He would never cease to discuss
On the development of our house.
He’d look at the walls and blame
Poverty, saying, “If not for money,
I would have plastered this place,
I like terrazzo to be here. I prefer the
Modern switches to these outdated ones.”
That was our father for you.
Poverty drove him to talking too much
And mama often got pissed off.
He does his talking, usually
After our usual supper—yam fufu
And bitter leave soup.
In daddy’s head,
He had completed our uncompleted house.
He knew what he wanted and he talked them daily.
“I’ll put rugs in our room and tiles in the kitchen.
Terrazzo in the parlor and interlock in the veranda.
I’ll prefer pop to an ordinary roof. I’ll do it this way.
I’ll do it that way.”
Dad never got tired of
Building our house
In his head daily.
Mama would ask him,
“When would you have money
To do these things Baba Dayo?”
He took mama’s questions lightly
And knew that one day,
His talks shall make sense when
His dreams becomes reality.