Watery Rhymes of the Ancient Yoruba Mariners
by Prosper IfeanyiDarfur, Western Sudan, Africa
I
Because a man loved a man, they fled
The city gates with an oar and a boat through Lake Chad,
It was difficult to reach the coast, but they had
Each other: a mọ ara wa nigba ti a ba ri ara wa.
And they had rain. And they had time.
And then the rain will begin again, and at the edge
Of their lives will sprout a sail—ọkọ oju omi.
The drizzle will tighten their sight and they will lose
Focus and change course—
The Arabian wicker of yesteryear will light
Up their hearts, and they will join a band of pilgrims
Worshipping the sea. Their heads bathed in ocher dust
Until they settle for a bronze door at sea.
Omi wà níbikínì; níbáyì níbi tí ó bá ti gbà bẹ́ lọ.
Water is everywhere but their mouths as they dry-fast
Their way through the storm. They are heaped
With hundreds of courtesans in a barrel
For this is how empty they would appear at the blue port
Of Spain frothing and foaming with ships and yachts.
II
In a cross-hatched shade of memory’s greenery,
Nibẹ ni o le ri wọn, won ko orin, won jo, won gba dura.
The suave of an ambiguously designed ark made to neatly
Tread upon the bend of sea. The nematodes
And algae rests on everything now. The seafarers would
Enjoy the crescent sands and charming photographs
Of clouds made to wear the skies like heavenly galleons.
In this history of time, I wonder if my forefather was just
A mere cook on the white man’s ship, or if he worked
Somewhere in the Castilles as the legends say he did.
III
We heard the tear-furrowed song accompanying the gaslit
Bridges of the Thames, Black children rolled out
Singing: London Bridge is falling down, my fair Lady,
But no one catches the eye of sea as it coppers into a foe.
They sing something else, something of home:
Ìwé kíkọ láì sí ọ'kọ' àti adá kò ìpé ó kò ì pé ò ìṣẹ' àgbè
Ní ṣẹ ilẹ'wá enì kò ṣíṣe a máa jalè ìwé kíkọ láì sí ọ'kọ'
Àti adá kò ì pé ó kò ìpé ò—
A captain made to man a ship with his rum-eaten psyche
Or the nimble hands of the sea guiding those good-hearted
Refugees to Lampedusa or Agadez; it’s nightfall, there is
A presumptuous image the Middle Ages have yet to uncover.
