that has feet unfit for shoes.

Does black turn white?
it does, when it is ripped off its root

Ebimobowei is no longer black after the boom;
He is fire white and fire red like a roasted prawn.

We can not tell if the cauldron was set ablaze by the angry bush
or if it was fired by greedy bunkers, that we can not tell.

But what could have inspired him to place his left ear
on a boiling cauldron if not sei spirit sent to do mischief?
Or could it be carelessness setting him off his feet?

We are not them that give ad-lib commentary,
Nothing comes out but tears that beat the ears...

Chapros Clinic is full of runs,
of silent screams and scattered hums.

Something worrisome is heard,
something like rumbling thunder,
something that has left us rolling on the ground,
something that has left us mourning for three mornings
And a night for poignant steps.