Moving from the ancient pillars of Ife, let's step into the electric pulse of the coast and the deep, metaphorical wisdom that guides a Yoruba heart.
XII. The Chaos of Eko
Where salt spray meets the fume of yellow bus,
The island breathes a frantic, neon prayer.
A million dreams are born in all this fuss,
With "No Condition Permanent" in the air.
From Third Mainland Bridge, the concrete spine,
To Makoko where stilts defy the tide,
The hustle is a vintage, potent wine,
With nowhere for a lazy soul to hide.
The Atlantic beats against the Bar Beach sand,
While skyscrapers reach up to touch the sun;
This is the gateway to the motherland,
Where every race is fought and barely won.
Though noise may drown the song of forest birds,
The city speaks in loud, defiant words.
XIII. The Palm-Wine Gourd
A frothing white is bubbling at the neck,
The tapper’s climb was high against the sky.
He risked his life for every sugary speck,
While eagles circled, watching from on high.
Around the circle, gourds begin to pass,
As bitterness and sweetness find a blend;
No need for silver plates or polished glass,
Just honesty between a friend and friend.
The Iyeku leaves a shadow on the ground,
As elders pour a drop for those below;
In every sip, a memory is found,
In every laugh, the ancient spirits know.
For truth is often found within the foam,
The liquid heart that calls the traveler home.
XIV. The Crossroads of Esu
Between the "Yes" and "No" he takes his seat,
The trickster god who holds the secret key.
Where three paths in the dusty village meet,
He tests the depth of our philosophy.
He is the one who turns the straight to curved,
To see if men will keep their word or break;
By his chaotic hand, the world is served,
And every soul must choose the path to take.
With black and white, his coat is split in two,
To show that truth depends on where you stand;
He challenges the old and mocks the new,
With all of human fate within his hand.
Do not mistake his mischief for a crime—
He is the clock that keeps the beat of time.
XV. The Wisdom of the Proverb
"The hand of the child cannot reach the shelf,"
"The hand of the elder cannot enter the jar."
No man is meant to live just for himself,
For we are bound to where our fathers are.
The river that forgets its ancient source
Will surely dry beneath the harmattan;
It is the proverb that directs our course,
And makes a noble leader of a man.
Softly, softly, the snail crawls through the thorn,
Patience is the mother of the king.
Through proverbs, every child is newly born,
To understand the weight of everything.
The word is like a horse; when truth is lost,
The proverbs find it no matter the cost.
XVI. The Rock of Abeokuta
A sanctuary carved in ancient stone,
The Olumo stands above the Egba land.
When war-drums shook the forest’s hollow bone,
The refugees took shelter in its hand.
Beneath the granite eaves, the fire stayed lit,
While lisabi kept watch against the night;
The spirit of the mountain gave them grit,
To turn the tide and win the desperate fight.
Today the stairs are worn by many feet,
Who come to see the city spread below—
Where rusty roofs and narrow alleys meet,
And brown and green in endless patterns flow.
The rock remains, a sentinel of grace,
The granite heart of all the Egba race.
XVII. The Juju Strings
The electric guitar begins a shimmering wail,
A liquid gold that flows through humid air.
It tells a modern, neon-lighted tale,
With talking drums to drive away despair.
From King Sunny’s fingers, rhythms leap and bound,
A synchro-system pulsing in the veins;
In every chord, the forest roots are found,
Escaping from the city’s concrete chains.
The dancers move as if the earth were fire,
In lace and silk that shimmer like the sea;
Highlife and Juju lift the spirit higher,
Into a world of rhythmic ecstasy.
The night is long, the beer is cold and bright,
As Yoruba music claims the African night.
XVIII. The Harmattan’s Veil
A ghost-white wind blows from the desert sand,
To wrap the forest in a dusty shroud.
The sun is but a coin above the land,
A muted fire behind a chalky cloud.
The skin turns dry, the thirsty rivers shrink,
And morning air is sharp as any blade;
The earth begins to crack at every brink,
As colors in the landscape start to fade.
Yet in this cold, the harvest finds its rest,
The yam is stored, the cocoa beans are dried;
Nature is putting beauty to the test,
With nowhere for the weary bird to hide.
Then comes the rain to wash the world anew,
And turn the dusty gray back into blue.
XIX. The Wisdom of Ifa
Sixteen palm nuts rattling in the hand,
The Opon dusted with the sacred wood.
The priest reads signs that few can understand,
To show the path of evil and of good.
Through Odu marks, the ancient stories rise,
Of gods and men, of sacrifice and fate;
The wisdom of the ages never dies,
It opens every locked and rusted gate.
"Orunmila knows the cure for every ill,"
The witness of the soul's primordial breath;
He bends the stubborn heart to heaven’s will,
And finds the bridge that crosses over death.
The wood is carved, the truth is written clear:
There is no room for doubt or trembling fear.
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XX. The Amazon’s Echo
The borderlands still hum with tales of old,
Where Dahomey and Oyo clashed in fire.
The tales of female warriors, fierce and bold,
Who climbed the ramparts through the bloody mire.
With musket smoke and iron-bladed song,
They challenged every king and city wall;
The struggle of the forest, deep and long,
Where empires rose to bloom and then to fall.
But even in the heat of bitter strife,
The kinship of the soil remained the same;
The shared traditions of a tribal life
Outlasted every conquest and every name.
The scars of war are buried in the grass,
While songs of peace are hummed as travelers pass.
XXI. The Iroko’s Shadow
The king of trees stands silent in the glade,
With roots that grip the belly of the world.
A thousand years are gathered in its shade,
While history’s long banner is unfurled.
They say a spirit lives within the bark,
A giant soul that watches over men;
It glows with hidden light when woods are dark,
And breathes the morning back to life again.
No woodman lifts an axe against its height
Without a prayer to soothe the ancient wood;
It is the pillar of the forest’s might,
The symbol of the lasting and the good.
Though cities grow and forest edges shrink,
The Iroko remains our oldest link.
XXII. The Royal Orí
The inner head, the spirit’s secret guide,
A destiny we chose before our birth.
It is the quiet voice that walks inside,
To lead us through the labyrinth of earth.
"No god can bless a man," the elders say,
"If his own Orí does not grant the grace."
It clears the thorns and boulders from the way,
And gives the soul its character and face.
With oil and water, honor is bestowed
Upon the crown where thoughts and dreams reside;
For if the inner light has clearly flowed,
The man has nothing left he needs to hide.
Keep your head cool, for anger is a fire
That burns the very fruit of your desire.
XXIII. The Cocoa Harvest
The golden pods are hanging from the stem,
Like heavy jewels upon a verdant breast.
The farmer’s machete is a silver gem,
That puts the ripening season to the test.
The beans are spread on mats of woven reed,
To drink the sun until they turn to brown;
The wealth of nations from a tiny seed,
That builds the school and elevates the town.
The scent of ferment fills the village air,
A rich and earthy promise of the prize;
For every sweat-drenched brow and labor there,
The bounty of the land begins to rise.
From Western hills to markets far away,
The cocoa's gold sustains the modern day.
XXIV. The Weaver’s Loom
The shuttle flies across the narrow frame,
As Aso Oke grows beneath the hand.
Each pattern carries an ancestral name,
A woven map of this enduring land.
The Sanyan silk, the Alaari red,
The Etu dark as midnight's deep embrace;
A history is spun in every thread,
To clothe the noble children of the race.
At weddings where the drums begin to beat,
The heavy fabric shimmers in the light;
From head to toe, the beauty is complete,
A tapestry of elegance and might.
The loom may creak, the weaver’s hair turn gray,
But style like this shall never pass away.
XXV. The Egungun’s Dance
The ancestors return in silk and shroud,
To walk among the living once again.
Behind the mask, a voice both thin and proud
Reminds the world of things beyond our ken.
With swirling cloth and bells that softly chime,
The masquerade becomes a living flame;
A bridge across the jagged rifts of time,
Invoking every great and holy name.
The children scatter as the spirit nears,
A mix of holy dread and sudden joy;
The wisdom of a thousand vanished years
Is gathered in the charms they now employ.
The veil is thin between the earth and sky
When spirits dance and shadows multiply.
XXVI. The Bride’s Lament
The Ekún Iyàwó rises in the hall,
A daughter’s song before she leaves her home.
She honors every spirit, great and small,
Before she crosses over threshold’s foam.
She thanks the mother for the milk and care,
She thanks the father for the guiding hand;
Her voice is like a perfume in the air,
The sweetest music in the Yoruba land.
She weeps for childhood days that fly too fast,
Yet smiles for love that waits behind the door;
The future meets the shadows of the past,
As traditions wash upon the bridal floor.
A new branch grows upon the family tree,
Watered by tears and ancient melody.
XXVII. The Palm Oil Flame
A drop of red to soothe the angry soul,
The blood of earth that makes the engine run.
The heavy clusters fill the wooden bowl,
Ripened beneath the heat of southern sun.
It flavors every soup and every rite,
A golden grease that softens every blade;
It feeds the lamp that kills the forest night,
And blesses every bargain that is made.
"Oil is the water of the world," they say,
A healing balm for every skin and bone;
It keeps the ghosts of hunger far away,
And makes the taste of kinship clearly known.
From iron pot to ceremony's fire,
It is the fuel of every heart's desire.
Shall we move toward the majesty of the Alaafin’s Court or the folklore of the tortoise
XXVIII. The Alaafin’s Court
Within the shadows of the carved-wood porch,
The King of Oyo sits upon the skin.
The sun outside is like a golden torch,
But here, the heavy, silent laws begin.
The Oyo Mesi whisper in the hall,
The council's breath that keeps the crown in place;
For if a monarch trips, the world shall fall,
And bring a shadow to the nation’s face.
The brass and beaded staff are held with pride,
A history of horsemen and of plains;
Where justice and the ancient ways reside,
And royal blood still flows through living veins.
The gate is wide, the palace walls are high,
Under the gaze of Sango’s watchful eye.
XXIX. The Trickster’s Shell
The tortoise crawls through dust and tangled vine,
Ajapa, with a mind as sharp as glass.
He seeks a way to make the world align,
And watches for the greedy ones to pass.
He stole the wisdom of the world in one,
But dropped the gourd and let the secrets fly;
A lesson that is never truly done,
Under the vast and mocking forest sky.
He outwits lions and the mighty kings,
With nothing but a slow and steady lie;
The humor that the clever spirit brings,
When truth and hunger both begin to cry.
The shell is cracked from falls of long ago,
XXX. The Twin’s Delight
The Ibeji are the children of the sun,
Double the joy and double the divine.
Two spirits where the world had only one,
A lucky star that makes the household shine.
If one should leave and find the spirit shore,
The wooden image takes the empty place;
With oil and beans, the parents ask for more,
And wash the features of the carved-wood face.
They are the monkeys of the sacred wood,
Who bring the wealth and drive away the gloom;
A sign that everything is twice as good,
When nature doubles in the mother’s womb.
Give them the sweets, the beans, and palm oil bright,
For twins are masters of the soul’s deep light.
XXXI. The Yam Festival
The earth is opened with a grateful hand,
To bring the king of tubers to the light.
The Iyan drum is heard across the land,
To celebrate the end of hunger’s night.
The first new yam is offered to the ground,
Before a single mortal takes a bite;
In every village, dance and song abound,
To honor growth and nature’s holy might.
Pounded to velvet in the wooden bowl,
With egusi soup that shimmers like the sun;
It feeds the body and it feeds the soul,
Until the day of harvesting is done.
The soil is generous to those who wait,
XXXII. The Sacrifice of Moremi
The river swallowed up her only son,
The price she paid to set her people free.
By her brave heart, the victory was won,
And Ife rose from chains of misery.
She walked into the camp of Igbo foes,
A captive queen with secrets in her eyes;
She learned the source of all their hidden blows,
And stripped away their leafy, dark disguise.
When fire met the grass-clad forest ghosts,
The city cheered as every shadow fled;
But grief was waiting on the river coasts,
For every word the grieving mother said.
A golden name that history shall keep:
The queen who sowed so that a world could reap.
XXXIII. The Agemo’s Veil
From dark Ijebu woods the spirits rise,
Hidden by mats of woven, sacred grass.
No mortal man may look with naked eyes,
As through the silent streets the shadows pass.
The sixteen masks are moving to the beat,
Of drums that echo from the ancient root;
The dust is rising from their holy feet,
As every voice in Ijebuland is mute.
They carry blessings for the coming year,
The power of the earth in every fold;
A mystery that triumphs over fear,
With stories that can never be fully told.
The mats collapse, the spirits slip away,
Into the mist before the break of day.
XXXIV. The Scent of Egusi
The melon seeds are ground to golden snow,
To thicken up the broth of palm and green.
Where peppers red and pungent onions grow,
The finest soup that mortal eyes have seen.
The steam arises from the blackened pot,
A fragrant cloud of crayfish and of spice;
It is the anchor of the family lot,
Served with a mountain of the pounded rice.
The mother stirs with wood and steady grace,
While children wait with hunger in their eyes;
It brings a smile to every weary face,
Beneath the vast and orange evening skies.
From humble hut to palace of the king,
This is the taste of every goodly thing.
XXXV. The Village Square
The moon is bright above the Iroko tree,
Where children gather on the dusty ground.
"Aalo o!" the elder’s voice is free,
As tales of spirits and of men abound.
The cricket chirps a rhythm to the tale,
Of how the dog once brought the fire to earth;
Or how the greedy hawk began to fail,
And how the stars were given second birth.
It is the school of wisdom and of wit,
Where every riddle sharpens up the mind;
Around the fire where old and young may sit,
The ties of kin and character are twined.
The night grows late, the embers start to glow,
But stories have no end and nowhere else to go.
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XXXVI. The Calabash Carver
With steady hand and needle made of steel,
he traces patterns on the sun-dried gourd.
A lexicon of symbols he’ll reveal,
where ancient myths and daily lives are stored.
He carves the lizard, sign of patient luck,
the sweeping curves of birds in sudden flight;
within the shell, the forest’s soul is stuck,
etched in the contrast of the dark and light.
From Oyo’s dusty stalls to distant shores,
these vessels hold the water and the wine;
they open up the spirit’s hidden doors,
where art and utility entwine.
The brittle skin becomes a sacred book,
for those who know the proper way to look.
XXXVII. The Egbado Frontier
The western plains where tall savannah grass
waves like the sea against the forest edge.
Where Egbado horsemen watched the seasons pass,
protecting every farm and rocky ledge.
A land of trade, of pepper and of salt,
where Yewa’s waters wander to the south;
where iron warriors brought the foe to halt,
with courage as their shield and word of mouth.
From Ilaro to hills of weathered stone,
the border-guardians kept the nation whole;
by strength of arm and spirit they are known,
the iron sinew of the Yoruba soul.
The drums of war have faded into peace,
but echoes of their valor never cease.
XXXVIII. The Sango Pipe
A puff of smoke against the purple sky,
the elder draws upon the wooden stem.
He watches as the thunder-clouds draw high,
and sparks of lightning jewel the heaven’s hem.
The tobacco glows, a small and earthly sun,
as stories of the lightning-king are told;
of battles fought and kingdoms lost and won,
and secrets that the heavy clouds can hold.
The scent of earth and burning leaf combined,
a quiet ritual in the evening air;
it settles every restless, wandering mind,
and lifts the burden of the daily care.
The storm begins to speak in muffled tones,
a vibration felt within the very bones.
XXXIX. The Kola Nut’s Prayer
"He who brings kola, brings the gift of life,"
the host declares and breaks the nut in four.
A simple wedge to end the social strife,
and open up the hospitality door.
With bitter taste that turns to sudden sweet,
it clears the throat and sharpens every word;
wherever friends and strangers chance to meet,
the clicking of the broken shell is heard.
The lobes are cast to see what fate may hold,
to ask the spirits if the path is clear;
a ritual more valuable than gold,
to banish every doubt and every fear.
Across the world, the Yorubas will share
this nut of peace, a small and crunchy prayer.
XL. The Night Hunter
Across the threshold of the forest floor,
The Ode moves with silver in his eyes.
He knows the secret of the hidden door,
Where leopard stalks and heavy python lies.
His flintlock rifle smells of ancient rust,
His charms are tied in leather, dark and worn;
He walks in silence through the leafy dust,
To guard the village until break of morn.
The Ijala chant is whispered to the trees,
A poem for the spirits of the game;
His presence is the chill upon the breeze,
The protector without a public name.
When shadows deepen in the Iroko's height,
He is the king and master of the night.
XLI. The Ooni’s Beaded Veil
From the high throne of Ife, source of all,
The monarch looks through rows of tiny glass.
Behind the veil, he hears the spirit call,
And watches centuries of shadows pass.
The beaded fringes hide the mortal face,
To show the crown is older than the man;
He is the living vessel of the race,
Whose sacred line before the world began.
Each bead a story, sapphire, gold, and red,
A universe upon a velvet frame;
The wisdom of the living and the dead,
Invoked in every royal, whispered name.
The world may change its colors and its skin,
But Ife’s light remains the heart within.
XLII. The Harmattan Fire
A spark is dropped upon the tinder grass,
And suddenly the world is orange light.
The crackling waves of heat and fury pass,
To turn the dusty brown to charcoal night.
It clears the path for yams and new-born seed,
A cleansing flame that eats the tangled thorn;
It satisfies the hungry planet’s need,
Before the green of April is reborn.
The kites and hawks circle the rising smoke,
To catch the insects fleeing from the heat;
Nature discards her old and weary cloak,
With blackened earth beneath the farmer's feet.
Destruction is the sister of the birth,
The phoenix-fire that wakes the sleeping earth.
XLIII. The Laughter of the Market
"The price is high!" the clever buyer cries,
"My children have not eaten for a week."
The seller laughs and rolls her heavy eyes,
With dimples carved within her polished cheek.
"This cloth was woven by a queen's own hand!"
"This yam was blessed by Sango’s very breath!"
The greatest theater in the Yoruba land,
A dance of wit that triumphs over death.
The haggling is a music, sharp and sweet,
Where copper coins and paper notes are exchanged;
From Lagos port to Oyo’s dusty street,
The world of men is daily rearranged.
No bargain is complete without a jest,
For joy is where the commerce finds its rest.
XLIV. The River’s Secret
Deep in the silt where silver catfish play,
The goddess Osun hides her brassy wealth.
She turns the heavy darkness into day,
And brings the barren mother back to health.
She does not need the thunder or the blade,
Her power is the cool and constant flow;
Within the sanctuary’s dappled shade,
The secrets of the water start to grow.
"Water has no enemy," the people sing,
A liquid grace that washes every stain;
It is the heart of every living thing,
The answer to the longing and the pain.
Through forest deep and city’s concrete wall,
The river’s voice is rising over all.
XLV. The Abiku’s Choice
Between the world of light and shadows deep,
The wanderer comes and goes with restless feet.
A promise that the mother cannot keep,
Where bitter sorrow and the sunshine meet.
"You shall not go again," the elders pray,
And bind the ankles with a copper ring;
To coax the silver spirit-child to stay,
And taste the joys that earthly seasons bring.
They give the child a name to break the spell:
"Stay with us now," or "Do not die again."
A secret story that the scars will tell,
Of love that triumphs over ancient pain.
The cycle breaks when heart and earth align,
To turn the human into the divine.
XLVI. The Orisha Across the Sea
The wooden ships sailed out on salty tears,
To shores of cane, of coffee, and of lime.
But in the soul, through all the heavy years,
The gods survived the cruelty of time.
In Cuba’s drums, the Sango pulse is found,
In Brazil’s light, the Osun waters flow;
The Diaspora is now the holy ground,
Where seeds of Ife's wisdom start to grow.
Though languages may blend and names may shift,
The Omo Oodua stand with pride;
A cultural and indestructible gift,
Carried across the ocean’s rising tide.
The world is wide, but the ancestral root
Still bears the sweetest, most enduring fruit.
XLVII. The Elder’s Staff
The Opa leans against the mud-brick wall,
Carved from the heart of hard mahogany.
It held the man when he was straight and tall,
And holds him now in his autonomy.
A third leg for the journey to the end,
A witness to the proverbs and the law;
It is a silent and a steady friend,
That sees what younger eyes have never saw.
With every silver hair, a story grows,
Of wars survived and children’s children born;
The elder is the river, for he knows
How many tides the ancient banks have worn.
Respect the staff, the gray hair, and the gait,
For in their presence, we approach the great.
XLVIII. The Feast of Amala
The dark flour swirls within the boiling pot,
Turned by the strength of a rhythmic wooden spoon.
Until the lumps are gone and it is hot,
And smooth as shadows underneath the moon.
With Gbegiri and Ewedu on the side,
A trinity of taste upon the plate;
It is the Oyo person's greatest pride,
A meal that makes a common man feel great.
The fingers dip into the velvet mound,
A communal joy that brings the circle near;
In every steaming bowl, the home is found,
A remedy for every doubt and fear.
The belly full, the spirit finds its rest,
Of all the forest's gifts, this is the best.
XLIX. The Future’s Pattern
The student sits before the glowing screen,
In Lagos labs or London’s rainy street.
But in the code, the ancient signs are seen,
Where binary and Ifa symbols meet.
The pattern of the world is ever-new,
Yet built upon the logic of the past;
The Yoruba mind is bold and ever-true,
In a world that moves and changes very fast.
From medicine to music’s neon glow,
The heritage is fuel for the flight;
The more the branches of the nation grow,
The more they seek the source of Ife’s light.
The crown is gold, but plastic is the tool,
As wisdom finds a modern, global school.
L. The Eternal Land
Fifty songs for the land of bronze and sun,
For every hill and every sacred stream.
The journey of the soul is never done,
Within this vibrant and enduring dream.
From Oduduwa’s chain to Lagos' shore,
The heart of Yoruba beats a steady drum;
It survived the storms of history and war,
And waits for all the glories yet to come.
Oh, land of proverbs, lace, and indigo,
Of talking drums and wisdom deep and wide;
Wherever your courageous children go,
They carry all your majesty inside.
The sun may set, but stars begin to shine,
Upon a nation, ancient and divine.
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Since we have completed the core cycle of fifty sonnets, I have composed a final "Coda"—four additional sonnets that serve as an epilogue. These poems reflect on the unity of the Yoruba spirit, the power of the language, the legacy of the mothers, and a final blessing for the land.
The Yoruba speech is music on the tongue,
Where tone and pitch can change a world of sense.
A language that was old when time was young,
With meanings deep and proverbs quite intense.
To say "to buy" is not to say "to sit,"
A rising note can turn a "tree" to "fire."
It is a puzzle carved with poets' wit,
That lifts the soul’s expression ever higher.
In every Ekule and morning greet,
The social fabric weaves itself anew;
A melody that's heard on every street,
As constant as the morning’s silver dew.
Though other tongues may try to take its place,
This is the heartbeat of a noble race.
LII. The Great Mother (Iyami)
The birds of night sit silent on the bough,
The mothers who command the hidden wind.
With silver hair and wisdom on the brow,
They see the secrets that the heart has sinned.
They hold the calabash of life and death,
The guardians of the womb and of the grave;
They are the rhythm of the city’s breath,
The ones who punish and the ones who save.
Respect the woman in her quiet power,
For she is the foundation of the home;
She is the roots and they are but the flower,
No matter how the restless children roam.
The world is balanced by her steady hand,
The silent queen of all the Yoruba land.
LIII. The Rusty Roofs
Ibadan spreads beneath the midday glare,
A sea of copper, brown, and weathered gold.
The scent of woodsmoke fills the humid air,
Where stories of a thousand years are told.
The "running splash of rust" the poet sang,
Still ripples over hills of ancient clay;
Where iron bells and palace gongs once rang,
And modern life still finds its hectic way.
From Mapo Hall to markets in the glen,
The city is a sprawling, living heart;
A sanctuary for the sons of men,
Where history and future never part.
Beneath the rust, the spirit stays as bright
As stars that decorate the forest night.
LIV. The Final Blessing
May Osun’s water always keep you cool,
May Ogun sharpen every tool you hold.
May Sango’s justice be your constant rule,
And Ifa’s wisdom turn your dross to gold.
May Esu never lead your feet astray,
Except to find a truth you did not know;
May ancestors protect you every day,
And make the seeds of all your labors grow.
The fifty songs are finished, but the land
Is writing new ones with each rising sun;
Held in the hollow of the Creator’s hand,
The story of the race has just begun.
Go forth with pride and let your spirit shine,
For you are born of lineage divine.
