FOR THOSE BOYS WHO RETURNED HOME AS BREAKING NEWS

 

We have broken those kola nuts on the family shrines. Shattered elegies here and there in templates of agony. We may be a plight on the body of this river, we may not but your gracious imagination of thoughts must we reserve in the morning of this ancestry ancient memories. broken tenses tend to write terror in our souls when the rain came forcefully on us. Our tears flew across the oceans. The wind carried our voices to an unknown places where men are the slaves of their own selves. Life could be echoed through the celestial regiments of the souls that visited our mirror before the moon belched out hope. We palmed our relationship between you and your kind. A sized bed which betrayed us in the fold of grey skimpy slurs are the same which we made you sleep on. The news came through the window as the wind came buzzing around like flies gathering on a casket. We lost ourselves holding our breath in suspense. How be it you left without even a goodbye? How be it you mirrored your hearts desires into the blank dumb of a bars of emptiness? We compromised with the water of life, we compromised the immunity between our family bound. You are bounded to our souls like the bound between Obi and his mother. Not in this letter did Ikemefuna sighted his death before he fell asleep in the hands of gutless machete. We’ll pleasure these shadows in the despair of shame.

Deeper from this angle, dirges have been planted to streamline the chaos within. Morning shall bear the force in the armour of sighted calamities. With the echoes of our forefathers dropping in the impression that last nights have being emerging perceptions in the eyes of portraits. You are not forgotten or forbidden in the fruit of the land, you are not a stone that was rejected in the corner of darkness. I have known and seen weather in the palms of boys learning how to backup their dreams in the hands of the sky. Dear boys, have your mind fixed in the dead arms around your waist. You are closer to the streamlines of hope. We are not sure of how hell would look, we are not even sure of how heaven would also look like but we’ll likely not allow your shadows roam in the Vacuum where emptiness rules. Emptiness stumbled upon on the ocean of thoughts. Boys, your breeze of your thoughts were the first thing we saw opening our doors. Your blood spoke first, then, your shadows roamed into our eyes through the harshness of the herdsmen daggers. We were shocked when the wind brought the tales to our ears of how you were slaughtered. Body separated, arms and legs tied around like a goat ready to be killed. Your ghost agitated protesting against the callousness of the noon in their hands.

It may be a single sin or a multitude of sins if we do not learn to make our mouths drums to tell of this crime lavaged on our forehead. We have printed sorrow on the pages of blank papers, we have knitted sweat and blood together then allowed our inconsistency introduce hunger of lost ones into our life. We have failed you and the stories went though like a pieces of forgotten land in a lagoon. We created a country that only seek for the interest of it own. We created a lootful land where blood speak louder than water. We created this and that bargaining out our lives into what it was not made to be. Yesterday, we told you to hold your beads and beary. We taught you how we made this land to protect you in rain and sun. We taught you that having a father and mother that brought pains mixed with laughter is not a sin. We said we may not live to see you die but our perspective was wrong because those things we created are coming back to kill you. Karma is a metaphor, a personified simile describing the sun and unmasking the world. Do not smile for us through the crack of the day. Do not smile for us even if water and fire becomes friend in the palms of oil. We lost you in the valley of sickness and fear. We killed you looking for what killed you. Do not smile for us even in the grave. We lost your names in the desert of death, we lost your soul in the street of prostitute, we lost your sisters in the shallow of gangsters.
Figure out how we felt in our eyes when the night is a little dimmer, how we smiled with our tears, how we breathed with our eyeballs searching your names among the dust; how we told stories that never existed, how we pulled down the fragments of your dust.

Can you see clearly or does it reflects the other side of life? We drank from our tears like water.
Tears of troubled years have we bottled up in the desert. Years of countless death trying to pass the border of Libya to Italy. Death of lonely dirge of your glories we could not retrieve from the hood. Dirge of the unforgettable warriors of our time. Warriors that fought the battle of poverty,
poverty that struck a household into turmoil of brokenness. We’ve turmoil that dressed in black in you but we kept silent. Do not say we do not notice that boys were going into extinction. Do not say we do not deny you of your privacy. Do not say everything is seen in the palace of smile.
We laid us down in beautifully endowed coffin,
coffin that sit comfortably in well dug pit, pit of peaceful journey to an unknown land to a journey of no return.

Tell us why we shouldn’t cry with our teeth closed? Tell us why we shouldn’t reject going to your grave yard because of shame? We are still on a longer head struggling on how to harvest those bullets in our head, the head that geared and fought wars of the spirit realms of cultist. Yes, we have failed ourselves from creating you to losing your names to get nothing. Do not Sing to us a lullaby when you get home. Do not sing
songs of joy and praise either for we will be going to clear this shame in libation to our ancestors living in where the wind connects heaven to the earth. Learn to speak and listen to the wind,
You shall hear our voice through its mouth as it whirls by.

©John Chizoba Vincent
Boys_Are_Not_Stones

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