“The Lost Butcher of Lagos (A memory of Eid al-Adha)” by Abiodun Bello

sundry moments now in the

         crucibles of memories –

                   memories or imagination? –

of children reveling in the remains

         of rams: fallen fur, and hollow horns

                   of slaughtered rams, now ghosts:

the horde of children company

         that strayed the streets with us –

                   we who went separate ways: you

across the axes of Lagos streets,

         and I later across the waves that

                   pleated the Atlantic, mounting

an oceanic wall between us…

         remember the wethers, my friend?

                   the speckled rams we hurtled after –

their ghosts I mean – now also

         cramming the imagination with no

                   respect for our distance apart – those

moments return now but in their

         own apparition – phantoms of the

                   butcher’s knives – small swords –

striking their blades of aluminum

         sheets like silvery twins – the last

                   āyah said before the first blood –

before the first blood was drawn

         from the elongated furry neck – and

                   the castrated ram bleating, bleeding

and beseeching the bearded butcher

         before the last streams of crimson

                   flowed to their final patch of earth –

one moment the mass of mutton roasted

         on the wooden stake, and then encircling

                   rings of smoke flamed towards the

heavens – and Musiliu the slaughter-man

         completed the final rites of mutton-

                   cutting – the ageless art of a loaned

festival – a feast day for the devout –

         the flaming smokes now meeting

                   at the sun’s sphere and behind the sills

of crowded window-sides – you – or I –

         remember the tales we told – they told –

                   of one father of faith – the telling of

which you – or I – do not now know how

         to frame – and to what family crowds

                   or street hordes of children straying the

streets, hurtling after the roving rams –

         those spectacles and fete distance now

                   waits to wean off me – or wean me off

the trailing ghosts of its hold: these childhood

         pleasures, adulations of old times…