A face-to-face meeting frank talk between a spiritual father and his son coined around the parallelism of religion, spiritualism and destiny. Fate as the crucial vehicle bears the task of conveyance of man and the secret code.

Straight to the scared gourmet,
Casts the cowrie shells,
Asking the askance,
Why are mine...myself?
Spare the trite token of me
Of divinity...of destiny
Why are mine...myself?

Even if my father sought enmity,
My motherhood beget intense rivalry
Among my kind&kiths, bewildered eyes stare down,
I remain standing akin to the Iroko Tree.
Never cut my head off,
Never chop off my eyelid blink,
Never timid my gaunt strides,
My soul...My spirit,
Same is the sameness
Why are mine...myself?

You asked I served the sacrifice,
For the Gods at the sacred junction,
Overboard and overseas virulent,
Killed the sought-out mother-fowl,
Spread and sought out with peppers, fingerlings, and cowrie shells.

Was it eaten then?
Was it feasted upon?
I laid it at the tributary and transverse,
Cast down the cowrie shells,
Let me know the knows of the,
Ledger of my fate and faith.

My shadow will cometh next,
My spirit and soul ditto step forward,
Side-by-side on the front mat,
At the next moon rising of the market day,
FACE as you are the FACE of the GODS!
TALK you as the GONG of the GODS,
SPEAK you as the VOICE of the GODS.

At that, I cast no disdain,
I reserved YOU priestly,
Yet, no cowrie shells in my palms,
Until the GODS tells me the tactful,
Speak nothing less of my dirge
Torrent my games of lamentations,
Aloof and Aloft,
Until you seek for where their faces are,
Hatch for where the gongs knobs farther,

A while, I go away!
Leaving YOU to hasten them,
To open the GENESIS of my CLOT
To return to harken to my REVELATION,
Of why mine...myself?
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