AN ODE TO ABEFELE

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With a trunk tinged in desert sand
Pants painted in murky mystery
Like a mane, icing beret of dark strands
And matching boots aye butting misery

He is Abefele, the shrewd blade
Dweller of Iluubadan, a hoary land
Guardian of Omoleewe, premier learners
Nightmare of Omoota, the black sheep

Abefele stands out
Not as the rotund oracle, ‘IFA’
But as an Iroko among Eyin Eera
He stands straight and stout
Not as the adrift boolu felele
But as the stiff opa Oranmiyen

Abefele
His dull colours the world over tread
His small numbers scatter like lyrics
As faecal butter naughtily spread
On cracked loafs of cream ceramics

At the gates, he stands patiently
Enjoying raw blows from nature
In the theatres, he sits calmly
Enduring neglect from folks immature

On the roads, you shall find him
A pilgrim whose Mecca is security
In the halls too, they sing his hymn
To calm restive souls who stir anxiety

Abefele
Though he wields no gun or sword of Samurai
He fires off queries at unsuspecting suspects
And though he looks nothing like Buratai
He is fierce, fiery, awfully feared

Though
Your genius may be hidden
As aro hides the timidity of the kitten
Though
Your worth may sometimes suffer a deep dive
As lives suffer death from the Book of Life

Do not mind at all
Do not mind
That they mould you as a ball
A bouncer bounced around to bounce
A bodyguard to dancers designed to trounce

And know Abefele
Know that your prize is not with the mere mortal
For whom you have nobly pawned your lot
It lies with none but God
Who keeps you to keep them with mettle

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