Rhythms of the Returnee

Winter sunshine
Beckons from the east side of my attic abode
From where I look down the virgin veld of my homeland

With nostalgic admiration
.
My mental gaze echoes the debris of bushfires
Mercilessly ambushing grasshoppers
That would soon fill the watery mouths of my kinsmen

Their bellies; ever unfurl
.
Meat from the hunters’ knives are eaten with relish

Bones appease dogs
Whose masters yell
With derision
.
At the backyards of thatched houses
Girls unclothed
Limping like lizards, playfully
Their innocence tinged with hopelessness
.
I see the chief priest
Flee to unknown lands
The custodian of our heritage
Scorns his own moral amulets
.
The wave of superficial conquest from the West
Has reached my homeland
And all with youtful semblance
Vanish with the winds
.
Soon, empty seashells mound the shores
And dry hands
Collect cowries
Worn no more
.
The clan is but a solitude
Our ancestral virtues gone amiss
And the basket of our folklore wretched
Our heroic vestiges soon forgotten
.
Rhythms of loneliness
Are the beats of mama’s xylophone
A plea for restoration
Is the song on her lip
.
Will I join the chorus?
My voice finds the wind
And a note of harmony
Fills emptiness
.
Restoration is born anew
And girls in graceful adornments join the ensembles

We the returnee kinsmen
Are mending with vow; the torn rafters of mama's roofs!

.
Adama Bukari
13:50pm
13/11/2015
Somewhere in Europe