Blolo
Beseech them that deride my sacred shadow,
“Didn’t your mothers utter my fables?
That I do not inhabit in the hallow,
Gifts dedicated not to my tables.
Didn’t they teach your infant hands my ways?
Oil to my shrine and yams to my barn,
Pouring libations that please my trays,
I, the matchmaker of the past and man.
I Blolo, the watcher of the homestead,
The carved totem obeys my transient call,
Betrothing on them mortal partners to wed,
In transit, to-and-fro the window wall
If tired of the toil of poignant luck,
The hop of the molten ivory bare,
Me Blolo, in a flash to lighten the buck,
On your head, running amok like a hare.
Seek not the salt water of the cassocks,
The tasbih of the marabouts are vain,
Swelling your phobia to flair like blown rocks
Slur sermons that label me the villain.
Remember my deed in the time of yore,
My nuptial bliss flowing as the N’zi river,
When the cross was far from my seashore,
And the turbans droop in the Sahara.
Remember when you laid on a raffia mat,
When kids whistling at night tasted my wrath,
Remember when I hugged you with a light pat,
Calming your life troubles with my warmth.”
About The Author
Paul Chiwude Iwunwa writes from Lagos, Nigeria. He’s a poet, actor, philanthropist and social justice advocate. A marketing and communications specialist during the day, Paul burns the midnight oil to enrich the poetic landscape with his words and rhymes at night. His works have been published on several Nigerian and international platforms. His published chapbook “The Miners” explores Nigeria’s socio-political dynamics. Paul can be found on Twitter @pauliwunwa and Instagram at @paul_iwunwa.