“You really are so predictable”, she said,
One hazy African harmattan day
Remiss for words, all I could do was peer,
Through horn rimmed glasses; hand me downs they were
From father, who had it from his father, my grandfather.
A legacy of Lugard’s Nigeria.
You see I’m from another time,
An age when email was not the norm,
When people talked at the village square.
And drank and sang, and danced till their feet were sore.
And fathers, spoke with sons, as did their very own fathers..
A legacy of years gone by
Spontaneity, pray tell me what that is,
Is it a hundred tweets saying “I love you”,
Or two hundred facebook pokes a day,
Or is it more like thoughtful gifts, special times
Spent dancing in the sun?