journey through

A letter to a disappointing son Dear Tim, It is your father here. My time is running out faster and faster. I dreamt I was falling into a deep pit yesterday with no one to break my fall. I drop down son, but as usual I never reached the bottom. I know the dream shall continue from where it left off tomorrow and soon, the ground shall be seen and I shall fall with a soft thud, one that nobody will ever notice. I‘ve tried my best to give you the path of life but you chose to take that of death. You disregarded my wisdom and decided to live at the mercy of your adolescent myopia. I wouldn’t like to revisit the bad moments we’ve had when we were together but rather hinge onto those that made me smile, to at least give me hope that I have left behind a good seed. You said I was too possessive and didn’t want to let you go so you let yourself go. You said I was too old to keep up with the trends so you set yours and left. You spoke ill of my falling teeth and furiously growing baldnes...

  HOW BLACK IS BLACK? I stayed silent and hoped things would change soon but they haven’t. We are a people who are made of black and are proud of it. We have tried to unite and become one since we share a common origin, Africa. We have tried to fight outside forces and remain true to ourselves, but i ain’t going to lie, we are our own enemies. I am for black unity, but why is it that black Americans are snobbish towards their African counterparts? Why is it that they consider the black people in Africa lesser than them? Is it that they are ashamed of their roots? Don’t they know it is the roots that give birth to the leaves? Numerous cases have been reported with people from Africa, mostly students on scholarship, saying they found it easier to associate with white folks than with fellow blacks. They tend to adopt the know-it-all attitude, been there, seen and done against their fellow coloureds. Will we ever achieve black unity if we segregate against ourselves? You may cla...

COME BACK HOME, MY DEAR MAMA Mama, do you still remember the way home? Do you still remember the dusty, winding path and the hot January sun? Do you remember the scruffy hens that dotted your compound? Mama, do you remember your husband and your children? Do you remember our whining and the dry mucus on our noses? I don’t think you do anymore. The child you left years ago when milk had barely dried off his lips, the older girl who had just started budding at the chest and the little man who was developing a thick voice, well, you don’t remember them anymore do you? Think of your husband, that man with a bald head and a walking staff, the man that paid twenty heads of cattle and twenty sheep. Do you still value his wry half-smile? Do you still remember his coarse hands on you? You left us with nothing mama, no food, no clothes and went to town to seek opportunities. What did you get? Did you buy the big houses or drive the big cars? Did you get to ‘climb’ the airplane as you drea...

SO REMEMBER ME WHEN THE MUSIC DIES DOWN It was the music and the rhythm that brought us together in the first place. That night, with sisal skirts and jingles on our feet and we danced barefoot in the full moon. The drummers were excited for the day and they did the magic with their sticks. There was joy and glee as the old and the young came together to shake a leg and have the time of their lives but to me, to us, they simply didn’t exist. The thumping of their feet on the ground seemed to be coming from a great distance and the strong smell of their sweat unknown to our noses. The song was for us then, a call for us to come together and show them our love, and we did. They stood by to marvel, be jealous and envious. We were the talk of the dance arena and the village later on and our love, like the music was an example to many. We would have to wait for the next moon for the festival to come on but yes, the music was playing in our heads and our hearts. We realized that we d...

ON THE GRAVESTONE I walked into the small bend then into the small cemetery outside the old cathedral, my hands in the battered jacket pocket. Its gate squealed solemnly when i pushed it inside despite the new coat of a pale-white paint on it. There was no sign of life in the place, a sharp contrast to the mobs flooding the streets outside. Even the wind seemed to be afraid of this place for its howl was almost silent as if afraid it would wake some souls or bad memories. The grave stood under the willow tree, aloof and some distance away from all the others. It was one of the oldest around there, made of cheap granite with its sides already chipping away. There was a wild assortment of plants growing on it but did little to hide the name.                Elizabeth O Alison               Born 1899        ...