Niyi Osundare
. . . We row life’s boat
With the paddle of your words*
He was born
With a paddle in one hand
And a pen in the other
With both he ploughed life’s river
Arriving with boatloads of songs
And unforgettable stories
His voice was fresh
His vision frequently precocious
Pepper famous for a spice and sting
Which rattled the slumbrous tongue
He lived sometimes dangerously in
The grey zone between hard truth and seductive fiction
Rounded, original
He traced the native tree to its root
Berated the slavish folly
Of prodigals who throw out our household gods
To appease the arrogance of foreign faiths
He dug deep into the Delta soil
And its magic rewarded his muse.
His lines frothed like fresh-tapped palmwine
His words leapt like mudskippers across the page
Where is he gone; where is he
Tell me now
Before the boatman arrives
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