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Tribal marriages; a clog in the wheel of love.


Allizwellby Henry Iyke22 Jul 2013

Lord, how do I live,
with her photo burning out of my album,
lying neatly on my polished Obeche stool?
She look twenty one,
a beautiful south-western girl,
gentle-faced in a familial-ripped suburb.
I love her Lord,
But today, I’m a grump.

I see the man,
joyful to prostrate before feet,
feet, feet, feet and more feet,
showing a growing bald on a sweaty head.
Every tremor of his sick fogyish smile,
slice-off parts of my heart,
hot anger burning, asking,
why the east is now sin.

Regrets stands on me, Lord,
scalding my ego for not being southwestern,
our voyage ending, before we sailed,
now she veils the tears yearning for my fingers.