O Saint Domeabra… that Friday dawn
that dawn when you died at AbrepƆ,
your kinsmen dragged your body –
through the long woody quiet path
that goes to your primal village.
One could barely hear the singing birds.
It was so quiet – a whisper could explode.
No maid had been out to the wells
and the boys who run helter skelter at noon
were still on their bamboo mats,
dreaming snail-hunt and rattraps.
Domeabra, that day of your death,
your people cried – but not unto your soul.
For they delight in bodies more than life.
Yet, no sooner had they worn red and black
than their pestles and mortar put aside.
At the graveyard, I eavesdropped,
they were telling a thousand tales about your life:
the lemons, the salt, the god and the demons in you.
Yehowah! each person knows what or who killed you,
all too compelling – but none trustworthy.
If I should say: you were without fault,
I will be defying Romans and Corinthians.
None of your accusers is righteous though
– amongst them are many two-leftfooters
who can guess the skeletons in their cupboards?
Domeabra, when you were buried,
that day, that very day, I bathed with palmwine
And ripped my heart into shreds of reed
(I ripped it bleeding with hands of gorilla)
But, sorry, I couldn’t have joined you in the grave.
Domeabra, look, when you die again,
let them bury you where you would die
because no piece of land repels a corpse.
Humans may fail or pretend therefore
but earth is a kind keeper of us all.
The Burial of Saint Domeabra - Darko Antwi
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