It was evening,
The sun had set,
And the stillness of the twilight was upon everything.
That place now soiled with hastily crafted tunes of modernization was once lame,
Only songbirds with the similitude of nightingales sang.
The elderly folks gathered around hurricane lamps and listed to tunes from locally manufactured guitars segued with the silent whistling of the night,
The young farmers from their long days at field returned to their huts,
With radio sets aloud they listened to the salient melody of a common voice;a voice that promised all they had wished for.
Certain as I was, NBA and he's associates disappeared into the night to play.
Only I the traveller fell back to call in question every decision I had taken the last few days; why I suffered the former of the twin towers of pain and pleasure to direct my conscience.
With lustreless tears streaming down the routes of remorse.
Muttering "when will i see home again?"
I scrabbled for composure.
Then Damba my contemporary rejoiced at the news of hilal,
Like a phoenix rising from its ashes I felt momentarily home,
Then forward he spoke only of hope and halal.