When the folks go gay

The cock crow has long passed in a haste
the blue sky has changed gray
the rowdy air has grown cool
the dark night approaches near
the labour of the joyful day unfolds here
the birds towards their warm nest
the foxes into their hidden holes
the men of the field return home with loads

tired worn out and hungry.
While women sit by the fire cooking
their men warm themselves around the glowing fire
sipping from their gourd a tapped wine
smoking their pipes, their self-made tobacco
getting ready for the promising night
under the open and smiling sky.

Stories are told of yesteryear
of courageous acts of our heroic sons and daughters
and how they gallantly fell and won.
Stories of the dark past and how it should
never rear its heads on its ugly shoulders.
Stories of the good old days: of abundant times;
one told them, all in tales

accompanied by their singing rhymes
and dances according to the rhythmic
beats of their anklets and castanets.
Shouts of uncontrolled excitements from our men
as their women dance to please them:
the erotic dance before the moonlit night
when children are put to rest,

those to soon be mothers and fathers are left.
Palm wine on the ground is spilled
when throats can no more harbour but spit.
A struggle for women during the dance
like starved hawks after the vulnerable chicks.
Dancing ceases when feet go cold
and through a wrestling all damsels chosen.

Soon the glowing fire goes dim
and the flickering palm oil lamp snuffed off
for a march into the white clay thatch
arm in arm and arm around waste
along their wobbling feet they dragged.
To new couples their first approved moon night
men and their women their right night
waiting for the morrow soon to knock.