If it wasn’t Lálùdé
Who else would it have been?
The sole lover of Àwèlé
A love Àyánwálé wouldn’t stop drumming of.
Listen carefully to the rhythm
Control your feet
This is not one to dance to
Hear the cries from his talking drum
There’s pain written with every stroke of his stick.
Àwèlé wouldn’t have found joy if not for Lálùdé
Àwèlé would still have been in joy if not for him
For who else would she have called when the Baale’s son ate her fruit forcefully?
Alas! Her lion came
Pouncing and swearing and cursing and pacing
He’s been robbed of the prize he aimed
But he wouldn’t let the victory slide.
He could have gone to the Baale’s house
He could even lay an ambush along the forest path
Lálùdé could have exposed the evil at the village square
But he saw opportunity in her grief
He ate of what remained of the Baale’s son bite.
Now tell me how she’ll ever trust a man?
Maybe in the next life but not this one.