Vibes for the evening sights
Vibes for the evening sights
The Pilgrims Voice:
When you enter the lion’s den
He impedes your throat, captures your voice
Like a trance, a thief at night, he quietly steals your soul
He takes the eyes of life mother gave before your flight
He cuts those ties that brings out the light at night
That chain of hope, the bead of faith that he snatches from you
Pilgrims from the motherland, all rushing down here
Don’t you see the devil sitting in his den?
He sits by the gate awaiting all who dare to come
I remember I had this spirit
I remember I had this feeling
Before it was taken away
Now piled amongst the rest
Those charts that continue to raise high
Traded for a number and a chip
Now I know why my brothers here stick to the zigs
Those sweet things that has their mind cool
Some of us, back there in the motherland
Say, think, that the buffalo soldiers here have forgotten their roots
Now I know, even after the winter slept with cold
In their throat, it remains, that thread that connects all
They still have, but why the sibling rivalry, you ask
The people without the season of winter
When we come here, we turn our backs on them
Turn our faces sideways, without reaching forth
We claim the better brother, when in fact
The buffalo with its ancient hoofs has walked winter times
The buffalo with its coat thick as ran through the rivers
They our brothers, they our seasoned sisters
They the one’s that left mama’s hut, leaving the dust
They our older brothers met winter, cold, their bones cried
But in their eyes, they hold a better understanding of the ways of the den
For how can I, who flew on planes come and claim the wiser in this den
In this the land, they all built
Silly, it will be, thoughts without process
It would be the same way, if our winter seasoned brothers
Came back home after so many seasons past
Claiming they knew the ways of Lagos better than we that live there
It will not make sense, it will only be jokes to our ears
It was another school assembly; we stood in long lines on dusty grounds in front of the primary 3 block of classrooms, wearing pristine ironed blue dresses with starched white blouses peeking out from our necklines and arms. This was 1990 in Enugu, I was 7 years old and that morning was different. Our teachers were very excited, clutching each other’s hands, hugging one another and wearing very big smiles.
That’s what immortality means, moving hearts even after you’ve left the dust of earth. Now, his voice will ring throughout time. RIP Nelson Mandela, till next time
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