TONIGHT, EVEN THE MOON HAS TRAVELLED HOME by Daniel Oluremi
30 lines
Issue 7 (Spring 2025)
For mere mortal me to
draw from my grandmother’s earthen cauldron
would mean I offer Death a hand to kiss. But
tonight, Death is not a scandalous gentleman, and her cauldron
sizzles with bush meat stewing in palm-oil vegetable soup.
Fat new yams butter in a mortar
Pounded in a melody of pestles by
past and present—
spirit then woman then spirit—
Our compound’s wooden frames flare up with lineage light as
Ancestors leave still altars to dine in the yard. My
Grandmother’s two crescents will flare too, and
she will beam
She and our tribal marks and tattoos
Ẹ yọ!
Rejoice!
she calls and we howl and
our song is passed through the sky like scalding meat, by
intangible and invisible—
spirit then wind then spirit—
The night earth rises like a fuming sea
As kin leap over sand lines in a game by
ancient and infant—
spirit then child then spirit—
We watch them and we clap and sing and dance
spirit then flute then drum then
kin then—
In the morning, we will go together and
gather cut sprouts,
and with glistening hoes and smiles,
we will plant new yams again.
