Father’s in the backyard,
With a cutlass effecting changes in his small farm,
Shockingly aloud did he hear his heir’s cry
Like a chick in an eagle claws.

Charging in,
Like a soldier ready to eradicate mutiny,
Baba roared;
‘Don’t you know you are a man?’
Burning the kid into unloved silence.

But, the backyard houses mama too,
Performing the assiduous task
Of pounding yam for supper
When the heir’s cry strolled past her ears.

Flying in,
Slicing genres of eulogy to appease her son,
Like a dexterious Martin Luther sharing his dreams.
Àkáńjì, the spell baba forgot,
Mama chants with her labio-dentals.

Like Harry’s wand,
A wave of mama’s mouth,
Soothes the teary eyes,
Beckoning showers on the wee face,
Quelled at mama’s bank of sweet words,
Effecting a magical effect,
Like a river finding home in a desert –
The wee face becomes a home of smile,

Oh! What great joy radiates on the infant face,
Like a chick freed by mother hen’s magic,
As fast the disappearance of thunder rage.
Indeed, mama’s magic worked so fast,
As the cacophony ceases to be heard.


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