I want to go home;
To stand where the mountains speak
Where the sun hangs quietly on the riff
To watch the blue clouds shine in brisk
South of the Niger;
That's where I come from
That's where the tress whistles,
And the men listens to the forests whispers
a reckoning of man's inception
The road is steep and muddy; the jeep is jammed
I toss a walk across the forests
On the path of reckoning
until I get there; where the birds still chirp,
The antelopes running fast in the fields
at the scare of the hunters bow
With songs coming from the farmers plough,
I have no boat, but the boatmen will paddle a kindred home
For once on this river I played in boyish youth
And casted many hooks uncouth
When my bones can carry me no more
I will camp, the bonfire shall crack on my face
we used to tell stories around the flames
And here I find my name
Written with this glyphic of age
But I, alone,
in this walk shall free my kindred!
I shall tell them it isn't greener across the river,
where the land shall eat your feet
till you forget you ever stood like a man
No it is not greener across the river,
Where black smokes from iron tubes chokes your breath
with nothing to see but car lights
blaring at the babbling of drunkards feast
Now am on a path that leads home;
take me home old little streak,
To the place where the clay smells better than yellow bricks,
And the mangoes taste sweeter than canned meat
And the meadows are still green
I shall not forget the road I followed
Nor the path that shall bring me home
I remember where I come from
And I shall leave it trail for my young ones
For there they know my name.
