By Atok Dan
Under a balamite tree, I’m a designer at work
I do peruse over my design
A makeshift of my blueprint
I curve it out of modernity
When I twig
I realized I’m a chip off the old block
I represent my African ancestors
They molded me into who am I
Even my design still traces its concept to them
Under a balamite tree, my psyche battles over alternatives
my eyes believe in appearance of work,
yet couldn’t delve into components
I built its concept on seeing,
people who reside around me called it beauty of my mental
absurdity
truly I’m a poor designer though I still design
it is my chip of stick and I at work,
the ground is a place board for storage
It keeps my work that I could not retrieve after it rains
I do design my sleeping byre with cows,
It is smoked with dried cow dung,
Insects find it no more a place
My nose and eyes rain with sweat like a baker
hoping for profit in the bakery
Mine is none of a profit,
It is habitual, we keep cows
My toes and nails bear the print of hooves
Cows do step on bare toes,
My nails do complain but I heed much on cows’ complains
Even goats and sheep are less weighty on my toes
I was a herd boy
They are more of a life but life itself,
Their milk used to straighten wrinkles on my emaciated buttocks
Hides make the best of my royal form mattress
Needless do I buy a matchbox
Dung do store fire
With my stomach faced on of lit kiln of cow dung,
Blankets don’t come my way in a cold
Even a litter of calf urine washes my hands for milking
In winter, I cover it with ashes
In a pool, I do water with my cows
We were inseparable
I was in a cattle camp in South Sudan
No comments:
Post a Comment