- Post 14 October 2011
- Last Updated on 14 October 2011
- By Patrick Nwadike
Look at this yam; you think you can insult me
I flew you to high heavens, across the Atlantic
Dodging waves and paddling canoes over Scandinavian fireballs
That balls that chased smokes out of hilltops
That frightened out sky invaders to alight their madness.
And so we cruised, exchanging pleasantries under the table
Just to secure your life and give you a pot line
Those with gloves spotted you at port of disembarkation
They said that comparable to their yam, you’re huge
But comparable to them, I’m not small
For every yam is as large as its owner.
We passed the gate, my weight assisting to ferry you
Now how dare you insult me when we arrived home?
After I’ve taken all the sweat
After I exchanged you with dough
After I paid gratuities on your head at embarkation point
All I can get from you is some rotten treatment.
Now, you’ll see what I’ll do to you
You see that pot over there?
You see that sharpened knife?
Are you aware that water rests in the pot?
Do you know you’ll go through a boiling cauldron?
Now, I must serrate you
Let’s start with peeling you
Scrubbing out those brownish thorns
Such that we’d peep into your holy self
After which we’d cut you
And place you on that pot
The tomato stew is awaiting a fine mix
Only them would you know where you ended.
Patrick Nwadike is a member, Writers Cave, Tokyo.