The bleating of the goats;
A call to gather fodder;
The crowing of the cock;
Grandma is coming back.
The silver roadside stream;
For us and clayee pots;
At nights a moonlight tales;
Bestowed on a raffia knitted.
When the night owl hooted
Our liberty is eluded
For fear of witches’ snare;
Which wrought but an awful mare.
The sermon of the gong;
Lures men to the village square;
Behold something is wrong;
Tis what the Crier said.
Our headmaster in conformity;
That got me shrank and lost:
With my duster, chalks and board.
No books but boards to write.
The effigy of an ancient chief;
Sitted on a graven tomb.
Under the blooming bamboo;
Where ghosts in mindset haunts;
The joy that palmtrees brought;
On farmland we shall meet;
Farewell to summer days;
Which ink can ne’er entail.
Najib Abubakar Yusuf