(A female voice rises in a sing-chant…accompanied by punctuating drumbeats)
come, I before you
a toddler in this land of lores
where rivers sing a song
and trees dance along
at your feet
like a lizard
I lay flat-bellied
oracles of this land
of words, rhymes
and sweetsour librettos
was it not you
who said:
a toddler that learns early
to wash his dirts
shall dine graciously with the elders?
come, I before you
your apprentice of words
ready to be initiated
into this noble cult of the griots
Kongi,o!
the fearless god of vocabulary
accept this kola and palmwine
the sacrificial dog is tied already
to your master’s grove
Okinba Launko, iba!
a wandering goat that strays into your
Thespian hut shall be caught and made to
dance and bleat the theatricks of your noble tales
Igwe Achebe!
I have nothing to offer you
but a calabash of kola
and ogolo palmwine
Please,
make my words like yam
swim in the ocean of your palmoil
Lafioye, o!
the griot from the Oroke groove
I beg of you
find me when get lost
in this forest of a thousand words
Awoko olohun iyo!
Osundare!
the nightingale on the Olosunta rock
you are the son of the wordsmith
guide my faltering steps
to march gallantly, yet delicately on this soil
because the eyes of the earth
I must not in ignorance puncture.
Dasylva,
the ijesekiti Odamolugbe!
may I join
in your eclectic wordsdance…
Spirits of this land,
I pray:
let this blue blood evermore
irrigate this white sheet…
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