I’ve been struggling to write this intro. Ugh, all I’d settle for now is a simple Happy New Year, thanks a lot for subscribing and commenting too (please no unnecessary advertisement in the comment section, I trash right away). Here is another ‘old raw piece’ of 2018, a contest entry really. Kindly read and comment and for further correspondence, check the About page. Thanks.

I cannot name the feeling. Still, it is beyond staring and longing. When the yellow ball breaks our ashy skies and cuts everything into golden strips, I stare at your invisible face. When the silver crescent wins, I stare into a glittering thousand eyes of sky, then into crevices moonlight does not reach and my mouth spews stories of you to the children.

I have carved images of you on my thighs and I witness dawn by the riverside where we began, teardrops sinking into a deep expanse of infinity. Later, I intermittently cup water into my palms, awaiting your sudden reflection, like the day our eyes first locked in love unplanned. I replay the voice you used that day. And the tender feel of your palm.

I kiss your cold side of the bed, thoughts of you housed between my heartbeats, are you coming home? I want to migrate too; I do not wish to defy the king but how can I, with my full belly, and a child gripping my nipples, cross so many mountains, valleys and rivers, into an unknown land?

Our king is truly one. I heard he cursed those of us who did not migrate. Is it true? The king the defiant here planned to crown died mysteriously. Hmm, the Oracle was speaking the truth – the growing population, the feuds, the poor harvest and most importantly, the gods – echoed the need to migrate.

Have you seen the white men? Skins soft like mango flesh, their language rolls off their tongues swiftly like our family of rivers. They say our disputes shall be settled in their courts, a family trade is not enough; our children must go to their schools. Ah! Anyway, I allowed our firstborn so he can defend the family land easily in their language.

My crown, I am scared of what they are teaching. Our firstborn tells me the language is English not Ingrish, and he refused the initiation, saying the Supreme Being has a son but no wife. Is that logical to you?

He says our case is similar to one in their Holy Book, a man called Ahbrayam – our son says Abraham – left his land for an unknown place the Supreme Being promised to show.

I do not know if this letter would reach your palms or if you can now read. I’m trying. I want to be like our firstborn’s Abraham but the child born with the feet first is still cupping his mouth around my nipple and interrupting my sleep with sharp cries. My belly is full of you kicking and thrusting. I want you to hear the first cry. And name. So my crown, come home.

Categories: Cross-genre

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *