My Village Crier

Gong! Gong! Gong!
Gripped in his senile manual-nest,
His metal pet resounded with faith.
Caressed with a gnarled Ogbu stick,
The sound burrowed through the thick
Hallowed Otoogwe forest;
So expressed was the chief’s mind.
Treading through the thin Ogboli path
Leading toward the grassy outskirt,
The sound signalled like a hovering kite.



Gong! Gong! Gong!
The busy culinary pestle stopped,
The palm-wine prospecting machete halted,
The foot-caravan of firewood listened,
Commanding a public aligned audience.
Gee nu nti! - audibly his voice.
Voice-brandishing the craved -
Ofala- the regal outburst,
He painted the community with pelted
Sound for a knowledge-burst.
Ezeokpu square bar feasted on a new topic;
The product of his metal-tonic.

Gong! Gong! Gong!
The sound faded toward the next village,
The nocturnal chirping crickets took turn,
The moody sun announced her passage.

by Onyeazor Raphael

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