Of the kingdoms of the Sine
and Saloum,
May God lengthen your life.
To Serer’s
Ancient saints, ancestral spirits
And all the tribes of Senegal
Brotherly greeting.
I am a
Wandering Piper
Standing on the knoll of your knee
To sing you songs…
Pleasant Woman
The
Sizzling aroma
Of pounded coos, of gourmet thiéboudienne
Slender vines
Of healing fragrance;
Groves of pines intermixed with tangerines
Waves
Submitting kisses to the Cap-vert
of Dakar,
Submitting kisses to the cliffs of Toubab Dialao
Showy
Flowers of the River Sine;
Dyilor’s fermented milk, gaping the mouth of Sahel
Gaping the mouth of El Hadji Diouf…
Lyrical Woman
Youssou N’Dior
Strumming kora at Khoye,
Akon striking
balafon at Raan festival
Earth
Trembling under the giant feet
Of Yakhya Diop
Eagles soaring
Beneath the plumes of clapping
desert wind
Winged shadows
Plucking prosody from the nerves
Of farthest whirlwind…
Stark Beauty, Dazzling Beauty
Teeth
Shimmering in the sunlight,
Bamboozling the buffaloes
At the foot of Les Mammelles
Sidereal stars
Reflecting our villages in the mirror
of your swaying hair
Scandinavian
Rainbows faint at the first sight
Of your pliant skin
In the night
Of your presence,
Darkness transforms into lights, Gathering clouds transfigure to lightning.
Fairy-tale Woman
Ancient
Griot of the Kingdoms Of the Sine
and Saloum
Giver
of ripe voice
To generations
Diome,
Mahecor Joof,
Isatou Nije-Saidy,
Leopold Sedar Senghor…
All sucked
From the penury of your
pitch-black breasts –
Pitch-black
breasts underneath
The oxter of the sea-air
of Dyilor.
Under the parasol
of your wooded arms
They became talking drums
And the
Lamplight of your eyes
Watched over them.
Your lashes
That stitch the fragmented
Heart of a cloud
Are the
Ancestral Totems of Serer’s
families.
In the
Circumference of your ank-let,
Opposite Fandène
There
Earthquakes struggle
To hug the zephyr promenading
On your fleshy leg.
On
The couch
Of your screaming silence
There strange skies sit
And perch their gaze at
The treasures of Mali, Guinea, Gambia…
O Black Mother of countless Heroes
When
Tomorrow arrives
I shall build my huts
By the bank of your breath;
But this moonlight,
Let me recline on the mat
of your smile
And
Listen to your
home-spun tales… Mother!
*For Diao Ba’s mother, a Senegalese born American Poet. A Friend
Written by: Madu Chisom Kingdavid
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
