Old age is sweet.
Fresh palmwine would have to stand in line in comparism to the heady ecstacy that old wine gives.
That was what Pa.Falokun felt like.
Stored well, not a jerry-can, but the proper rubber jar, he was ripe in his old age.
Pain is good for old age, it makes it worthwhile, a crown to all efforts, a plaque that can be shown to all who care.
And with pain comes experiences.
Which Pa.Falokun has stored in abundance. For years he’d spent those experiences on his younger children.
The one’s he taught at the Governmet College. Feeble minds that coiled to any, and everything Learned.
He didn’t exclude the ones in the Government University. Fancy brains. Fancy beings.
And so, as his bones creak, and his skin flakes off, he’s seen glad.
Gladness the structure of an abyss.
He has lived life, seen their four corners from his own allowed perceptive.
He has lived life, and thus knows it’s unstable.
It is a discotheque dancer, moving here, hopping there. If it favoured a certain position, then lucky was the place.
Although some people glued it to a certain point, so it would exasperate there, fill their lives with goodness, and starve the other sides of light.
Light of everything that gave life shape.
A good shape.
Pa.Falokun, sits outside his bungalow now.
Two years after his pension had gone AWOL, and he and his friends had stopped waiting upon it, but on the fruits of their labour.
Sweat and words.
Words, and sweat.
Discipline, strength, loyalty, and understanding.
To serve the leper, of a nation.
And their labours aren’t carried headlessly away by the wind.
One brought a car yesterday. Pa.Falokun had pruned him to academic perfection.
Another one came with yam tubers,
Another with words, and a fat envelope.
More envelopes. By the day, and by higher numbers.
Paying homage to a good man.
A very good man.
Pa.Falokun, sits and stares at the sky, through his coal eyes, refusing to grey.
His hair is dark still, with impercetible grey hues. He remembers Sandra.
His wife. The Igbo Damsel he never could marry.
All meetings, led to the crash of the union.
He still loves her though.
And he’d drawn their life in charcoal painting, and so maybe that was fair.
In the long run, he still had a taste of that life. The hold-hands-till-death, kind of life.
God indeed was merciful.
Above all this,
Pa.Falokun, also felt impatience licking at his fingers like a restless dog.
He wonders everynight, when he’d get his space in the stars.
A space. Joy seeps through him when he thinks that, to grow lofty above the world. And to finally fix. To join. And belong, permanently.
Where no one would be missed.
He hated missing people. And that had occurred a lot.
He want’s rest.
A space among the immaculate stars.