Ours was a land of many mean minds

with reasonable tales for our ears;

the hoe and rifle of father were hung close to the roof,

his dashiki painted with grimes of diligence;

When mother earth turned her hard back on him

and swift games blew him the noisiest raspberry;

he crept into mama’s bosom

and made our tender hearts thud with tales of our dear distant fathers.

While the night dishes of mama filled our bellies to bed,

the tasty tales of baba filled our minds to bed

and straightened our tender crinkled brows.

Our land is a kitchen and again a battleground

and wars are our different cuisines;

the best chef controls the best arsenal

and as we have a taste of our meal while it is on fire

we attack our own men to test our arms.

Our kitchen utensils come in different sizes and usages

the boom of the scoop and the rattling of the frying pan on fire.

Once or twice we were told to keep our hands idle

for our hearts are the best ammunitions to fight the wars on this battleground.

Sages and fools fly to and fro,

the swift arms of time swing on.

Ours is a land of no mean mind

with a reasonable tale for our ears.

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