THE road remembers their footsteps
even when the dust has forgotten their names.
Three shadows once walked here,
lean as young iroko shoots,
trading laughter like palmwine,
trading arguments like flint and stone.
They shared desks worn smooth
by the elbow of thought,
shared nights when ideas
rose like harmattan moons,
shared families whose doors
swung open as easily as breath.
Time, that old masquerade,
has been untying the knots.
First one drum fell silent,
then another.
The circle shrank
like a calabash drying in the sun.
Now only one voice answers the echo.
Only one lamp burns
in the long corridor of their companionship.
But listen:
in the hush between heartbeats,
you can still hear the other two
their laughter stored in the rafters,
their questions rustling the leaves,
their footsteps folded into the soil
like seeds waiting for rain.
The world counts one.
Memory counts three.
And the road,
faithful as ever,
keeps widening its arms.
