One Night at Victoria Beach by Gabriel okara

Also Read

 

The wind comes rushing from the sea,

the waves curling like mambas strike

the sands and recoiling hiss in rage

washing the Aladuras’* feet pressing hard

on the sand and with eyes fixed hard

on what only hearts can see, they shouting

pray, the Aladuras pray; and coming

from booths behind, compelling highlife

forces ears; and car lights startle pairs

arm in arm passing washer-words back

and forth like haggling sellers and buyers

 

Still they pray, the Aladuras pray

with hands pressed against their hearts

and their white robes pressed against

their bodies by the wind; and drinking

palm-wine and beer, the people boast

at bars at the beach. Still

they pray. They pray, the Aladuras pray

to what only hearts can see while dead

fishermen long dead with bones rolling

nibbled clean by nibbling fishes, follow

four dead cowries shining like stars

into deep sea where fishes sit in judgement;

and living fishermen in dark huts

sit round dim lights with Babalawo

throwing their souls in four cowries

on sand, trying to see tomorrow.

Still, they pray, the Aladuras pray

to what only hearts can see behind

the curling waves and the sea, the stars

and the subduing unanimity of the sky

and their white bones beneath the sand.

And standing dead on dead sands,

I felt my knees touch living sands 

but the rushing wind killed the budding words.