Look at this yam; you think you can insult me

I flew you to high heavens, across the Atlantic

Dodging waves and paddling canoes over Scandinavian fireballs

That balls that chased smokes out of hilltops

That frightened out sky invaders to alight their madness.

And so we cruised, exchanging pleasantries under the table

Just to secure your life and give you a pot line

Those with gloves spotted you at port of disembarkation

They said that comparable to their yam, you're huge

But comparable to them, I'm not small

For every yam is as large as its owner.

We passed the gate, my weight assisting to ferry you

Now how dare you insult me when we arrived home?

After I've taken all the sweat

After I exchanged you with dough

After I paid gratuities on your head at embarkation point

All I can get from you is some rotten treatment.

Now, you'll see what I'll do to you

You see that pot over there?

You see that sharpened knife?

Are you aware that water rests in the pot?

Do you know you'll go through a boiling cauldron?

Now, I must serrate you

Let's start with peeling you

Scrubbing out those brownish thorns

Such that we'd peep into your holy self

After which we'd cut you

And place you on that pot

The tomato stew is awaiting a fine mix

Only them would you know where you ended.

Patrick Nwadike is a member, Writers Cave, Tokyo.

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