The Call (Poetry)

The old prophet came to me.

With the sisal leaves on his mouth,

His eyes chalked in circles,

His bared-chest dotted in chalk white

His gait, exuding his spirit-like demeanour,

The little prophetboy marched along him

with the hot-brittle pot in his hands, exuding with ominous smoke.

The birds in the sky chirruped and chattered in languages akin to them.

The breeze blew ominously. From the way it blew, it spoke millions.

The sun which was about going for its rest, couldn't help but wait an anon.

The old prophet known to be seen rarely,

Was now seen gaiting towards my grim abode,

I knew he would come, after the monarch had left for the hereafter.

I knew he would come for the ritual rites. Now it's my turn.

The blood of a Billy-goat was sprinkled over my head,

after they had passed it round my head seven times.

The blood ran down my temples through my head like rivulets from an iced

beer.

And I stood up, after the Ofor was presented into my feeble-shakyhand,

from where I was festooned to lead my people.

©AMAEFULE, UCHECHUKWU ERNEST