When a son is born women ululate,
When he is named they dance,
After circumcision they discuss him in hushed tones,
When he becomes a warrior they pray,
After his first kill they sing dance and praise him,
And when he goes to war,
They offer sacrifices, asking the gods to keep him safe…
And so am I, a warrior going to war,
Like Busy Signal ill Missya Missya….
Like Tarrus Riley I give it up for my real friends…
I have learnt to fly, and among those wings,
Are feathers from all and sundry,
Those that loved, those that hated, those that just bxxxxxx,
But all those feathers,
Have made my wings strong, agile, steady, resilient…
So as I soar in this world,
I will have a piece of all the lovers, the haters and the bxxxxxx holding me up,
What more could a warrior need??
And when we meet, I will narrate the tales,
Of the giants I felled, the ogres I slay, of the hurdles I overcame,
And like the women back in the village,
We will dance, and make merry, and toast,
To a warrior long gone, but always forging on….
SO LONG!!!
