From the call of the coucal,
to the mournful whispers of my kin,
the roots of Idoto stir within me.

From woods thousands of miles away,
from the green-carpeted paths of home,
I hear the cries:
one, a call to order,
the other, a chorus steeped in sweet disorder.

In one land I sojourn,
a stranger among its rhythms.
In the other, I am son and heir,
bound by soil, by water, by blood,
yet kept far by time and tide.

When shall I tread
the red earth again?
When shall the river
mirror my face at dusk?

When shall I be home?

Ekenweofia, I feel your longing for home.
Akudinofia feels it deeply -
That orderliness will be restored
And we fish together on the banks of Idoto: someday,
In the nakedness of our childhood innocence.