The Proud Ones
At the crossroads where our fathers danced,
I see them now, the proud ones
strutting like peacocks in borrowed feathers,
while our ancestors’ bones
lie washing in the rains of memory.
Who are these people who have forgotten
the taste of grandmother’s tears?
They walk past the ancient shrines
with heads held high like strangers,
their feet no longer knowing
the sacred earth that bore them.
Listen, my people, listen!
The frog who sang too loud in the night
now sits silent in the morning sun,
while the tortoise who mocked the gods
carries emptiness in his shell.
Our elders taught us:
“The proudest tree feeds the termites first,”
but who remembers now?
Who recalls the wisdom
that filled our evenings with stories?
I have seen them in the markets,
wearing their pride like new cloth,
while the old ways die
in the corners of their mouths.
They have traded our sacred groves
for concrete forests,
our clay pots for plastic dreams.
The chief who cannot bend
to greet his mother’s grave,
what spirits guide his feet?
What songs remain in his blood?
We are becoming shadows
in our own compound,
ghosts at our own festival.
Even the palm wine tapper
no longer calls to his trees,
and the kola nut lies unbroken
at dawn’s first light.
Eii my people,
when did we grow too tall
to listen the drummer’s warning?
When did our necks become stiff
like young corn in harmattan?
The elders say:
Pride walks the road alone,
And wisdom dances with companions.
But we have lost the drum’s rhythm,
lost the sacred dance,
lost the humble path
that leads back home.
I see them fall, these proud ones,
like palm fruits in the storm,
and who will gather them?
Who will remember their names
when the wind has taken
their borrowed plumes?
My tongue tastes the sorrow
of forgotten libations.
My eyes see the breaking
of ancient covenants.
While we chase shadows of greatness,
our ancestors weep in the evening rain,
and the earth holds its silence,
waiting for us to remember
who we truly are.
