On a young morning that began a new
page,
Came bangs and throbs with a violent
rage,
Piercing the silence of the innocent
day,
Like bold words dropping from a dying
sage,
On the laps of culture the goddess
stood,
As time stood still, the air blew
cool,
Deep in her arms her secret
tool,
An African oracle - wooden
carved,
On which she concocts her charming spell.
An African woman - a thorough
breed,
Natasha her name - of noble
deeds,
Her garments, her colours - of nature’s
delight,
Her crystalline beads, the colour of
life,
With a smile as bright as the brightest
light,
Her joy radiates beyond embers of
plight,
She played and swerve like a spineless beast,
As sweat dribbled her skin on every
beat,
The echoes of sound from a panting
drum,
A piece of art speaking - in different tongues.
The rhythm gossips of hidden
secrets,
Exposing the scars and bruises
concealed,
And also the glory of nature’s
gift,
A camouflage of pain - a
fairytale,
The rhythm of hopes that scares off
doom,
A silhouette that breaks the morning
gloom,
Erasing our pains - laced with
shame,
For a moment we sailed through the
storm,
Breaking the vicissitudes at every
steer,
A memory to preserve on the conscience of time.
Natasha H Akpoti
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