I am a son or the soil To this, I am the foil Though the wind of life May blow me miles from home, Yet,my roots I shall remember…..
Though like a troubadour I traverse, Yet the voices of my homeland tutelage I carry, whispering the songs of my roots And this, a millennium cannot erase For the blood in me is black and African.
I am not an alien, For I have drank from Kurap River Like my brothers of the Nile and Niger And I have eaten the fruit of the land Where my umbilical cord was planted
I have hunted in the mangrove Where the hunk-hunk of monkeys reverberate And the chirping melodies of birds resound; Leopard and lions and tigers pounce their preys And the hunter crouch, ready to strike.
I have been there, When the sky suddenly took in And the wind fought trees for superiority As father shouts across the hills To summon brothers home.
I have tilled the Ibami soil In the company of friends When at sunset, covered in ashes tainted earth We stagger home bragging and boasting Of having moulded more yam mounts O' what a company!
Alas, the traverse and the travellers! I am a son of the soil, Making a living in a foreign land… Let not my traverse swallow my patriotism!
Yes, I have traversed, With the sands of my travelogue I shall build my homeland For the dog will always come back home And a traveller should bring home bread.