Echoes Of Okuku Drum Poem by Ifeoluwa Philips

Let us be dancers, true to ourselves,
Our sons, the singers of our songs,
With the Okuku drum's fierce beat,
Our bairns' ankles stir to its vibrant call.

Where are our damsel daughters,
Translators of Okuku's sacred sound?
The thin air hums with sarcasm,
The drum's voice fades in a drastic hush.

Obenbe, the priest, slumbers deep,
The house teeters, ready to collapse.
Sorrow-bearers stand in silent grief,
Bows of tears clutched in trembling hands.

Our tone echoes, shared and solemn,
Our pain binds us, heavy and known.
Tears outweigh our wildest dreams,
Sorrow-bearers stalled in stagnant streams.

The Okuku drummers are deaf to the call,
Their sole interpreter has vanished, withdrawn.
Yet the day nears its clarifying dawn,
When blind dancers' eyes will see the morn.

No sacrifice graces Okuku's shrine,
The drum, a sacred pulse, demands divine.
Flat soles falter, failing the sound,
Boots sink, kissing the barren ground.

Okuku, god of palm, drunk on pride,
Embalmed in ego, his spirit hides.
Who will offer the dance to wake him,
To stir the god from his slumber's hymn?