FRAGMENT OF A BLOSSOM TEARS
We have broken lips bought by our parents’ sins in the month of their dying pain. They served our tales to the Elite leaders of how imperfect we were before the dawn of mother earth’s sorrow. This is our home, this is our story, this is who we are before the toothless embryo of a pregnant woman down the street. If the callous of a man could lure him into sin then the empowerment of our daily steps are the reasons why we are who we are with the headlight in the drive way. Let me tell you of papa’s tale before the birth of the white cockerel with fire on its head came to be. He was a teethful man whose marrow tells the moon when to come out in the night and when to retire when it was day. We planned of tomorrow yesterday with mother under the udala trees in the compound, we were never afraid of the sound of the ikoro in the thick darkness, we danced with the youths with broken limbs at the village square where the eyes of the market reminded us of yesterday when the whites with their vile tears uprooted our pride and made us naked and enemy to ourselves.
When you see my grandmother at the forest tell her that I received her message in good faith. Tell her that the roses she planted in our hearts are the railway tracks that would guide us through the phases of life. She said we must not hold onto relationship for so long, sometimes, they work and sometimes, they don’t work. So we must choose carefully where ever we found love. We must not hold on for too long for love to beckon.
Cracking down the bitterness of the atmosphere in the street of hunger, I found out that the rising of the sun is the beginning of man’s tribulation. We may not be perfect because we are all humans; humans of breast milk and fault created and birthed in sin but the way to my village stream have made me to understand that humanity is of two different phases: the phase that loot itself deceptively while on a sheep clothing and the other phase that harbors the spirit itself righteously.
“know thyself man! Know thyself man!” this was the call of nature and the saints but man is too busy to know himself. Broken are we, sorrowful, homeless and hopeless. Fearful and godless are humans. My father told me that before the lyrics in his eyes went to the sky among the smoke that rose from mother’s kitchen the day he expired.
We grinned and giggled to part no more, we cried and laughed to sing no more, we died yesterday to live tomorrow; when trying to elope with your neighbour’s goat in the name of stealing, remember that the earth only orbit at the road where love lines crossed path. For boys of tomorrow we will teach the culture, for girls who went and never returned, we will find and bring back home. Tell papa when you get to the land of silent souls that we would never play with the tradition like a ball. Tell him we would behold our cultural heritage before the sun. If the sun has to cry now, let it cry for these agonies we are going through and for their sins yesterday because we did not in any way contribute to what made them sin. They made us voiceless, stole our collective joy and made us the drags of the society. Our conscience sold in the market place because they never did what they should have done as they bargained away with their souls.
We are the natives of the street, the lower caste of the society washed and set as the day chameleoned to night and the night became the nightmare that treat us like commoner. This is who we are, tell it to the sun when you meet its rosy flashy body spreading down earth to roll up the mat of people’s suffering.
Remember, grins never leave our face.