Sisters of the grey night,
Assemble on the chest of the hill.
The heavens enjoy seeing your wild gowns billow along
When the winds hiss with humble pride,
And when your restless lips murmur praises
To the Most High —
In elevated voices and strength.
Remember the summons and hasten
Towards the crest of the hill.
Curse the viper’s mouth and spit upon its fangs.
You have the powers for both.

Brothers of the naked night,
Come stealthily and unshod.
Kick your sandals off at the sleeping stream
Near the hushed valley of friendliness.
Your white flowing robes shall accompany you,
Fluttering with the power of the flag of a newly
Independent state.
With faith,
Spell and pronounce the name of the owner of the earth,
Rebuke loudly the approach of the spider
Kill off all encroaching network of webs
And chide the princes of the night jungles . . .

White robes
Tongs of fire
Double fires of white wood ants
Shining candles with brave flames
Constellations of nearby firmaments
The progressions of the apostles . . . .
These very last moments of the
Mat of the seasons.

Seething raspy waves from the chest of
Uturu* hills —
Prayers and canticles so frightening!


*A town in south-eastern Nigeria