Originally published in Ronald Segal, ed., Modern Poetry from Africa. Penguin Books, 1968, p. 164
The overloaded canoe leaves our shores
But who are these soldiers in camouflage,
These clouds going to rain in foreign lands?
The night is losing its treasures
The future seems a myth
Warped on a loom worked by lazy hands.
But perhaps all is not without some good for us
As from the door of a shack a thousand miles away
The scaly hand of a child takes in greeting
The long and skinny fingers of the rain.