Thursday, February 16, 2012


Kente is a metal forged in the riddles of the loom
Sold at the market of nine moons
Basic to the piano
Played on the eye.

I would not pay a bard to sing this riddle, lest he miss a line
Of the weaver’s cold dreams
Harvested from the starless sky of his roof
The bird of dreams perches and raises this song:

“Pass it here and stick it there
Kro-kro-kro w’ate?” (kro-kro-kro, have you heard?)
Then the helms water breaks
And cock calls his boast
Kokrokoo! Kokrokoo!

The master weaver starts to dance
And loses himself in the dazing steps
“Kro-kro-kro and again pass it here, stick it here and over again”
Till the songbird stops, and the dancer is dropped from the realms of dreams.

Kente is a metal that graces the victor’s shield
Whose story is yet to be ended from the beginning
The blood of the weaver
An African statement.