By Teslim Opemipo
Let our mothers come like harmattan haze
and swear by the sacrality of ògún
if the roof lying above their fathers' house
has never been stoned by a boy in love
to walk them out for an evening talk.
Let our fathers come like a windy rain
and swear by the simplicity of òsun
if the path that leads to the village stream
has never danced to serenades sang by their soles
in chase of maidens with braids so long.
Let the elders come like a mid-year harvest
and swear by the tranquility of the moon
if they've not once tasted the bliss of childhood
fermented with the morals of moonlight tales.
In our village, childhood is made of water;
kinsmen, remember, water is brewed with life
and life is the laughter moulded on our lips
when we gambol from rivers to trees
and to fields painted in the colours of hopping grasses.
Brethren, if you hear an elder saying:
growing up kills laughter and joy,
do not giggle for they once like us
tasted the bliss of grasshopper days.
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