The Miller At The Mill Poem by Ndimancho T Nyowikeh

I was the miller at my father's mill.
At dawn, pill of grain at the mill store;
In drowsiness, will these folks, wake me.
As I sluggishly negotiate our steps,
To open the mill house,
To the engine, to kick start.

Upon getting the sound of the engine,
There comes more village folks, with plenty grain.
To their joy, comes my anguish.
For I will leave the mill house dusty;
With powder, cramped from head to toe.
My father's mill,
The grinding stone of _kifiang_.

Little did he make as gain,
But won't let go of the process.
For it was a gratis to the village folks.
Who took this gesture for granted.
Many will grind on credit,
And never bother to clear their debts.
At dusk, a granny from the farm.
Exhaustion visible, with my empathy.
Would neglect my stylish outfit,
Just to have her grain done
Never was my wish to starve my people.

I was the miller at my father's mill.
I was the novice in the days of _Papa De_.
I was dwindled to a machinist
I was the physician to the sick mill.
I could discern size eight from ten.
I'm the miller who yearns to return home.

Ndimancho T. Nyowikeh
Done: 25th May 2024
At: Mais Bar-Yaounde