I was scared. In the duo-fanned classroom, I was scared. The teacher might call me to read the next paragraph, or ask me to mention any of the difficult words one can make out in the story; "flabbergasted" seemed worthy of tonguing, I suppose. Words scared me, 'Reading time' in the English periods gave me chills. If anything was closest to the devil, I would say it was reading. Not reading to self, no. Reading to many ears. Not the ears of my 'inner circle' either, but to 'aliens'-- like my teachers'. I was scared they would hear me ghostly- the words halfly, almost quarterly and less of sense than what they actually stood for. Oh the words lost their integrity when I read! No one understood the passage anymore but me, when I had to continue. The story had lost its taste. No one was interested in hearing what Ananse had planned for the king and his elders anymore. So cruel my portion had all the funny parts in them. "Jeez, they are so not going to laugh!" and of course, they don't.
"Yeah, it sometimes happens." Cindy explained to her sitting mate, Monica. I was in the middle of a read. Syllables misplaced, heart knocks at my chest as if it wanted to see what was on the other side of the door. My sweat glands leaked at max, my tongue kept on with the betrayal. So terrible this time, I could literally smell it. 'It always happens..' Yes, more like it than "sometimes", Cindy. I took my seat after my war. I had battled countless times, but who's counting? The stench of wounds and blood left me traumatized. I was so used to defeat, I didn't care anymore; call me General, at least I am experienced in combat arms.
And so I struggled with my tongue. I struggled with my thoughts as well. I struggled with my self. Who I was, what I was, why I was, were my unknowns. The laughter when I tried speaking, the comments, the eyes, I could have just apologised prior- "listeners discretion advised!" my anthem of apology would have read. I was exposed to self realization at an early stage of my life. The critic from people, I had already prepared for. The laughter and stares, I saw miles away. The disappointments, I braced myself for that rollercoaster. I calculated everything but this. This one thing slipped through my bony fingers.. "Keep an eye on him. He has not been himself lately." I heard my aunt tell a couple of my friends, two days after mum's burial. I couldn't feel my legs. Walking felt like floating in a space- no air to afford balance. Gravity felt cliché, another hurdle to embrace. O how I wanted to bribe the truth! I lost my best friend to sooth. I was scared my arms may betray me to a stab. I was scared my legs may betray me to a pit. I was scared my heart may betray me to a halt-- so my aura became suicidal and my voice, hushed. Who wants to hear me stammer, who wants to hear me gush? I had lost my audience of a teacher. One who still listened whilst I splattered and wobbled with sentences till I got a clear phrase of meaning.
Now I'm up to a lazy snooze. The world beckons for a distinct meal. The clock ticks to my ink and my heart throbs to my bleed-- 'I need to finish this piece before 4:00am', but what's the hurry for, Old sport? Who cares I woke up many few times in my sleep only to write? Who cares I pen 1,000 or more words everyday? I am broken enough. I am possessed enough. "Dear Christopher, we are sorry to turn down your article...." they keep coming. More like flowing. Solid, liquid, I cannot tell which state they are. But I can tell you the feeling of taking such supplements for breakfast, after lunch and right before supper. They bite and haunt, and suck dry your netty lungs. Now I am cancered with spoiler cells and rebel tissues. My confidence is crippled and my 'Man' battery, ridiculed; I sold my bold to the old moulds of fallacies and slurred wonderings, but not anymore.
The sun is yellow and the moon is silver, but not anymore. The desert is green and the roses are blue, but not anymore. Not anymore of fear, not anymore of wobblings and halflings because from here on in and on this very stage of inklings, I splatter my being to a buffet without a blink. I swing my sword to the Sankofa tunes of the palm wine poets, stabbing each note to rhymes of fontonfrom drums and flutes crafted from the great iroko trees of Gbewa. I let loose like a goose to the skies of blues, my words of glues: I am not scared anymore!
"Yeah, it sometimes happens." Cindy explained to her sitting mate, Monica. I was in the middle of a read. Syllables misplaced, heart knocks at my chest as if it wanted to see what was on the other side of the door. My sweat glands leaked at max, my tongue kept on with the betrayal. So terrible this time, I could literally smell it. 'It always happens..' Yes, more like it than "sometimes", Cindy. I took my seat after my war. I had battled countless times, but who's counting? The stench of wounds and blood left me traumatized. I was so used to defeat, I didn't care anymore; call me General, at least I am experienced in combat arms.
And so I struggled with my tongue. I struggled with my thoughts as well. I struggled with my self. Who I was, what I was, why I was, were my unknowns. The laughter when I tried speaking, the comments, the eyes, I could have just apologised prior- "listeners discretion advised!" my anthem of apology would have read. I was exposed to self realization at an early stage of my life. The critic from people, I had already prepared for. The laughter and stares, I saw miles away. The disappointments, I braced myself for that rollercoaster. I calculated everything but this. This one thing slipped through my bony fingers.. "Keep an eye on him. He has not been himself lately." I heard my aunt tell a couple of my friends, two days after mum's burial. I couldn't feel my legs. Walking felt like floating in a space- no air to afford balance. Gravity felt cliché, another hurdle to embrace. O how I wanted to bribe the truth! I lost my best friend to sooth. I was scared my arms may betray me to a stab. I was scared my legs may betray me to a pit. I was scared my heart may betray me to a halt-- so my aura became suicidal and my voice, hushed. Who wants to hear me stammer, who wants to hear me gush? I had lost my audience of a teacher. One who still listened whilst I splattered and wobbled with sentences till I got a clear phrase of meaning.
Now I'm up to a lazy snooze. The world beckons for a distinct meal. The clock ticks to my ink and my heart throbs to my bleed-- 'I need to finish this piece before 4:00am', but what's the hurry for, Old sport? Who cares I woke up many few times in my sleep only to write? Who cares I pen 1,000 or more words everyday? I am broken enough. I am possessed enough. "Dear Christopher, we are sorry to turn down your article...." they keep coming. More like flowing. Solid, liquid, I cannot tell which state they are. But I can tell you the feeling of taking such supplements for breakfast, after lunch and right before supper. They bite and haunt, and suck dry your netty lungs. Now I am cancered with spoiler cells and rebel tissues. My confidence is crippled and my 'Man' battery, ridiculed; I sold my bold to the old moulds of fallacies and slurred wonderings, but not anymore.
The sun is yellow and the moon is silver, but not anymore. The desert is green and the roses are blue, but not anymore. Not anymore of fear, not anymore of wobblings and halflings because from here on in and on this very stage of inklings, I splatter my being to a buffet without a blink. I swing my sword to the Sankofa tunes of the palm wine poets, stabbing each note to rhymes of fontonfrom drums and flutes crafted from the great iroko trees of Gbewa. I let loose like a goose to the skies of blues, my words of glues: I am not scared anymore!
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