Once were years
when we gathered as brothers
in the huts of our compatriots,
breaking kola nuts in fellowship
of the brotherhood;
pouring palm wines in remembrance
of the blood that binds us.
Oh. Once were years,
when we gathered,
munching kola nuts,
gulping palm wines;
late into the nights,
with innocence, without grudge;
with unity, without fear –
in dark huts;
because all the lights
that we ever needed
were wired in us –
And our dining tables never broke
because they were set in our hearts.
But what happened to our holy communion
– the broken gourd and platter?
How did the wine wither?
Why did the kola dry up?
How did our feet forget the old, sacred hut of our yesteryears?
And why were the chapters
of our common yesterday
from history’s pages?
Why do we update our precious pasts
with cold hands and blood-costumed eyes?
Why are our everydays
a fresh story of stale hearts?
Why do we now break our brothers’ heads
instead of the kola;
and spill our brethren’s bloods
in place of the wine?
How did evil and envy impeach laughter and love?
And how did we forget
that when the pride is scattered,
a lion is vulnerable
Where is the kola nut spirit?
Who killed it?
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