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.
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