— For the goat beneath the kola tree —

Come, Noma
Eat well.
This cassava peel is sweeter than yesterday’s.
Yes, I see the way your ears flick.
You understand more than you let on.

I remember when you were small,
legs like broomsticks,
chasing shadows across the compound.
Now look
your beard carries the wisdom of old drums.

You’ve heard enough stories,
sitting by my feet as I shelled egusi seeds,
to know this world
is not a place we own
only a hut we borrow
until the moon calls our name.

Ah, Noma,
do you remember the flood?
How you leapt onto the mortar
and stood like a king
while we scrambled for dry land?

We’ve shared many seasons,
you and I.
I, with my coughs and sighs,
you, with your silence that says so much.

But tonight feels soft,
like palm wine poured slowly into clay.
The stars blink like elders
who no longer argue.
Even the wind
now tiptoes
past
the doorway.

We’ve talked enough for today, Noma.
Eat, but don’t rush
take your time.
I will go to sleep now.
If it’s the pathway,
you will know.
And I trust you won’t delay.

Then the lamp burned low.
Crickets sang their slow hymn.
The elder’s breath
slipped into the hush of night
like a calabash sinking gently in water.

Noma did not move.
Not a hoof. Not a sound.
Only the slow grind of its jaw
and the soft snort of knowing.

The moon rose like a veiled widow,
its silver light spilling
across the mat
and the dusty path beyond.

No one told Noma what to do,
how to do,
or when to do what to do.
But it knew.
It just knew.
It chewed slower now,
like one counting the last grains of life.

Its eyes fixed on the threshold,
then the moon,
then back to the mat
who no longer stirred.

The night said nothing.
Noma said nothing.
But both were ready.

Then Noma stretched its neck
feeling the joint for the last time
as if testing the silence
between this world
and the next.