By Uduma Kalu
It's centuries I held those sticks on the blades of the xylophone, mgbada.
How I long for its feel once again.
A lifetime once again.
To ripen the ripples that pulse the riddles of my road called life.
Ancient and modern. Sounds of reasons.
Sounds and seasons.
Child once again in the garb of father.
Father, child and the mgbada lost in the memory of sounds and time.
Play on, the waves hear. The wind waves you to me, hovering in this faraway land of my exile.
I'm home again.
The waves have flown me home on wings of mgbada.
Play on.
Like sleep hissing in the breeze,
The night birds hear the mgbada ripples of my youth.
The night bears the sounds of the mgbada home to me.
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