It was the morning after the oraclist said he had sighted the new moon;
And declared that a new King will be crowned.
That victory was crouching at the door waiting to be tossed into the air like a beautiful baby running into the hands of a returning prodigal father.
Then the kettle began to whistle.
Bats and hounds sneaked into a silent night in search of caves of mayhem, bloodshed and death.
Clouds of terror began to put their heads together as thunder consulted with lightening to take the land down.
Egg heads from the Ivory Towers cracked their shells looking for flood lights and rulers to guide their failing eyes.
Yet they read like children learning to take their first steps, fumbling, falling, reeling out figures with beautiful faces but bad limbs.
But the kettle whistled and the rain came down on the village square.
Brown coated plants swerved with joy and bristled with a fresh life.
The harmattan dust fled in panic into the open gutters leading to the village stream.
And calm returned to the land.
But who asked the kettle to whistle?