Poem: The long hands of brother Jero

WHILST there was an abundant flow of water in the forest, And farmers had bumper harvest all day long, And the sun could shine to dry my beans So that goldsmiths polished their metals with precious breath, Jero’s long hands still haunted to tear my timeworn clothes into pieces.

WHILST my empty basket could not carry any loads of oranges to sell, And my only pawpaw tree failed to bear fruit so my hungry laborers could have a slice of it, At the time when hunger actually meant the absence of food and water, During the days of the combatant principal whose iron hands broke the neck of my camel, Jero’s long hands still haunted the hunters who hunted for horny.

At the time when foraging was the recompense of a proud predator And the time when courts of kings were holy lands of evenhandedness Where women could seek the face of favor, And at least say what they know, to the grey wisdom of Sanhedrin, Where twenty-three benches could give a word, Jero’s long hands haunted my gatherers who startled for food.

When the children of the kenkey seller rushed to grab a chalk, So that their own brothers could teach them lessons at home, The long long hands of bro Jero snatched it, When the soldiers wanted to pull the trigger to kill the termites, The long hands of bro Jero pulled the gun and the wood ants fed on my plants.

The smoke in the kitchen is too hot The scorch sun makes my body melt The rains do not fall in June any more My gari is always soaked with gravels by the long hands of brother Jero not his metamorphosis.