(For Aare Gani Adams)
At a time our homeland is crying for cover
The sky unleashing its bladder on our royal heads
When the walls of our heritage have opened for nationhood lizards
The Generalissimo emerges on a gallant horse.

Scores had approached the legendary King
Dreaming in dollars for the Commander’s mantle,
Some pounced with tempting pounds
Others winked with Ghana-Must-Gos.

But Iku Baba Yeye remained immune to sentiments and gold
He knows the forest may boast a thousand elephants,
Buffalos may double in numbers and threats
But you need a Lion to lead a war

He asked what would be a General without his soldiers
He said in this age of ‘Ours is ours’
With civilisation tattooing our bodies and souls
Aare must wield a robust history of cultural pride.

You will need to fight wars, Gani
Whether with guns, charms or your fiery tongue
The war may no more be of bullets and brawns
Neither cutlasses, catapults nor bows

But you will need to fight wars!
To awaken the sleeping giant in our enviable race
The soul of education steadily flying out of our crumbling schools
Must be revived for Omo Alade to remain the light of the pack

The cocoa spirit left to wander in abandoned bushes
Must be appeased to tame the curse of oil
Halting the tide of cultural flight,
You must return native colours to our festival dance.

Ganiyu omo Adams,
Do not mind the brashness of my tongue
Art bends all norms,
It is only a poet that can call a Generalissimo by his very name.

You have served the rivers for so long
Osun and Olokun cannot turn their backs upon your reign.
When the gods hungered
Orunmila received from you a hefty fowl,

Obatala heaved a sigh of respite
On sighting your timely gift of a wool-white ram
Even before the Ekimogun Day,
Did you not offer a giant dog to the Iron God?

Having watered dawn with a pigeon’s faith
The noon will not be eager for your youthful blood.
Let the heavens join the earth to sing a song of life
The earth cannot be eager for the flesh of its own

Tongue is the maker, tongue the smasher
With the same olubobotiribo tongue that makes and mars
We rebuke the philosophers of stereotyped graves
Reject the sterile slogan of violent deaths.

Whoever raises his hand to smack Sangi
Whoever shoots an arrow at a gourd of oguro
The sky is not bothered whenever the plantain raises its hand
Because it slaps to comatose its witless self.

The pine is the prime of riverine trees, Gani
It is above the stereotype of early deaths
You are the anointed Eagle above our heritage
You will live to soar for a century years.