Many moons ago, the people saw
Beneath the lids of closed eyes
A swift and strong quartet, running to the finish line
Voluble hailers for the medal podium
fill the stands shouting, cheering, and spraying confetti drowning the voices of those wailing
about the anchor.
A frail, aged champion from another age
the race is for the decider
For the fortuitous son of fate
The anchorman with the baton
hailed for the feat of the past was cheered from the stands
His pace was measured with experience; other athletes rushed, straining to handover the baton, but our anchor held unto the past
We will find our way from round-tripping in the rubbles of history
His victory will lead us from the search for the entrails in the dust bin of hunger
and herald the birth of a dawn
In which we eat orishirishi from gold plated bowls
Washed down with fresh wine
From a well-nourished raffia
Dripping with yeast for a rising in immunity for the famished and the sickly
Like a voyager from the offside of a haunting nightmare
We watched as time came like the real decider
And found the team running well in the wrong direction
Far removed from established protocols
Far removed from the moon and dreams of gold
We have gathered soothsayers and seers
to teach us how to win a race running well in a wrong direction.
©TheVillageBoy