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Gong, Gong, Gong
Sang the Ogèné
Somber in broadcast
A harbinger of doom
Ululation greets the news
For disaster is foreseen
Amid the clamor and bustle
The elders sat, perturbed, broken
Old Iròkó tree without leaves
Waiting for the vultures to perch
For they knew no sacrifice made
Would avert this looming disaster.
Look! Even the Úmúnná shiver with fright.
The strident barking of the dogs
Interlaced with the wailing of the women
All blending with the cacophonous shrill of the night breeze
Froze the ghost in their heads.
Ugh! They sighed, hopelessly.
These were obvious fragrance of doom.
Ewoo! Cried the villagers
Who were the white men foreseen
To destroy the peace of the village
And make them turn away from their chi?
Christians the oracle had said.
Ewoo! They cried, filled with grief.
Above, the night clouds parted in mourning.
Afar, the bleating of goats
And the cackle of chicken entwined
With the solemn gong of the ogèné
Gong, Gong, Gong.