Nineteen Moons And Eight Days Poem by Ceejon Ezinwoke

It's been nineteen moons and eight hard days
Since the prodigal son left his father's base
No more corns for the urban stray pigeons
Not even a broken grain as his own feeding

Sitting here by this urban road-side,
Watching as people cruised their ride
And yet, none was half as luxurious
As those littering his father's big house

Once he was, like a bungalow's roof in harmattan,
Full of dusts an rustling dead leaves
Jolly friends and friends of friends
The rain has come, he has become washed off them all

The beautiful girls he bought cars for
Now carry other boys in their cars
The Night club that crowned him 'high VIP'
Can't even employ him as a 'low cleaner'

Yesterday, we saw him washing dishes,
And pounding fu-fu at a dowdy restaurant
Lanky and haggard and shouted hard at,
Sweating, dying with hearth breaking in pieces

His father's dogs feed thrice daily
And his servants eat their choice meal daily
Here his madam starve him daily
And shout tall orders at him daily

Pound, fool! Pound that fu-fu harder!
The prodigal son wept and grew even sadder
One night he pounded and thought of his father,
'Tomorrow', he said, 'I shall go back to my father.'