By Dave Chukwuji
I did not see the sun
rise at the break of June
I saw a man
and in his hands a pot
I saw him
walk down the street
carrying in his hands
the smoking bone-filled pot
of our pains
of our sins
and of our hope
From the North
to the South
and the East
then the West
he swept our streets
of pestilence and our guilt
and sins
Then I saw him
head for the river carrying the pot
he waded in, ankle deep, calf deep
knee deep
and the chest deep
I saw him in the river
a warrior conquering the river
like a lover the river hugged him
reaching out her watery hands
she takes the pot
with our guilt and our sins
leaving us hope
I saw him leave the river
and make the sign
of the cross
of the star and crescent
embracing all and smiling to us
He walked on towards the sun
While our elders sat down to watch
And their lips carried to our ears
Kashimawo
and I, the un-awakened did not see the sun rise
I saw a man, Kashimawo…
Chukwuji is the author of City of Gold and Rust
