Coastal breezes fondle the individual
filaments of hair on my skin,
causing them to sway back and forth
and this feeling leaves me with a grin.
Sights of very old infants clasping
on day old branches just to harvest fruits
and sounds of the Atumpan echoes
rhythms that remind me of my roots.
These celibate eyes enjoy devouring the images
of beads cuffed around the waists of females,
and my discerning ears love to scoop
the intricate plots of Ananse tales.
So when I embrace my demise,
lay me here.
My soul will still love to sponsor
the parching breeze of the Harmattan,
whilst my dusty feet will unceasingly look forward
to play and run with children who are fast like Ramadan.
So this throat vies to be the channel
for water fetched from earthenware pots,
so do I want to synchronize the deafening clichés
hooted by hawkers so their petty items can be bought.
Oh! I don’t want to long
for my Daughters and Sons,
for without them, my death
will witness no yearly ritual dance.
So when the bucket arrives for me to kick,
lay me here.
Inter me in the earth
next to my ancestors,
so my putrefying flesh
sticks to their bones like a poster.
I want to be a shelter
to their bones
because the overwhelming strength
of the weather defeated their tombstones.
You should remember me
when you pass by each passing day,
for with your memory,
I know I will forever stay.
So when I expire,
please lay me here.
Lay Me Here - Mutombo
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