Muhammad Ali, 2016

The forger of fists is gone;
the weaver of the dance that breaks the jaw.

He has taken the canoe
to the place where legends moor.

We heard the thud of the loom
as he worked his cloth of fate.
It was no shuttle of the meek.

But the lagoon struck open by thunder,
the forest answering to a hidden beast.

They came with measuring tapes;
the little men from the Red land of the Indians.

They brought their scissors,
razors of the small, whispering,
“We will cut your cloth to our size.”

But his cloth was woven on the loom of the elders; its pattern shaped by a river in flood; its thread spun from a mane
that never knew surrender.

So he danced his dance,
and their blows became drums
talking back to the drummer.
The ropes they bound became vines
the forest spirit loosens at noon.

The forger of fists is gone.
He has taken the canoe
to the settlement of legends.
The shore keeps its breath.
Only the echo of his footfall
lingers in the ring,
an emptied shrine.

We who remain
on this bank of sorrow
salute you, warrior.

Go well, comrade.

Go well to the great assembly,
where the ancestors rise to clap
for the one who made the pale man’s world
a leaf in the harmattan wind.

In 2016, while in Accra, Ghana , Nigerian playwright Majekodunmi O. Ebhohon wrote this piece upon hearing the news of Muhammad Ali’s passing._
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