-


PAPA, HAVE I BEEN A GOOD SON? (A SON OF AFRICA TO HIS PAPA)
Papa, I have tried not to stray from the path you showed me. I have tried to walk with my head held high and my eyes etched into the future. I have not fought women nor have I relished the company of fools. I have kept off all gossips and instead focused on the wisdom of the old, so tell me papa, have I been a good son? Papa, I tilled the farm for mama when the planting season came, weeded when the weeding season came and chased away the weavers when the harvesting season arrived. I have built her granaries and helped her heifers calve. I bought her long pieces of cloth when I went to the city and a handful of shiny bangles. I bought my little sister Dada a doll to play with and a small flute to play when she missed you. I went to the river when mama was sick and bathed and dressed Dada when she was feeling tired. I tell her a story late in the night till she falls asleep then stay with mama till her eyelids become heavy.
I go to school too papa. I am the oldest and tower above all others but it is worth everything, it is the path I have to walk. I have to make you proud of me. I want the women to be greeting me with respect when I pass, the elders to call upon me for advice and the little kids to look up to me. I take Dada with me and she can now say her alphabets on her own, so tell me papa, have I been a good son? Are you proud of me?
The moon is disappearing again papa and I have to stop writing since I won’t see anymore. I promise you though, that once the milk clients bring in their handful of dues, I shall buy us a lamp so bright it would never go out, then I shall be able to write to you till morning. But then papa, have I been a good son? Tell me when the moon comes again, or maybe when I am fast asleep. Either way, i shall always hear you.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

-
If we must die If we must die, let it not be like cows in the slaughter, walking willingly into the bloodbaths, too meek to resist and too trusting to argue. Let us die like buffaloes in a lion chase or ants in a midday march. Let us die like termites in search of freedom in a hostile world. If we must die, let it not be like birds caught in storm or a deer by a hunter’s spear. Let it not be like foxes caught in traps or flies landing on fire. If we must die, let our death not be told to those with faint hearts and loud wails. Let it not be known by those women who know not to keep their mouth shut. Let it not be told to those frail and on the brink lest they tilt over. If we must die, let the news be hushed and kept silent. Let everyone be told that we refused to be vanquished, that the flame refused to be extinguished. Let them be told that it is not graves but a mound full of seeds and flowers. Lord, if we must die, let us waft out into your presence like sacred incense. Send a ch
Read more
-
Where did you go? I am a walking carcass hoping for a wind strong enough to carry me away, a rain harsh enough to dissolve me into a lump of soil. If I could erase all these memories and go back to the days before I met you, I would. But how sad that I roll in torture during the night and burn during the day. Tell me, old friend, you who made me feel special and important, where did the wind take you? Should I cry for time that conspired against us or should I let you shoulder the burden? I have been reduced into a mess of tears and regret. I have lost my trust and my confidence, come to me, you who gave me strength and take me with you. Tell me I was dreaming and tuck me back to sleep. Smother me with the pillow so I will not wake from this, for what is life, when she that I adored and loved in equal measure walked out on me? Look at me now as I wade knee deep in mud and slime, look at me as I stretch my hands to take you back but oh how far away you are. Come messiah, before
Read more
-
Blandness Many times you have let it be, that anger has blinded your eyes and ire has taken over your life. You have embraced sorrow for so long, and you have stayed too long in your bed of grief, that you remember no more what it feels to be happy. You have ceased to live, and life has long left you. You were a bee, but you have long convinced yourself that you are a fly. Oh son, you have allowed death to rule your soul. You have allowed darkness to carry a sceptre, and declare itself king in the kingdom of your being. You have been chained to a post, by an imaginary rope, and you have been held back by your own fear, like a dog without a chain, but still lies around the chaining post. You have closed the doors and the windows and allowed the smoke to sail into your heart. You have broken all the mirrors because when you look at them you see not the scar on your face but that in your heart, but oh, they do not lie. Count not the graveyards lest they sprout outside in your yard. Do no
Read more