Here at my village, the chief is dead,
And there’s a funeral party to attend,
For they slaughtered ten bulls and a heifer,
A heifer for Nankya,
The high flying widow…
And they cooked boiled meat,
With matooke, and kalo,
This millet bread!
It goes down the throat na low…
At the funeral, the criers will wail,
To resonate the history of the late,
But it will be late…
We will sleep men and women,
In the same room, vroom,
Like Kafiti, the village wag!
Old women will snore,
Others tears, instilling fear..
Yes, as men, sneak in like snakes,
To replace the fallen chief,
Like thieves!
In a heist,
Without hesitation…
Women will peal the bananas,
And share some stories,
Like when men come drunk,
And sound huge,
Like thunder,
Ear-splitting clap of anger..
There is a village funeral party I want to attend..
The widow, looking through the window,
Is but full of furry and worry,
As the man is covered in a hurry,
Again like Kafiti the village wag..!
The smell of fresh boiled cow meat,
The rain maker enjoying ,
For holding onto the rain…
There is a village funeral party I want to attend..
