A Special Nightfall Poem by Felix Bongjoh

A special nightfall
(i)

It's been an eon waiting for an ion
Of sunset, since they came in early
At dawn to uproot weeds invading sprouts
Of beans and maize planted
On beds molded on rock and pauses

Of sandy clay bearing their hopes
Like pedestals displayed in a public square.
They've spent the entire day
Nurturing their hopes with machete and hoe
And holy water, scarecrows not enough.

(ii)

At last, waves of violet stretch
Their arms again, unfurling warps
Of light floating bloated wool
In quiet masses, gradually covering
The last glister of sun rays
Above a narrow field in the sky.

Leaving the last silhouettes of egrets
Floating in flocks beyond the horizon
Already a strange hazy zig-zag.

Time to leave. The last sandgrouse
Bids good-bye with a familiar song,
But a few other women like Nain
Enjoy the last faint shimmer
Of faint silver and bright pewter, blending
Into a grey pattern just enough
For hands to grope for hoe and bowl

And raffia bag. And sprint home
On springs of nostalgia riding them
Back home on untired feet.
Moments fleet across stern hills
Standing like evening guards.

As the women ride away, walking
On horsebacks of light-hearted chats,
Jokes and teases in a war-like festivity
Of spears hurled at each other
With pointed jibes and stinging sarcasms
Before the pace takes a heavier tone.

(iii)

Then a widespread story:
Bobe Diangha's fall from
A considerable height.
No comment. Confirmed.
He had climbed more
Than ten tall yards up into a tree,
Boasting he would only stop climbing
When his hand touched heaven.

He'd boasted he would reach a quail's nest
For a rare reed to be harvested
From the bird's warm droppings.

And reaching out for a twig,
His weight too heavy
For the branch on which he stood,
Dropped down like a heavy rock,
A mass stretched out
Becoming a breathless block.

(iv)

As the mountains dwindle
Into the last plain,
A precocious static moon,
First a crescent, a shaky curve -
Until almost a sphere; then
It pops out in full bloom
Sailing in sneaky strides,

Doubling night shadows, the last
Flying birds returning to their nests
In myriads of wiry contours.
Casting clumsy grids on the ground
With its loud penetrating rays.
Sailing in silent strides across the sky,

Glorifying the tune of grasshoppers
Just beginning to intone lullabies
For early-to-beds already deep
In their precocious sleep.

The moon casts a special glow
On smoky roofs just beginning to grow.
The moon casts a ray to throw
Tired minds into a world of lanterns

And bush lamps below frightened bitterns.
The moon's thrust sprays and paves
A shiny path even for those without a cave,
Diangha just thrust out from death's cave -
From Mbingo hospital, the brave
Hand delivering nightfall into pistons
To propel time into the last retiring bave.