Morning Mists….Conversations

I am keyed up to the eyes and like a pregnant woman,feel as expectant. I woke up this morning feeling optimistic. I really do not have a reason to be but just got bored being miserable. There is no reason for the misery but you see living in my country, you would be hard put not to feel frustrated. I don’t subscribe to endless moans about the state of security. It stares you in the face all the time and you simply sigh and try to identify the meaning of life for you.

I just came from the park, my heart beating fast in earnest prayer that a loved daughter making a trip would arrive safely, unscathed by the so many unseen dangers. You have prayed all night and then you listen to the news . A journalist has been kidnapped in my sleepy corner of the world and suddenly you are scared. You ask the question, why? She is a journalist, earning a salary and probably struggling to make ends meet. Why?

There is a saying in my corner of the world pond, it is more like a prayer, simply it goes like this: may you not walk on the day the road is hungry. How long is the prayer supposed to cover? She prayed too and as she saw the door to her home she may have sighed and maybe muttered a prayer of thanks feeling safe. According to the news reports, she didn’t make it through the front door. She was kidnapped.

I wondered if maybe I should go back to sleep to cancel out the bad news. In my tribe it is the best antidote to having a bad day. When something bad happens that early in the morning, you are advised to go back to sleep to cancel it out and start the day afresh

Imole Ife in my book Numen Yeye had to learn that. Weave her steps in a creation she was thrusted in and pick her way through these many bewildering maze. I did not go back to sleep. I could not afford that luxury. Sleep was not a luxury because I would be required to close my eyes right? That would be my problem too, because each night for about a week I have imagined the silent screams of two young persons.

Nailed to planks by an ignorant father for a crime they could not comprehend nor identify…accused of witchcraft by a frightened father, broke, hungry, and thus angry. He was a ready tool for a fool and the actual third victim of the herbalist who had divined the children as witches.

I had no wish going to sleep, looked eagerly to waking up and the nightmare became a daylight affair. I felt miserable being broke. I longed to be so wealthy to help both the father and the children. This was not Salem in the middle ages but my despairing country in the 21st century. A country so blessed and enriched that more of its citizens would rather leave than stay. The classic irony is painful.

I am not enriched by currency but by the sad turns and twists of this part of creation. Even in my waking moments, I hear the cry and imagine the language of the six year old son if he could express his thoughts. So I just borrowed his skin and this is my lament.

Trussed or spread?

Father contemplated

the best way

to nail me

to the plank.

Pain in hot streaks

lathered my hands

and heart

his demand like mists

rolled in on red pain

the lash of whip

tore through my skin

like soft rain on embers

of agony,

I pleaded my love and innocence

as dread member of cult or coven

of witches or wizards.

But father’s missing wealth

his anger and fear

rode him to near murder.

Seven days of agony

fed on bread and water

close to the pearly gates

the crash of the door

faint hands in distant cries

brought me back.


My heart and father’s love


was dead from all help.