I don’t know why a story should start with a boy hanging himself cause he was giving freedom to see life & have a kiss with his lips!
Then, the pages moved on and on until their shadows recreated another smothering duplicates of them trying to survive in this forest called life.
I don’t know why every morning wakes up to see boys scattered like grains of sand on ground.
I don’t know why every chapter of a story would have boys trying to suffocate themselves in the thickest quest to be a man when they can just remain children.
I don’t know why each page of the same book will show boys with guns on their left hands & holy books on their rights, killing the dreams of others.
They are portraits in a graveyard called jungle &survival.
Portraits under the palms of the cruel sun
They found this soft solace of wildfire splitting between their lives,
Finding a street that will make them scream out loud like a cockerel.
They created themselves in themselves trying to imitate nature in its entirety of manslaughter.
I don’t know the genesis of creation, if I could regenerate the genesis of my boys, our boys; I could have ask nature why boys like me suffered in the womb before they were born.
They leant to drive the birds to confusion before
Concluding the squeezeness of pressure
They squeezed dreams into nightmares
Cherish every nostril that flapped wings of lured lost into the cathedral of abyss.
Some boys learn to fall into the shape of their mothers
Some have the fragments of their fathers shadows & images as sharp as the streams of their thoughts.
We opened the jungle gate for them…
Missile becomes toy in the hand
Anger an issue with a patterned crystal lines,
A never ending story of circling class of time.
Employment lost in their favour then politicians came in play converting them to beast of thugs.
They became undertakers of aborted foetus.
Undertakers of dreams among children.
Each story started with their amonition & anger
Firing and slaughtering in the darkness.
These pages made them so cause the story started with their albums of sorrow and agony trying to survive in a particular senero of jungles for boys.
©John Chizoba Vincent