I grew up as a kid who had a strong belief in life and death, the supremacy of someone they all called God and the holy innocence of nature. Each evening, I sit in front of our pale corridor whose face was well painted by the footprints of kids who obviously knew not how too well to stay neat and stare at my parents, as they feed themselves with the joy and sadness the belly of the day had birthed. I run with every form of disrespect for my lungs and with my arms divorced to them; I watch the receive me with love, disregarding how ugly I smelled. The only thing you wouldn’t want to believe about me is that I hated school.
Each time I childishly sit on the bluish geen Mango tree at our backyard and close my eyes, they appear. Those specially carved woods that are painted yellow by artisans whose hands tasted sweet on their crafts, green leaves whose blade never pierce or break a heart, brooms whose nails are in love with hygiene, pieces of loving stones, a house full of of red love… That was all I ever wanted. Since Grandma once told me before she died that not all graduates eventually become successful through their educational certificates, my mind was made up. On the road to school every morning, I told myself incessantly ‘One day, I will build my garden of loving stones and find her a Eve’.
Growing up into being a beard gang leader was catalytic, it found me Beca chemically. It happened so fast even beyond the reach of my hands. It felt so natural yet, it tasted so bitter even than the sugary ends of a bitter leaf. Yes, lovers do go on secret dates and that was all they did again this time, but this date ended up being an open day for their remembrance. All I could do was to rush down to the accident’s scene on their way back, to fight death over their lives but I am a living witness that speed kills too.
The only thing I could eventually see after forty days and nights, was a light of dark rays whose frequencies waved not at metres of long lengths at me. They were in love with me being in that coma. That almost raped me and they sincerely begged for a hearty kiss. I was confused at the opening of my innocent eyes! The only picture in my head was painted with plasma and blood cells that were baptized in voices whose loving hearts were broken by the black claws of death. My parents were left screaming loudly in their silence with a golden hunger for life. At last, they died. They died, even with my dreams.
Life is truly hard; Harder than how musicians present it in their groovy albums. Life is harder than the ever strong and resisting end point of a raw egg. I also never knew, but being an orphan taught me that one because it was never easy as is seemed. It takes a heart to build her art, she always cry for tears, she pleads for trust, begs for paper, sings for love, dances for a smile, sweats for a laugh and most importantly, she thirsts for a life.
One day, as I swept my feet down the bush of the dusty life as usual, I found my dead dream the the glittering heart of a ‘she’, dancing to a love RnB song named ‘By You’ by Simi and Adekunle Gold. Her eyes were closed and her ears were shut against the world. The tips of her fingers on my hungry skin tasted like the life I have always wanted. She knew how well to be my father, mother and slave all at the same time. Her hair keeps me hairy. They were even in love with our love life, whose sky was well designed with beautiful clusters of different rainbows- the yellow woods, green leaves and loving stones. Since she keeps me high in the most high, wouldn’t you agree that on her thighs is the best site for a sunny nap?