Tade Ipadeola
(From “Sahara Testamentsâ€)
Senegal
The fishwife in her wooden market stall
Tucks in a franc into her black brassiere,
Smiles as she hands over the fish. She is tall
Her teeth glisten whiter than the sassier
Neighbour’s, whiter than any woman’s, so white
I wondered if God knew she’d make it
Into a magnet for custom and light.
I did not ask her name, I wouldn’t pit
My halting French against her effortless river
Of Bambara and market French. I forget
What the fish tasted like, not the fever
Of curiosity, flaring as it did from a nugget
Of ivory that blinded my wandering eyes.
That woman was Senegal. Senghor’s woman
Immortal in her blackness, market wise
Bringing back tides of the musings of a man
On a land made for poetry, the perfect
Turn of every phrase. In all of these
The desert was ever present, its idiolect
Suffusing the streets with a certain ease
Found in the Sahel, elegant, understated
Borderland dexterity, animist bon vivant
Measured out in bright speech that elated
With the germinal wisdom of the sun.
Wow. This is fluid. Your choice of words are legendary. Great write!
From the day I met you, it has alway being education for me, you always amaze me with you writing. I will always ask for more…
Great sounds and music …
After the festival in Eko,
The conjugal meet,
Mate
And Meat,
The Naija-Italiano
Feast.
I wanted more,
More from the literary-pot,
More
From the seasoned broth.
Now I’ve got it,
Minced meat,
So I chew on bit-by-bit.
I love also
the way these hides of words u knit,
The bait I joyfully swallow
Drowning beneath
Ur sea of metaphors,
Urs are stream of balms for the cure of all sores.