Dances of the lightnings' branches

                     Bi igbin fa, ika araun a tele

And the fig's fruit, does it

not look like a snail, to eat,

A slug to move. Move away from the pouring

rain. Strands. Move away from my body. The tiny strands of rain

like branches of lightning; a strike in an old game, old worlds.

And its’ descendants at the rear, reminds me of the day

 I was born.

Or was it the last day, must have been a judgment day that I missed.

But then I have descendants, many of which found routes at the roots of the fig

The roots finding it ways into the river nearby. And then another descent, this time of

the woman I heard yesterday. She held the snail at hand took out a spoon and ate. And then

a descend, and I was where I had come through, from that oval I had emerged, they

smiled and gave me honey at dawn- they laughed and gave

nectar at night

And they cried at the set, gave soursop, the most fine, sweet, the 

thorns of which poked me

harmed me. I ran. And then a descent, this time, a baby born in my arms. I wondered.

I tasted the sop in a dream, a lightning strike. I must have met the Sango, the exclaimed

And then another descend, this time of drums, beating, sounding, louder

And the rain poured out. The place began to cool down, I am the son of Sango

I danced during the storms, to the beats of lightning, of bata(s), of fouls

 I saw some fowls danced in the yard. The rooster beckons for the hen to come, but

it ran. The rooster so colorful, its' tails curved, perfect, ready.

And the hens

Would eye each other, wonders! But they ran the minutes it beckons.

And the strikes louder, I heard the storms. The people quickly gather outside

Lacing me with beads, cowries, teeth. 

The prices of the hunters

The couriers came out with a gong, I wore the attires prepared for me

I am home. Dressed.

Iya ilu bid me a farewell in thorns, ba’ilu greets me with an embrace

Omele ako, ati abo bid another waving. I hear nothing else, except them.

I must be home

Gangan talked the loudest, howling, spitting idioms on me,

proverbs, old worlds. I must be where mama came from. I am home.

Dressed. I feel not a pain in this shawl I was wrapped. They gave me food;

must be the yams mother talked about. Must be the palm oil mother said

she washed at shrines. Must be me taken to Sango for sacrifice.

It must be a festival and the masquerades had come

Must be the Egunguns, lores have it that the children played with them.

I must be of the Sango. King- strong as the skin used for its’ drum

Strong as the rain, the thunder and the lightning that comes every so often
dances on my back, creating waves I believed I crossed.
And more waves. My back is water. Dark waters.

Now, I danced; in fire, with grace, in branches of lightnings.

I saw the women I loved perked on the branches

I saw them, and they ogled, they cheered,

dances of lightnings’ branches. I am their warrior. The pains of these rains of my back ever so light- wife helped me home.

The wife nurtured me at dawn, three moons on this mattress

Mat, gooey skin on the mat, that glued me on; at nighttime. She gathered herbs from the figs,

wools, and laced it on the back, as if she was there when they

laced me in cowries. I must be wealthy over there

she ate a fig fruit and returned the rest to me.

I remember her to adore these scars that later seem as bumps

of water, on waters. Streaming, rippling. I remember that.

my back, the scars, healed road. My journey is set

I don’t ever see these scars, or my trails to her would

have been easier. I said, received me in pain- and she hid behind her

curtains. And her curtains so beautifully adorned, she dyed them.

I saw her went into the yard to play; I saw her made some

dyed clothes under the sun. I saw her every time she was

asked to attend the market fare.

I saw her came in, and as well, left.

She made dyed clothes and used them to colour my wounds

The wounds that need healing be of the sky that fell asunder

I slept. I dreamt of strikes, beautiful thunders in the nights.

I am of Sango; the legends love him. His moves on

his fields, his dances with his friends under the rain,

his bata drummers- strikes of flames from his mouth. I,

The warrior king, guides, I must be wealthy

with cowries, coins, and golds around gourds, orisha

The rain hurts the hardest, like my wife that peeps through every

then and now. The curtains she let me enter the last day

tomorrow, and yesterday. And I listened to her cried under the rain,

she said the fig was bitter last night.

I told her she is as red, as ripe at the tree itself. Never the fruit.

I ate what she returned to me. I saw her opened her veils

last night. I entered her room. I entered the life she walked in

I saw her in that market.

I heard the visitors, the marketers' chats

And they seemed to laugh at her. I saw them the

many snails she gathered, the flat slugs. She came home and

let the snails crawled on my back. Her touch must be medicines.

The shells, the echoes that became clearer as the days

passed, months end. I waited. The snail's juice, as gooey as the back.

The healing

She said they heal as quick; I am getting better.

I slept. I felt the coldness of the wool, icy. I must sleep

like clouds.

I took the palm seeds I was given, gave it to her.

And she puts the oil on my back. It must be the noon

I heard good afternoon, legends. The Sango that

ate the fire walked at noon, worshipped today at noon.

And she planted the palm seed right beside our house

She seemed to lift up the foundation, and drop the seed

through. Saying, it must grow, I will see.

The woman died at my return, three years after

I saw the seed had grown, right from underneath

the foundations.

However, I saw her danced in the market, I saw her sell the herbs she picked

on plantains. I saw the child that resembles her fries

dodo, and they ate from till they filled up.

She came to adore the scars that healed. You know,

those ones I had brought to her mother. She had come to

see them, rivers of flames, skins, ever more beautiful

Your rear

Her rear

Ever more graceful

I saw her gave her child the fried dodo

ever so sweet, safe.

She came to adore the scars that pained, each night.

You know, I had brought her some clothes from the market

and she had gotten some scars that healed from my mother.

Mothers. I saw them sat under the palm tree. I am

agone. 

I ran

They sat under the palm tree

My palms, my soles, souls

Uprooted

My palms

I’m home

I am the king that danced under the rain

The strands of which that pain, beat

The strikes of which that lightens,

Birds sing on branches

Woman! the thunders above, these palms leaves

I saw them on her hands, each scar, each night

The skins that break at dawn, and those that tore under rains,

Cooling. Dancing in pain, of strikes, fouls

dancing in merriments, egungun masquerades

Sango’s rivals

I danced under the rain fire. The songs that bind to this land,

I head back to my mothers’ huts. I whispered to them at

that dawn, “pains breeds, rear my palms. My skin

only break with her

The rain is teary, as well, her eyes.”

I, the king, among orisha, gourds

 that dances to his bata drums, his allies

The drums now hung in the rain forest.

“I will back?” I asked

I danced away

Written By: Aishat Gbadamosi

The images are not mine