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.