That you had thrown yourself away just so you could be light
enough to carry me through the years;
When I was 7 years old, my mum bought me a collection of classic poems that featured Shakespeare’s alongside his books, Ola Rotimi’s “The Gods Are Not To Blame” and a CD that had a performance of Shakespeare’s plays.
I would watch these videos keenly, intrigued by the language even though I barely understood it, not knowing that at age 13, in my SSS1, I’d be introduced to Shakespeare’s works and by this, my writing journey would begin.
What guilt did to me
Maybe I wanted to belong to someone, a man
So I parked my bags and left. I was nine, his car waiting
by the side of Christmas. Your face, a stick wrapped
in sulphur, waiting to spark.
The sky, a parade of fireworks.
The promise of a bicycle blooming inside me.
You did not move, you stood still like something nailed
to the ground, your eyes following me on to the door of his
black Benz. Through the harmattan stained glass, I watched
you become a silhouette, the road lengthening you
into a memory, into an ellipsis. This is how innocence can be
guilty; your voice, a sad song through the telephone
and my lips pressed against silence as you kept repeating
my name, Michael, Michael. I did not know that a mother’s pain
is to watch her child grow through the silence of a telephone call.
That you had thrown yourself away just so you could be light
enough to carry me through the years; my four-year-old self
strapped to your back. That opening and closing the night for
strangers was how you fed me into bloom. Isn’t this why my mouth
is full of forgive me? Why, after I knew what I knew, I knelt inside
my shame and muttered forgive me. I swear at age 13, after my
stepmother had starved me for three days, I wanted to come back
but I did not know how, I did not know you were waiting for me
to return home— arms flung open like a wind-beaten door.
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