Son of the soil

Son of the soil, the hammer of a midnight blacksmith, the lamp of the seeker, the envy of the untilled land, you who stayed vigil all the night, watering the plants and giving them hope, you who took your clean hands to handle cow filth so the plant could grow, sit down and eat the fruits of your labour. Sit down, you who everybody all of a sudden remembers your name. Sit down and suck in, eat the fruits of nationalism, son of the soil, or the worms shall soon feed on it. Harvest your fruits before those who sit by three roadsides with legs askew take the first step. Fence your compounds off before the layabouts invite themselves home for dinner. I know them all, son of the soil. I know the jealous women with grey eyes and the greedy men with beer paunches. I can see them all, they that laughed at the man tilling in the hot sun. Why is it that their frowns turn into smiles all of a sudden? Why are their alligator teeth glinting in the sun? Son of the soil, don’t just stand watch as they milk your cow. Don’t just watch them as they sharpen their toothpicks and source their ceremonial mugs. Take a stone, take a stick and chase them away. See them up the hill and watch them tumble down the valley. Where were they when you were burning the midnight oil? Where were they when you washed your face in tears and rinsed your mouth with dew? Son of the soil, it should not be your struggle to do others proud. Start by doing the service to yourself. Why should you win the whole world’s approval when you don’t even have your own? Detoxify yourself of all this kindness, kill it all, the spirit of chivalry should not be extended to lazy folks. Let them wash their hands first before they sit with you, the king. Let them brush their teeth, wring their hearts of all that jealousy and envy before they sit at your dinner table. But still, didn’t you see that they noticed you when flowers dried off and fruits started forming? Didn’t you see that the witches and wizards started blessing you when the fingers of sorghum got thicker? Didn’t you see them praise your name when yellowish breasts started showing on your mango tree? Keep walking, you son of the soil. They shall all faint, they shall all fall by your side but your hard work shall grant you strength to walk on till the end of the day. Let curiosity be your guiding light and the quest for adventure the oil that lubricates your joints. Let them sing and play the drums, but stop not to dance to their belligerent tunes. Stop not to listen to their drawling wails for they shall break your heart. Run on son of the soil, the end of the road is just around the bend.