Time is not the fancy clock on the screeded wall
nor the tolling of the church bell to ofherald dawn
or the chime of Big Ben for the radio enthusiasts
Time is set by the crack of a wry cry at the cradle
presaging the white hairs that’d surprise the bard
its unseen march plain in the gaunt and frail man
hobbling along on three legs as against two prior
Time is transition—of the banana shoot to dry leaf
the vibrancy of the voice that morphs into a drawl,
surely the cumulation of the relay of day and night
Time is the rain that warns of looming harmattan
it is the divine flow that serves as nature’s clock
the nuptial rites all foreshadowing motherhood
Time is the number of steps from 1934 to 2024
and everything that happened all along the way
which are worth the talk shops and celebrations,
the bouquets of flowers for Kongi at Ogun’s grove
Time is what we all celebrate today with our WS
In honour of WS at 90
