Let him run
The man with a sweet tongue and rippling muscles, the man with a killer smile and a chiselled brow, the man that jumped out of your dreams, where is he? Where is the sailor you envisioned? I heard he went rogue and became a pirate. I heard it from the birds that he kidnapped his own ship and sabotaged his own crew. Your little gift, the fruit of your loins is here, having fallen down from the trees up high. Let him run, let the coward scamper. Aren’t you supposed to be happy when you dodge a bullet? Don’t you celebrate when you survive an epidemic? I heard it from the fish that he sweated and swore, cursed and begged. I heard that the fool fidgeted from leg to leg and trembled in his huge muscles. I congratulate you my dear one, for carrying with you the burden of shame, for all fame was first born out of shame. I appreciate you for walking the long road alone, for weeding and tending to a tender tendril instead of uprooting it. Let him run, let the fool scamper, let him wither off and die, for he deserves not the scrap of a hoe on his back. He deserves not the tender combs of the pitchfork on his rowdy wheat hair. Work harder and take advantage of the rains for when the harvest is bountiful, the hungry shall come to eat. Remember to carry with you your hunting knife and sack. Remember to carry with you your club and mallet, for when the mango ripens, the greedy teeth shall come forth to claim its juice. Let him run away now, for soon he will run back to your feet. Be sure to stand up and watch, be sure to remember his name and the moment. Be sure to capture your tears in a bowl, for someday they shall be your testimony. Someday they shall be your vindication. Cultivate the illegal oat that landed on your field. Tend to the little tendril that will someday become a big fruit, but let him run. Let him cross the mountain and down into the valleys. Let him go about screaming and hollering. Let him smear your name with dirt and filth. Argue not with the fool. Raise not a finger to quarrel with the imbecile. Let the airhead do what he does best, for he shall remember you when the drought arrives and hunger scorches his withered tummy. Let him run to the end of the world, let him run to the beginning of time, for someday your scar shall heal, and your fruit will be sweeter than the labour you put in. Patience, my dear. Someday your beer shall ferment and when you sit down and drink from your calabash, you shall remember not the sweat and the numbing sorrow, only the sweet scent of victory and the soft allure of comfort. Let him run. Let your little child grow up, for in you she shall know a father and a mother. She shall sing for you and remember you. You are a hero, for the tales of heroes are always different from those of ordinary men. Heroes conquer what ordinary men run from, you didn’t run, you stayed behind, and so your name shall never slide away from our lips. You shall be sung and glorified. Let the coward run.
The man with a sweet tongue and rippling muscles, the man with a killer smile and a chiselled brow, the man that jumped out of your dreams, where is he? Where is the sailor you envisioned? I heard he went rogue and became a pirate. I heard it from the birds that he kidnapped his own ship and sabotaged his own crew. Your little gift, the fruit of your loins is here, having fallen down from the trees up high. Let him run, let the coward scamper. Aren’t you supposed to be happy when you dodge a bullet? Don’t you celebrate when you survive an epidemic? I heard it from the fish that he sweated and swore, cursed and begged. I heard that the fool fidgeted from leg to leg and trembled in his huge muscles. I congratulate you my dear one, for carrying with you the burden of shame, for all fame was first born out of shame. I appreciate you for walking the long road alone, for weeding and tending to a tender tendril instead of uprooting it. Let him run, let the fool scamper, let him wither off and die, for he deserves not the scrap of a hoe on his back. He deserves not the tender combs of the pitchfork on his rowdy wheat hair. Work harder and take advantage of the rains for when the harvest is bountiful, the hungry shall come to eat. Remember to carry with you your hunting knife and sack. Remember to carry with you your club and mallet, for when the mango ripens, the greedy teeth shall come forth to claim its juice. Let him run away now, for soon he will run back to your feet. Be sure to stand up and watch, be sure to remember his name and the moment. Be sure to capture your tears in a bowl, for someday they shall be your testimony. Someday they shall be your vindication. Cultivate the illegal oat that landed on your field. Tend to the little tendril that will someday become a big fruit, but let him run. Let him cross the mountain and down into the valleys. Let him go about screaming and hollering. Let him smear your name with dirt and filth. Argue not with the fool. Raise not a finger to quarrel with the imbecile. Let the airhead do what he does best, for he shall remember you when the drought arrives and hunger scorches his withered tummy. Let him run to the end of the world, let him run to the beginning of time, for someday your scar shall heal, and your fruit will be sweeter than the labour you put in. Patience, my dear. Someday your beer shall ferment and when you sit down and drink from your calabash, you shall remember not the sweat and the numbing sorrow, only the sweet scent of victory and the soft allure of comfort. Let him run. Let your little child grow up, for in you she shall know a father and a mother. She shall sing for you and remember you. You are a hero, for the tales of heroes are always different from those of ordinary men. Heroes conquer what ordinary men run from, you didn’t run, you stayed behind, and so your name shall never slide away from our lips. You shall be sung and glorified. Let the coward run.
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