The still river in my village is a meanigerie of Truth.
At night, It draws its likeness of the heavens and its white dots,
spawning images that touches nature beneath the clouds,
embellishing and beguiling its green with shades of black,
but seize to observe the reflection and focus on the tree itself.
Notice how forlonliness blows it from side to side.
Now watch the branches in the water again to discover, eyes gleaming with fanged smiles of unrested apparitions and conclude.
Alone, is a fictitious perception.
The river in my hometown is the epitome of beauty.
Even if You distort the image with a stone that gently trashes the surface,
creating myriad of ripples for the crescent moon to glister upon.
The stone simply falls beneath, dissolving to pearls when warm breeze plucks petals of orchids and violets, colouring its flow with red and blue until you understand that
Nature’s beauty holds no beholder
I disrobe myself and plummet its depth, hastening to sounds of cathedrals chimes for masses.
Senselessy staining the stream of sanctification with soaps on sponges while scoffing at spiritual elders
Cleansing men by drowning demons and raising righteousness,
baptizing the wombless to Labour,
rinsing retarded offsprings to suckle properly on thy mother’s breast.
I see purification and life soon as twigs incline thereself to nourishment by absorbing ancestral rain.
I feel foolish for soiling their potent beliefs with chemicals because that same twig later sprouted leaves.
Maybe there is trueness in paganism.
Before sitting on roots of an Iroko strenuously stretching to the river, Watching as the humid air evaporate water to dew,
concealing it’s generosity in mist and chilling smokes before spilling a drop only when it has drank to fill.
Thoughts canoeing me to understand life under the paddles,
A world where children dive in the same time crocodiles dive and tranquilly go home whole,
How clumsy bees drop drops of honey which turns to golden waist beads for women to sway their lovers with,
Where waterlilies strong enough to hold the huts of their existentialism while calabashes are sunked in the habitats of the river goddesses, just to drink her essence.
The dry season comes,
Linen stomachs of neighouring villages with hunger,
Animals turn carcasses,
River’s become rivers of sands
Tree’s meant to shade sunlight only cast shadows of branches with vultures on it.
But the still river in my village remains unchanged,
I mean, how come??!!
Like Mother nature has a sweet spot for this particular liquid,
Like this is the path where celestial waterfalls confluence with that of men.
succumb to my fore fathers call,
swimming against the tides in search of purpose,
the river melting the City life coursing through my veins, washing my intentions true,
Un-feeling fear while floating me to faith
Pushing me from the in-betweeness of not knowing you.
Today, People gaze at the Still river
Seeing what seems to be their futures,
I gaze at our still river and see Me.
Finally becoming at peace with its flow.