Poem: Until The Next Harvest

When the harvest is over,

we hover around the baobab tree

until the gourds of pito arrive.

We sit and pick and fill our calabashes

and we drink deep in honour of the gods,

deep in honour  of the ancestors,

deep in honour of our families

and deep in honour of our unborn children.

After drinking this deep,

we are deeply drunk

so our mouths begin to blabber

any and everything.

We talk about who had the largest harvest

and who didn’t.

We talk about who will marry again

and who wouldn’t.

We settle disputes

and make future plans.

When Fulera passes by

with her huge buttocks dancing behind,

Alidu, the foolish one,

will run and have his tap,

Fulera will turn and have her slap

And we all burst out into a laugh

raise our calabashes into the air

Stamp our feet onto the earth

until the  dust rises

and chokes our nostrils

and we sneeze.

When the gourds become empty,

we send for more pito

and when Adama has drunk deep enough

he offers to slaughter a goat.

We give him  the cheers

Adama O! Adama!

and he offers to slaughter two.

We give him more cheers

And he offers to slaughter three.

So the fire is lit,

the goats are slaughtered and roasted.

Aminu goes for his xylophone

Sanda brings his drums

Laru takes out his flute

and the gourds are refilled

and we  chew

and drink

and dance

and laugh

until the tears gleam in our eyes.

The sun is reluctant to settle.

The moon is eager to rise

and when it does

our wives come

bearing touzafi and pounded yam

with ayoyo and dawadawa soup.

After eating our fill,

we belch

stretch our legs

 pick our teeth

And the wind breezes over our bodies

as we run our palms across  our bellies.

The women gather in groups

The children scatter in troops

Together we sit

and watch the stars

dance in the sky

as we  count our dreams

and listen to  the nightingales sing

into the depths of our very souls.

We listen to the old woman’s tales

until sleep steals upon us.

Family by family

we drag ourselves to our huts.

Tomorrow we return

to tilling the hard soil

until the next harvest.