In an alternate warped life, I must have been a farmer’s son,
who nodded and hummed in tune to the rhythm of bird music.
A gifted playlist from nature to salve my boredom,
no money greased Dj palms to repeat my favourite songs.
So under a palm tree I lay swooning,
a lazy past time in windy harmattan,
then I whipped up that palm wine with orinch(oranges) cocktails,
a ‘munku’ fruity punch concocted in a time before bartenders uplifted souls with that extra liquor drop.
my avian artists lure me to dreamland with lullabies,
then feast on my rice and corn fields like insecure actors on weak drama.
As I drowse of,
gifted with the curse of sleep.
They munch and harvest months of labours with their innocent beaks into the welcoming pit of their stomach quenching their gnawing hunger.
Me, in Rated M dreamland go;
strokes, strokes, strokes.
In a siesta wet dream of Sata,
the shapely village belle with the sexy tumba(behind),
soft lips, dusky sunset eyes and coconut sized bosom.
A week or two back with a wry smile and the ghost of a laugh dancing on her fulani fine features,
she granted me a peep or two,
down by the village stream as she bathe.
Memory saved and aids the megapixels of my noon imagination.
Then comes the pain..
A falling tree branch
ends my vision hub; no pun intended.
The birds, they’ve stopped singing when the cello-like twang of
my catapult ends their cereal buffet.
‘R must continue
me dream, I must continue my dream’
Then I slid back in to the
DM of my slumber like
‘where were we?’