It is the thinking that we have arrived
when we are nowhere
that made Ọlọ́wọ̀ look Ọ̀rúnmìlà in the eye.
The result was that yams
no longer shot in their beds,
small rivers wore garments of leaves
birds’ songs hung in their startled throats.
Like the striking of two red stones against each other
in the birthing of fire
that roasts yams for the gathering of the clan
and resonates on our tongues
at the sight of fine palm oil.
It takes the clash of meditation
against the darkest nights
to birth soul-piercing thoughts
and set our eyes to flames.
It takes Àyáníyì to grasp
that our forebears are spirits
reaching to us over and across the seas
and these spirits need our bodies to perform,
to dance on this earthly stage.
The dance, of course, is the spirits’,
the feet are ours,
just as i now do in my mother-tongue.
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