ILARI- The song of a Living Dead

Hi Friends,
How are you all doing? Monday is usually quite a busy day and I don't want to go boring you all with my very very long long posts. So, instead, I am going to reel out a poem I wrote when in school.

Happy Reading. Wait wait, before you read, it would be good if you had a little bit knowledge of the history that inspired the poem. The Ilari guy who is the persona here is deeply steeped in the Ancient Yoruba royal setting. And though, he seems to have lost his relevance in the modern world, he is indeed an inspiration we could tap from. I wish I could give you quick breakdown of who the Ilari dude is, but why not read about him here- Page 114

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ILARI

Five times, death has torn at the

Protective layers of your nine lives,

distilling the leopard's snore

from his sleep.

And

These five times,

My chest heaves to know this

My breath ceases thinking about it.

So i go, the way of the sow

Dirty, Naked

Where crickets' chirps become sonorous stanzas

And the night's woes, the Grecian chorus.

These five times, for my sake

Death has stayed his hands

swayed its lanky frame to the

beat of apology.

Because of who i am:

Ilari.

I, who am known to look away

from the deep lines on a Zebra's skin,

Now sees and chants about

the ripple in the brook at my backyard.

I, who never counts the meats

In my pot of soup, has begun to place

my ear against the wall and

recount old women's fables.

Even a parrot knows when to shun words

A towncrier can live without the sound of the gong

For me, I blab like a witch, confessing to save her last life.

But my groin, it makes no noise

bears no complaint

no longer itches for the soothing touch of Omobunmi.

I have become less of a man.

Because of who i am:

Ilari.

Yet,

Fajuyi must go.

He must tread the path that leads to the vultures rapacious den.

I must bring his head to be bequeathed to the blood thirsty craze of the godless axe.

Because of who i am:

Ilari.

Ah! Mercy, my king.

Ina tin parun

Omi atutu lara,

Mercy.

Ilari i may be

The shapeless head of a cock

I may bear

But my heart can not bear

to show the road to the scorpion's grave.

I know, i know

The snare of the butcher

has been set already.

But again, think

Think again, my lord

Because

For the Ilari you have made me,

I can only kill for you.

                       But make me your friend,

                       And I will die for you.