…without guns and fanfare, except a crown
for the festival and raffia skirts for fans…!
I think of the wide-eyed gaze of the masquerade
mocking what it sees.
I must admit, I’ve always liked
the power that comes from being behind the mask.
Tradition invented the festival,
and custom dictates the rules of the game.
Nature, the harvest granted in yam barns,–
I am inviting the world to see.
The harvest week is approaching
with crown for the peasant’s head and a mask for his armor.
The music a sonorous affirmation to the harvest God;
jubilations winged in triumphant flights of changing climate.
The noonday ghosts are everywhere in the streets.
A ghost, in multi-hued decorum, accosted me.
His fork-shaped wipe danced in my face.
“Yeah. You know am not scared.”
But the old choice of running,
enamored of fear, departed me
at the precise stroke of noon
the tropical sun ray hit Savannah’s anthills.
Clutching a jumble of raffia palm in my hands
I revisited the dance of blessed spirits, only now,
my naked face is racing the masquerades who, I figured,
knew me. In fact, they didn’t.
♦ Feature photo by Chris Ulasi: Scene from Igwe Nnewi Ofalla Festival 2018
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