The gods are angry
By Abraham Nwankwo
That night a heavy rainstorm descended
On the village already in ominous mood.
The ‘jinkara’ tree that marked the abode
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Of the soul of the village at the shrine,
To the wind yielded and down the middle tore.
The panned roof of the mud-walled village hall,
At the market square was blown off.
Next day anxiety filled the village;
Some felt the gods were angry
That tradition was being questioned.
An upstart has challenged the king.
Intoxicated by his new-found wealth,
He campaigned to have the crown;
To depose the hereditary king;
To stand the tradition on its head.
So that the yam tuber could mature
From the tail, and no more from its head.
“Is any one born with the crown on his head?” he asked.
But the crown is not a game to contest.
And so the gods boiled aloud.
