Must I go hungry when “Otor” garnished with “nkosua”
Sits idle in the shrine of “Yaanom”
Must I be slaughtered by the unspoken judgment of the “Abosom”
Or must my destiny be foretold by the outcome of cowries
cast on the skin of my sacrificial goat

They were made from my crafty hands
They rule as if they made themselves
I want to meet them at dawns of purifications
So I will tell them that i suffer silently

I somehow agree with “Akwasi broni’s” religious book
Somewhere in the pages I learnt that I can amputate one
arm when it troubles me
But I disagree with “turn your other face for it to be slapped again”

Oh, my brother calls himself the mouth and eye of “Yaanom”
For he knows proverbs and can dance “Akorm”
I rest my tongue for the next moon to rise.


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