So they tell you we lick our fingers when bored
sit and watch the sky to pass time.
That our pots are really filled and full,
so we rub our belly for want of space
That our children would rather wait in birthday suits
for rain than dress up for school ?
So they tell you of our fascination for wax and wickers night and day,
That our houses are without circuits as well pipes,
Our wells, a green croakful fountain, fuels better our liquid drive?
You must have heard then we hate white work;
out of tradition or lack of thought, maybe both,
Our backs to sun and rain prefer
to make soft earth for your feel.
Were you told we must not become too broad-shouldered for ancestral gowns,
we must not drink palm wine in wine glasses
That roots are a stem’s stem and we’ve bored you long?
Still, we leave your ears to your heart, Sir
So much stories to bother one’s self with.
Written by: Odey Patrick
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson