Before Mallam Sauta posed with his first Sallah ram,
he must’ve entered his inner room, broken his clay bank,
dipped his hands into the heap of his copper coins
and counted them over and over again.
He must’ve walked the length and breadth of Oja Oba
before finding the perfect rope, a bright blue
embroidered security within iron chains.
He must’ve marked the perfect spot to tie it
in his front yard, by the Y-junction that led to
the market, the Jumah Mosque, and the Emir’s palace.
When Mallam Sauta posed with his first Sallah ram,
he must’ve asked his wife and children to dress up well,
he must’ve forced his cap to sit into his afro,
wiped his iron-framed glasses clean
and adjusted one arm of his Baban riga.
He must’ve ignored the photographer but smiled
at the compliments and envious gazes of passers-by.
He must’ve failed at pushing down the pride
that made his chest swell.
After Mallam Sauta posed with his first Sallah ram,
he must’ve requested that the photo be made into
a memory totem with an inscription on the back:
‘Mallam Sauta and Family,
Sallah, 1953,
Ilorin’.
