Ten is happening, Alima, daughter of my mother.
Nine months our mother carried you, unkneeling
Eight men came to ask for your hand,
Seven men each sent home with only ten fingers,
Six and more broken hearts behind them,
Five bags packed and ready for ilé ọkọ.
Four future foreparents that broke kolanut together.
Three cows gone too soon for this special event.
Two Yoruba families too quiet at the wedding.
One bride, along with her beans, is
No where to be found today.
Ten is happening, Alima. Méwàá n selé.
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