I am probably writing you this from heaven.
I still breathe, but am not sure if I am living,
because the people I see here are dead men.
No sign of real laughter.
And no sign, yet, that the eyes they’ve got here have all the seasons.
I mean, no prospect that tears may rain any soon.
But please read this letter knowing that am in a better place.
No need to ask after our child,
I know he is not fine.
And our house?
I know that no sooner than later, that rain I saw in the womb of the sky that day I left;
would have chanced it with its birth.
May be by now all shoes might have forged themselves into canoes for the new season.
All I really think of now is you.
This is the only prove that I have not joined the league of angels yet.
I mean if I did, would I still be thinking of the carnal moments we spent together
in the most forbidden of places, under the udala tree?
Nobody was close, everybody but us is afraid of the spirits.
But we had thought that if love is spiritual, then the spirits should be clapping instead.
It was romantic, wasn’t it?
I am pressed here.
So far I have seen no bolah.
I wonder where refuse are dumped in heaven.
If soon I find non, I will try to sleep
and may be return.
If not, where do I dump these wastes I have been carrying about?
The streets are too neat to even be our living room.
And the grasses are too clean to be eaten.
If you had seen this place before me,
that day I was leaving, you would not have let me go.
I Bet, you have killed your self if that’s the visa.
America is more than what you heard about it.
Its the heaven that the reverend said is above.
In fact the sun in the sky that day I bade you farewell,
is the last I have seen.
What they have here is a round patch in the sky that simply breaths cold.