Baye Fall
On a hot night in Banjul, he hears the zikr rise —
Often beneath stories hidden treasures lie,
The chant’s lurid tide, with talking sabar drum,
A summons streams through the hallowed dark.
This Jamaican paces the golden sands,
Past shrunken monkey heads & obscure claws,
Through market dust on revered paths,
Alongside Touba’s great, shimmering mosque.
Not yet Maghal, so the streets stand calm;
Men with matted locks in ragged colors toil;
Amulets clink, & the donkey cart ahead
Transports a dead body to sacred ground.
A silent prompting brings him to his knees,
Beside the mausoleum of Sheikh Ibrahima Fall,
& the huge pilgrim staff that never left your side —
(Xaritu Yàlla yi dañuy def lu baax) –
A fabulous tale the griots keep.
Another Poem by Skendong: Homecoming, Identity and Belonging When all Seems Lost