THE TOTEM POLE: MOTHER'S WALKING STICK.

Night fell in my room too. Somewhere in the stillness of the after-hours, amidst the chipping of insects and humming of birds and night sounds, I could almost hear other sounds echoing and carrying everywhere. As though standing in a quagmire, the image of a broken surface surrounded me.

In my near wakeful entrapment, I felt myself falling. I struggled hard, terrified for a time, and came fully awake. As my heart steadied, I was certain, the source of this alien experience was born from the stories told of gathering debris in neglected communities, all day, every day. 

In the news blaring here and there, there was evidence that large pieces of the peduncle of Africa were disappearing.
The reporters erected the statue of a grim-faced phenomenon, that has left our people with realities of strife. 

I chewed this truth in my heart a little longer and swallowed hard. It was bitter. I knew that the helm was made up of a rich assemble of so-called intellectuals who have failed to send basketfuls of sweet fruits, down the ladder of governance. Knew what a fool I was, if knowing this truth was enough to justify my anger, but not enough to shoulder the role of a fearless blacksmith.

From away lands came tales of superiority. They say: "Africa is at the bottom of the totem pole."

When these tales reach our shores, we chant: "Hear, hear, hear," Shamelessly agreeing to stand naked in the Sun. Heads bowed in surrender. Stripped of dignity.
I realized anew, what I must do, come daylight. Send word to Mother's children in the west and east, in the north and south. Relight the fires. Let it burn hot and scorching. The totem pole is but Mother’s walking stick. Let her emerge from the blacksmith's flames fair and proud and as beautiful as the sunset.