I met Bai T. Moore,
Not too long ago,
Could be last night,
Could be anytime,
Past, present and future,
I met him,
Ain’ his father was a reverend?
His mother a missus?
His brother an Ed?
Not of Ed, Edd and Eddy fame,
His sisters: Mel, not that Mel of “Brave heart” guy,
She’s a woman guy,
And his sister Betty, must be glad,
She’s not part of an era where they call women “petty”,
What!? He stood tall in the thirties,
Leading in Virginia,
Where he took the dream along,
He told me; “he returned home,
To make contribution to his country”,
Dressed like a real countryman,
An eminent man,
Who took the slightest “opportunity to see Liberia?
Traveled on foot from Monrovia to Bopolu”,
It must had been fearfully adventurous,
“To Saukaizu”, I wondered if he tried to guess what the birds said,
To Gbarnga”, I asked him if he ever lived near a farm and drove birds away from tender rice plants?

“To Gbedin”, where the water falls from the hill top,
“To Tapeta”, somehow he met a Tarpeh,
And to Bonoke”, did he agreed to wear jacket over ‘bombo’ ?
What an insightful man,
Touching the roots of Liberian soil,
Didn’t blemish it with olive oil,
Though, he wrote of the “Ebony Dust”,
A collection that won’t rot on my shelf,
Like the way I taught;
“Murder in the cassava Patch”’
If I live in any land that is patchy,
I won’t be scare,
I got the “Voices from the grassroots” behind me,
That’s why I keep on to shoot,
Upward, upward, not like the
“Money Doubler”, of the corrupt sort,
While the women struggle in the markets,
Heaps of rubbish,
No public toilets, no garbage bins,
How can you live like that?
A place we all do our businesses,
Even when we volunteer our time,
Appreciations the women gave,
The big institutions and some leaders,
We see their faces not,
But I saw Bai T. Moore’s face,
Down in history pages,
He stands amongst world’s sages.

I met Bai T. Moore,
I mean the real Bai T. Moore, whose trend I follow,
Look! It is my tend,
I am not going to pretend,
The “papee ” was good,
That’s why his voice still lives,
It makes me lifted,
Like “Lighthouse Chapel”,
In my home, we plant not apples,
But the mountains glows at night,
With two huge eyes red like fire,
Hot iron ores which can cook a meal,
Hotter climate, something you; Bai T. Moore didn’t really experience,
But I respect your hand’s experience,
Your works are expedient,
Inspiring my wretched bones,
I want to go back to school,
Go back to you,
You wrote “Grona girls”,
But not “Grona boys”,
Believe me;
There are more grona boys,

Who knows how to handle the foreign toys,
Probably you were here,
When they began to disturb our homes,
Took off the old; shoes,
Shouting; “I respect you ooo”,
They despised peace,
And made us ran away,
Away, away from our nativity,
Look at how long it took me to meet you,
Long after Akon,
These days, a lot of African husbands wear aprons,
Because of the movements,
The civil rights movements,
Human rights movements,
Why throw stones at a girl,
When you were with her last night?

Why call them names, when you are a grona boy?
But the boys are now singing;
Not about your “New rice and dry meat soup”,
I’ve had enough of such meals, long before the bush meat ban,
Long before Ebola virus disease,
Long before I even met you,
In fact, they say I am the new disease,
So terminal, so bizarre
Causing so much hazard,
Like my Chelsea’s Hazard,
I still wrote when I taught Madzat Academy,
My mom was from Ganta,

I don’t worship the dead,
But she was the greatest,
No matter how I made her vex,

She wanted me to be at the apex,
Let me kept a pet,
A rooster which nearly bust my eye,
Before scallywag came along,
A ferocious scorpion,
Which didn’t sting any “kwi ” to death,
While they watch it in the jar,
When it died, I didn’t cry,
We didn’t have a “Kwi’s wake”,
My pet had more fans than the kwi,
We poured the libation,
And did few lines of rap,
A cheap famous wake,
Without coffin,
But there was a lot of coughing and “cutting”,
Not pastor, no offerings,
Just little Bathsheba said; “we were bluffing,
Using it as an opportunity to sip unwholesomely”,
Are you sleeping now, Mr. Bai T. Moore?
The story just started,
And please be reminded that your voice is not silent,

It is loud in the poem,
Based on Liberian folktale;
About two friends; “the hunter and the weaver”,
Yet I also wrote of the “hunter in the ghetto”,
The way you scribed, reminds me of Dr. Saye Guannu’s
History about Bassa people’s contribution;
“Ba ”, to our English which keeps foreigners spellbound,
Say “chakala ”, “halahala ”,
And all the palaver,
But they’ve turned the palaver huts to peace huts now,
Peace don’t get hot,
It don’t hurts,
It don’t destroy your image,
I may stand atop Everett,
To you, I’ll always pay homage,
For you’re the master,

A son of a pastor,
An icon,
Born right here for us to nib on,
The thing you brought on,
Will never die out!

That’s why I went out;
“Flomp-Wergle humor poetry contest”,
Representing my nation, yet there for the conquest,
A thirst they can’t quench,
A test; they can’t alter,
Like a “Mini-skirt” era you foresaw,
I am not ashamed to say;
I took your foresight,
But my sight,
Loves to see my girlfriend,
In very short skirts,
With those skin-tights they call “Ducorma”,
Her little “ukwu ”, rocking my heart delightedly,
All in the town,
Pretending to be calm,
When she’s a great alarm!

All around, all around, they talk about our love,
Like the way I talk about your “Black Power”,
Black emancipation,
When will this happen?
Where we have a continent of peaceful existence,
A continent united, divided the fall is great,
Hear the great call,
Hear Bai T. Moore’s call,
The same call of Ngugi Wa’ Thiongo,
Through the writer’s pen,
Going down,

Way down into history,
“For men preferred history,
To legendary,
Nobility to brutality”,
Some men preferred to watch ants,
Than watch people bickering in the early morning,
Listen to the birds twit,
While they raise their nation’s flag,
Some women preferred to be doctors,
Than just mere housewives,
What kind of home would you have?
Do you want the one
Taught by the ants?
Or the type bred by “University of Lectures?”
What a boredom!
When they tried to erase the true kingdoms,
Where the wealth is in plentitude, the people lived
In the fashion of the ordinary ants,
No “antis”, no “for”,
All just one,
How the hell will they fall?
They waited not too long to feed self,
No anxiety from partnership, no diseases,
I know you know that they did spectacular dances,
They did, how the hell they won’t?
When they were so self-reliant before came the men from concrete jungles,
A condition that even makes the old,
To twist and turn to tunes untold,
Let’s now unfold,
That lazy way of uncle concrete ‘jungler’,
The real cheat in the town of muscles;
The fittest must survive.

I met Bai T. Moore,
Still seated on his throne,
Still a living name, I take off my hat for,
For I move forward in his footsteps,
Get no rest,
Until the day I breathe my last!