The Broken Pot

Onufule is on her way to the waterside

The fountain of the fathers

which has never known dryness

Obishi is in the kitchen

to fill the hut with salt and red oil palm

Mama sits by his side

as she kneads torn socks

Oh the master of all he surveys

drinks his brewed palm

The afternoon’s sun returns to his hut

Onufule who must get to the waterside before sunset

hits her flip-flops against her toes

as she bites away the dusty distance

Where are they to see her dance

and turns every curve and twitch of her maker’s gift

Where are they as the drums run amok to a frenzy

their pretty feet which needs no colouring

adores the rhythmic beats with their steps

Can’t you hear the drums thundering

the flutes enchanting

while the winds blow them in their riots

Beats that charm your fears and tears

and frightens your cheeks

leaving them bloated and buffed

beats that knock at your doors

to invite you to a dance of the elders

and of the ancestors

and cause your head to nod like the lizards

and feet to caress the ground with their taps

I saw these beats turn into impulses

I saw these beats exciting your sensibilities

I saw it drawing you closer and closer

to the prepared land full of flora and fauna

In your hands they turn your swords into plough sheds

and pruning hooks

and breaths into an indelible ink

ever writing the intents of the fathers

of the past and their glorious promises of the future

The beats no more hide under the skins of the drums

This is the night of the full moon

oh can she make it in time?

She runs and walks, her knee jerks her tie

She stretches, raises an arm, in twist and turns

oh her dance, the dance before all

all on her head fell

The ancient pot of the fathers broken

who will mend and patch and glue and heel

who born of woman can?

Oh not in shame the adage said

The one who goes to the waterside

is the one who breaks the pot

but should it be the ancient pot

Well let’s see how the sticks in the drummers hand

said it all when finally at home

Obishi

serve Papa his soup, Mama said.

My tongue will swim in a pool of red soup today

Onufule

you have returned sweating?

Ah my tongue will be quenched forever

All was silence…

She will tell her story as the performances unfold.