Debo Awe
Field of Raging Hays
Translated from the Yoruba by Hussain Ahmed
Fire rages across a field of hays.
It’s beyond the stretch of a mouth to utter what we witnessed
A giant fire glowed beneath our gowns,
And we are far from the water to quench the fire.
No kitchen has witnessed such rage in a flame,
Paraffins and petrol are a stranger to what was lit.
We are hungry amidst the raging hays.
The fire burns, and we are swamped with ailments.
As the fire burns, the town is restless with grief.
The fire burns, robbers seized the air from our lungs.
As the fire burns, the town is soured with choler.
Once, a sleep saves you from cervical fracture,
Those times are past.
The working class are dominated with idleness,
Their cold hands nutmegged between their thighs, for warmth.
A stinging fly may hide in a hive, it knows how to pounce.
And a lizard that hides in a cracked wall, awaits a prey.
Their hungry eyes glittered as if possessed by a god of thunder.
lo! The field of hay continues to rage with fire,
My body is full of empathy for men in this country.
Breakfast and lunch are served at a time,
They skipped the dinner, empty stomachs against the floor.
Despite the stomach aches and the rumblings,
The hayfield rages on, you don’t have to ask,
All the eyes witnessed, would someday be told.
A defect on my eyes won’t degrade the nose sense of smell.
Workers end the month with nothing to hold onto,
Their wages are without worth.
After each payment, their debt waits to be paid.
Have you ever seen a worker who wailed,
After being paid? There is more I left unsaid.
The barn rages on, there is an ebb in this country that unsettles the streets.
No one would ask; is your stomach full?
Have you eaten? Is the closest to how much they care.
**
Shall this be called a red eye frustration,
As famine continues to stretch the country?
We blame civilization – as penance for our sins.
The source of our suffering is of less weight,
We need a break from shackles of our past troubles.
Shall we talk of how arm robberies held us hostage?
Or of the fire that wouldn’t stop grazing our hayfield
Or the emergence of bandits and assassins.
Death is prayed towards neighbors.
How do we tell the origin story for this inflation?
Woe, the fire continues to rage on our fields.
Cassava flakes are rare commodities,
And grains are now food for only the wealthy.
Our mouths rely on silence for what should have been said,
Of how much a loaf of bread now cost.
Have you not seen graduates become newspaper vendors?
Transportation fares are cumbersome,
Poor men are now hunched with distress
And the costs of books grow.
Everything got stained in this rage,
Prudence is a growing culture, but wares are locked up.
Inflow of goods thinned out.
As Scarce as the droppings of a masquerade,
Our currency degenerates,
No one is spared in this scar rampage.
**
The old business days are urged back,
Hardship in the face of more hardship,
In a bid to half the adversity with urgency.
But, death is all these eyes envisaged.
Rain had been swallowed by this ground, but
How does the water remain and snake beneath a bridge?
Can the water foretell what is yet to come?
We save our strength, to savage what would be left of the ruins.
Cutting an infested head doesn’t get rid of the lice.
The hayfield rages, it’ll worsen if the elephant grasses get touched.
The hay field rages with fire, and bigger it grows.
We must survive the flames,
For a better time to follow.
We must eat bones for a chance to live to meat again.
We must hold our voices high on everyone trusted with power,
Those who sat close to the drums of wealth.
We must make hay before it turn ashes,
So, our workers won’t stay out in the sun
While the looters sit beneath a tent.
For the firewood that made us sleep in the wild,
We deserve to sit by the light it makes.
The hayfield rages on, with fire across this country,
The hayfield rages but the eagles cannot be blamed.
No doubt, all species of birds are sick of the wild.
Pápá ń jó nílẹ̀ yìí I
Ohun tí kóówá ń fara dà kò ṣeé sọ rárá
Iná ńlá ń jó lábẹ́ asọ kóówá wa,
A à rómi tó lé páná tó ń jó làbẹ́ aṣọ
Iná tó ń jó kọjá tilé ìdáná
Ki í ṣe telépo barafín tàbí tepo bẹtiróò.
Pápá ń jó ebí ń paráyé,
Pápá ń jó, àìsàn ńlá ń ṣe mẹ̀kúnnù
Pápá ń jó, rògbódìyán gbòde kan-an
Pápá ń jó, adigun jalè ò jẹ̀ á rímú mí.
Pápá ń jó, gbògbó ìlú kan gbinríngbinrín,
A kì í gbélé ẹni ká fọrùn rọ́
Bíì tilẹ̀ yìí kọ́ o jàre.
Oníṣẹ́ ọwọ ò rí ṣe mó,
Ọwọ ni wọn ń ká bọtan kiri
Bágbọ́n ó ṣoro, a kìdí bọlé
Báláǹgbá ó ṣoro, a kìdí bọ̀giri gbígbẹ.
Ebi kìdí bọ bì sànmọ́nì ti rí yìí.
Ó ń pa mẹ̀kúnnù bí àrìrà
Háà! Pápá ń jó
Àánú ọmọ aráyé ṣe mí
Ọ̀pọ̀ ti pa oúnjẹ àárò pò mọ́ tọ̀sán,
Ọ̀pọ̀ a sì danú délẹ̀ bálẹ́ bá lẹ́,
Nítorí àwórókó, nitorí inú rírun.
Pápá ń jó bó o bá bí mí.
Ohun tí mo rí, mo kúkú le sọ fún ọ,
Àrùn ojú lèyí, kì í ṣàrùn imú rárá
Oníṣẹ́ oṣú ò rówó ṣù jọ mọ́,
Ṣáá la rí, kò mọ́ní lọ́wọ́ mọ́.
Bóbá ti gbà á, àgbá-sangbès̀e ló kú.
Èyin ríbi tóṣìṣẹ́ ti gbowó oṣù tán,
Tó tún bú sẹ́kún rí? Òrò pọ̀ nìbè,
Pápá ń jó, ilé ò rójú, ọ̀nà ò tòrò,
Sọ́mọ mi yó? Kò ṣeé wí mọ́,
Sọ́mọ mi ti jẹun? Ló kù tó làsìkò.
Papa n jo nile yii II
Ìpọ́njú là bá pèyí ní
Àbíyàn ńlá tó kárí ayé?
Ó sì lè jégbàlódé tàbí ìjìyà ẹ̀ṣẹ̀.
Èyí tó wú ó jẹ́ kọ́ ni pàtàkì,
Àní ká wọ́nà bá á ti bọ́ nínú ọ̀fìn ọ̀ràn.
Ìdigun-jalè tó gbàlú ńkọ́?
Pápá tó ń jó ní
Ìpàniyàn, ipánità
Ká bẹni lọ́wẹ̀ ikú sọ́mọ ẹnikejì,
Òwọ́n gógó ojà ńkó?
Oró ńlá, pápá ń jó gán,
Pákí dohun àjítannáwò nílẹ́ gbajúmò,
Ká má ṣẹ̀ṣè sọ ti erèé, bòròkìnní oúnjẹ,
Niye tí wọ́n ń ta búrẹ́di.
Ẹ̀yin ò rọ́mọ tó jáde Yunifásíti tó ń tá bẹ́bà ni?
Owó ọkọ̀ gbówó lóri’
ìnira ńlá dé bá mẹ̀kúnnù
Iwé kọ́bọ́ mẹ̀tá ijọ́sí tí dí naira mẹ́ta,
Kò sóhun tí ò fara bá nínú ọ̀rọ́ yìí
Ètò ṣówóna tilẹ̀kùn mọ́jà òkèèrè,
Ojà ò wọlé wá mó,
Èyí tó wà nílè wọn j́u imí eégún lọ.
Ó ń bu tẹrú-tọmọ lógbẹ́ kírị́.
Pápá ń jó nile yii III
Wọ́n ní ká pe ọrọ́ ajé wa padà.
Ká fìnìra kojú ìnira,
Kí ìnira lè kásẹ̀ lọ́gán,
Àmọ́, ikù lónìí, ọrọ̀ lọ́la ló jọ lójú kóówá gbogbo.
Òpò òjò tó ti rò wọlè
Òpò omi tó ti ṣán kọjá lábẹ́ afárá ńko?
Ńjẹ́ wọ́n tún lè fojú rí ọrọ̀ tó ń bọ́.
Ẹ jẹ̀ ká dè ẹ̀, ká le lókun àtigbẹ̀rú to kù
Orí bíbé kó lòògún iná orí
Pápá ń jó lóko, ẹ kilò féèsún
Pápá ń jó, èyí pọ̀ jù.
Bá a bá gbà láti jeegun nítorí ẹran,
Ó yẹ ká bẹ́ àwọn aláṣe ètò
Àwọn tó wà nídìí àgbà
Kí wọn ṣohun tó tọ́, kí wọn ṣe ohun tó yẹ,
Kọ́rọ̀ má dí òṣìṣé wa lóòrùn,
Akówójẹ wà nibòòji,
Nítorí igi a tori rẹ̀ gbodì,
Ó yẹ ó lè koná fúnni yá jojo,
Pápá ń jó nílẹ́ yìí,
Pápá ń jó lóko a à rípa àwòdì ńbè,
Ta ni kò mò páisàn ńlá ń ṣèyá àwọn ẹyẹ lóko.
Hussain Ahmed reads “Field of Raging Hays”
Debo Awe is a Yoruba poet. He is the author of more than fourteen books of poems, including Papa n jo.
Hussain Ahmed is a Nigerian poet and environmentalist, and he is the author of a chapbook Harp in a fireplace (Newfound, 2021). His poems are featured or forthcoming in POETRY, Kenyon Review, Transition Magazine, Waxwing and elsewhere. He is an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Mississippi.