Seated he under the pavilion
Grey bare chested with a mood
As that of a chameleon
An air of pride surrounds him
That provokes anger
Breasts cupped in two hands
The women run around as if pursued
By wild bees
Infants with piteous faces and
Pot-like stomachs dashing after their mothers
Sons and daughters are like stars in the sky
Yet a myriad others patiently await their exit
From the seminiferous tubules
A season is dead
Another is born – we must rest now
All had toiled but the father takes the glory
He is a hero
Who stuffs his barns with several bags of grains
I dare not glory in this milestone
But my sweat is part
Great grandpa never paid school fees
He never bought books either
And so did grandpa
A bench mark that chokes ambition
History has crippled me
I stand before him hence sheepishly wordless
My request has suffered cold showers
Prior to its advent
A certain response that annoyingly propels ingenuity
There I stand open mouthed
Gazing into space as if in a trance
Stepmother’s cat nibbles at my feet playfully
To assure it self I’m not a statue
Innocently the sheep file past
Ecstatically the pigs compete for left overs
Unknown to them, their numbers will soon reduce
For to school I must go
