Image Source: Pexels- Pepe Caspers
At the evening, sitting under this veranda,
When the sun from the east, beyond the lands,
Of the native women, beyond Mount Putu,
Diverges, and the sky turned from glinting gold to twilight…
When the fowls were coming home to roost,
Knowing that the day was over,
And the crickets began their merry shrillings…
When native farmers were packing their tools,
And utensils into bales, knowing that it was time to head,
Back to their respective villages, after a long day of hard work…
When the tinkling voices of the village children,
Echoed into every hut with excitement,
That was unappealing to grownups,
Because they were long passed their childhoods…
When young men had bathed thoroughly,
And attired themselves in their best homespun;
Ready to go whistle at their lovers,
And lure them behind banana orchards,
Or the nearby isolated footpaths…
When it would not be too long,
Before the elders gather at the palava-hut,
To settle palavers, some relevant,
And some, trivial…
When it would not be very long,
Before you hear the players and the Sande girls,
From the village square,
Rehearsing their latest songs and dances,
To be displayed at the pending harvest festival…
When it would be a reasonable while yet,
Before the children sprawl themselves round the night-fire,
As grandfathers narrated folktales,
Of great chiefs and valiant warriors…
Ah, I marveled at how evenings in the countryside,
Follow a bewildering, but yet fascinating pattern that seem,
Like a rite of supplication to a revered deity,
Upon which rested the very existence of the country people!
This was written by our contributing writer, Emmanuel Gleekia.
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