Ayanwale, Ajayi and Exchequers

His drums
Were for the devil was Ayanwale’s drums
He’d beat lightly
And we’ll feel tempted
To leave our work undone
Shaking our heads and gazing
Glassy eyed at our hoes
And cutlasses.
We’d reminisce about
The evenings spent in gaiety
And opiate sedateness.
And Ayanwale would laugh
Sure of his triumph and proud of
His prodigious link with
The drummy fingers of our ancestors.
And at other times,
(Parties and evening revels)
He’d play an happy tune
Fast and catchy – rhythmic at its core
And our croaky voices would not
Resist drowning his beautiful one.
Our eyes would rove
Fornicating mentally with the
Gyrating hips of buxom wives
And the supple buttocks of
Unsullied damsels.

O son!
We had funerals too
And rituals too
Serious events filled with melancholic
Thoughts and philosophy but
Ayanwale’s fingers never disappointed
It’d take us back to our own minds
Think and think
Even his drums could talk us
Into dreaming.
Such was our link with Ayanwale and
His ilk.
Such was our way
Our own civilization.

Come now though, my son
Forget Ayanwale and his
Ancient lot. You shall
Go to England and say hello
To its Queen. You will respect her
And beg her pardon to allow her
Subjects – choice of them
To teach you the Trumpets
Its wizardry and artistry.
And then, you’ll come back
Give us respite and play
For our dour feet.
Go to England my son
With Ayanwale’s drums as a gift.
Bring back the Trumpets and
Her Bibles too


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