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Subject:
From:
oko drammeh <[log in to unmask]>
Reply To:
The Gambia and related-issues mailing list <[log in to unmask]>
Date:
Thu, 19 Jul 2007 07:25:13 -0700
Content-Type:
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Rene,
  This is roots brother.  I can see myself in it. 
   
  WEhen it rains in Banjul, I sit with my mom beside the Furno- Ring of fire, I would listen to storyies of Oumad Njulie and Samba Seytani, while we eat Ranha domadah (spinage and rice).The drama continues into nawet camps and nawet rituals. This is high times.
  I am inspired to write one. I am working on it. This is a lovely peom and the compilation will soon be the book. Keep them coming.
  Keep it up brotherman,
  Oko B

[log in to unmask] wrote:
  It has been raining here, and as I sit outside and look at the cloudy sky 
and the wet green grass on the ground, it all but reminds me about "nawet" in 
the Gambia. Thus this poem. 




From the verandah
of my grandmother's hut
I watch the watery eyes
of the sky above
pours down
on the old corrugated kitchen roof
and the cold sea-blue water
pelts its pit-a-pat droppings
into the empty buckets underneath.

I watch
as the rain pours
and the leaves drip
their silvery wetness
on the fertile ground
my squinted eyes follow
the many rivulets of water
build up into a stream
and gushes out
into the wet sandy street. 

And when the rain stops
the tiny green worms
crawl voraciously
and litter the brown earth
ready to devour 
the sprouting green grasses
their bloated green entrails 
smashed under heavy scurrying feet. 

I follow
the narrow wet path
to the tree clustered rice fields
and my mother dexterously
planted single blades of rice
buried knee-deep under the rain water
on mounds of soil fertilized by cow dung. 

I listen
to the rice field birds sing
their melodious songs
compliment the joyful humming
of my mother with a radiant face
as the blades of rice
soars above the muddy water. 


Rene 



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