OYA

Tugging angrily

At horse tail clouds

Violent clouds coughed out

As she sneezed at us

Racing with machete in hand

Mad at us running across her land

On pure white pale hooves

I know you know who

Ghosts of white buffalos

Close to our homes

Spewing whirlwinds

From up above

Cloaked in burnt orange

We offer her porridge

Her daughters and sons

Pray her rage will go

Hearing our prayers

Oya smiled and let go

Reminding us all

We can go on

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Oya, oya, oya

(Goddess of strong winds, it’s torn, hurry)

***Busola Elegbede***