If it were my native, I’d call upon the breath of my father who art in his abode. I’d raise my hands to the whims of the winds, & say— “this is your son, in whom you’re well pleased. Let me be.” But this, in this, I cannot seem to re-write what I undoubtedly rephrased years ago. So, when I recall those memories, it’s like it all ended in tears or, maybe, I haven’t yet lived to see the reward of my beginning.
Like divinity has taught us in the holy books, there was an ascension. Whether or not the account was recorded in the East, is what I don’t know. Was there a bridge that connected those of righteous deeds to heaven & those of evil to hell? But I know, it’d be weird to think there was a bridge to climb up there—but, what if there was? Like in Papa’s tales during the cold evenings, how he manages to conjure very touching songs of praise & sometimes, even doom to the antagonists.
There’s this tale he told where he quoted a proverb that, “the one who breeds fowls never lacks eggs.” But now, I’ve broken my eggs trying to climb this African bridge, I guess. As you made it very clear how important it is to take it step by step, & keep the ordinances. & not be in haste—I kept those words, never flaunted them & hoped for someday, heaven, where you are. But today, I write a poem. One which tells us the bridge that connects an African hustle & heaven has ordinances—& I violated them; I broke its oath.
While I write this poem, I wouldn’t mind if I begin with Africa or heaven. All I know is there’s a bridge which is strong, but also, broken—London bridge has fallen down? When I climb & begin to feel like giving up, I find no spot to hook my eyes & so, I descend. & when I descend, I take the short root & gain ascendancy. But, the bridge isn’t a clear path to heaven. Or, maybe, I’m climbing on to nothing but just air; & missing the steps. If I’m not missing, then why do heaven’s gate keeper send me back? For anything, I thought I had heaps of eggs ready to be delivered to our nation—but, all are burst! One remains—the toil to hell. & when you come back to me, don’t tell me that’s what happens when the ordinances between the African bridge & heaven are violated.
blessed are the steadfast;
they shall be given a free pass to heaven—with no african bridge.
now. crawled if i could
i walked if i could. even danced & hopped.
in my own way,
i tried to take a step further, beyond these clouds
i climb with care. as there was humour
nothing but just air.
air that carries you nowhere
in those tales, father told them
with a chorus in the cold of our day
everlasting & sweet—
the golden bridge of ours has proven its real self
& maybe, i haven’t violated.
i haven’t yet seen the reward of my beginning.
so i’ll pray & pray. till there’s mercy
this is your son, in whom you’re well pleased.
& then, i’ll be.