HEAR, HERE, AT YOUR FEET.
Hear the ọfọ creak in laughter,
when I choose to ask the peacock:
“how do you serenade a statesman
who knows every night song of the forest winds,
who knows which eyes of the coconut
best betrays the waters in its sturdy brown shell,
who knows which route even in lush grassland
has reddish termite trails ready to crawl up your groin?”
I chose the peacock because only flamboyance
can tell how to tan the leather of a King’s ego
in the scorch of elite lexis and broth of costly wine;
but the weaver bird, unseemly and plebeian,
chirped at me:
“Awele, listen to the tiny oracle verse in safe journeys
and has nested the crowns of mahoganies;
when push comes to shove,
better flight is for the nimble, not the colourful.
Every beetle is a gazelle in the eyes of its mother,
and so the belch of favoured child,
gladdens the heart of the patriarch
even more than the thud of the warriors’ ikoro.
Even uli, drawn by the sultry goddess of beauty
cannot impress the rainbow:
you must keep being you,
reminiscing the impotent malices of spousal quarrels
that taught you to love the giver more than the gift.”
And so, here we are, Eze,
this poem and I, at your feet
grateful for another trip around the sun,
happy to be dizzy in my fantasy of a fool’s paradise,
than overthink which artery of my King’s heart
may say fairytales are boring.
When the Almighty decided to show off,
he gave me an eternal gift etched
in bespectacled gaze and verdant beards.
Higher than the spike of airport towers,
deeper than the depths of village wells,
denser than the lumber of sawmills,
wider than the belly of the Niger,
this woman loves you.
There shall be many happier returns,
but we shall not downplay this momentous day.
Happy birthday, my King.