In The Funeral Of Africa Poem by Rex-mayor Ubini

As the sky drew her cottons against my eyes
I slumbered on the arms of time
Lost in a blue space of yester-years
Days of my late great grannies
Hued beyond culture and custom
Values held with high esteem
Marriage with virginity proof
The pride of an african bride
Maidens in campala buba
With natural african hair
Mothers in native wrapper
Head crowned with uthorfor
And the mirror of nature reflects us
The beckoning black race
This is our face
Preened with modesty and grace
The sun of our black out days

But now I woke up wholly disoriented
It seems am in a strange locus
Can't find the tokens of our ancestors
The footprint of their tarriance here
Has been washed 'way by western wind
What is left here is a faceless race
Clothed with nakedness and disgrace

If the bars of death are deposed
Off the way of the breathless folks
And the dry frame of Eseroma is fleshed
With a gaily whirlwind amidst her breasts,
To quicken her trembling feet to etch
One more print on this black soil,
Where would she find her wrapper?
Where would she find uthorfor?

To all whose vein is the itinerary
Where black blood truly journeys
See through my inner eyes days coming
Where black soil is tattooed with taboos
The sepulcher of values and virtues
The colosseum of Fela's show of vice
Where not only the young but old
Would walk in strange unpeity apparel
Eliciting from today's slap on our face
The white invading God's space
Recreating our black women
False hairs and false nails
False lashes and fake-eyes
Gory lips of mosquitoes
Whose blood suck black daughters
O my lament in the funeral of Africa.