Mounds were ready for yam.
A child made Ukpo from spined leaves.
A titled elder arrived.
The farmer greeted with title.
The child greeted with a name:
'How are you? '
Anger rose to strike.
The elder stopped it.
'Do you know who the child is? '
Silence.
'Nnaa adim nmaa.'
The elder left.
The farmer thought.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem