If one’s father’s field is left untilled
And one’s strength is wielded; wings flapped, blood spilled,
Just to get a stay abroad while one’s ancestor mourns
That fields and farms have grown thorns
Will they abroad not know
That one’s land cannot show
In the gathering of the cow
For its horns are like of snail’s to tow?
Will they allow one’s unfilialness
For one’s faithfulness?
Haven’t you heard of deportation?
That’s the ultimate degradation,
And it’s legal,
For exiles’ honour cannot be regal
And hundred years cannot buy him a throne
Except to Olaudah Equaino and his own,
He can trace his root, clean his foot,
And blind them not to see his boot.
It’s a reminder that strangers’ can be hurled away
To the dungeon, to forest or to bay
But have you heard that one’s deported
From one’s homestead
Honour isn’t in the legs but in the head.
Home is head and one’s head
At Home, The Head.
A field cursed by ruler’s greed
With no hoes to weed
No cutlass to clear
And hunger comes near
And rulers care not for harvest
Since they are liars undervest
They care not how the fruit will yield for many
And they buy what they need and too many
And the little that survive in the field is for exportation
And on simple traders they ban importation
And resources they bury or pack abroad to keep
And tell us to hope that we suffer and not weep
And seedlings and tools they forbid the poor
And say change will come for sure.
Do our fathers not say
Alagemo ti bi mo e na, ai moo jo ku sii lowo?
That it’s left for the chameleon’s child how to dance
On situations and spaces is the real truth.
You sure think the sage lied
That law enriches the bourgeoisie
And grinds the proletariat
Albeit it’s above all and it’s makers
Yet makers have powers to treat the law
My going is the hope for the plundered field.