Throbbing hearts and bleeding inks
I made a promise to Mama to be good;
To be as gentle, loving and kind as I can be.
I made a promise to Mama
That one day her baby boy will make her proud.
That I will dine with kings and statesmen
In many moony nights than a few.
But it’s hard Mama,
I am bruised to every side..
I am stronger Mama.
I’m wiser too.
I’ve grown up Mama and I still am.
O I will make you proud Mama!
I am learning hard;
I am learning to talk, to walk,
I am learning to listen too.
“Who is your kind of girl?”
I get this question a lot. Not because I am oh-my-god handsome or holy-smokes charming, no, no, no. Far from the ‘charm of hands’ and the ‘smoky gods’. It is elementarily because I am single. As if that’s the worst disease that can ever happen to a young man like myself, everyone goes “Why art thou single?!” Such questions do come in many translations– the King James as well.. haven’t come across the Revised Standard Version yet though.
The tides, ‘Time and tide wait for no man’, but I bet they certainly do squeeze a few halts on a single life and the episodes of singlehood. That’s all they’ve been cursed to do– to tick and to wave out moments, then weave them into untamed memories: the lazy sunrises and the orange sunsets, the noisy morning chirps of solos on the mahogany trees, and the unfeathered chick who wonders why mum hasn’t flown yet amidst her many feathers.
Anyway, I don’t believe in a Mrs. Right lurking somewhere with a faulty GPS compass in her fanny pack, which blurs my location every time she palms it and alerts with a beep, anytime I get close; and I don’t believe in fairy tales either– love at first sight, true love’s first kiss and its cohorts of fancies.
When asked last who my kind of girl was, I bubbled a smile, pinched a thought and said ” She is one who would dare me to be more of myself than to become my peers. She is one to wonder how mere dust could be crafted into a figure of such perplexity, amidst complexity and bafflement.” Oh she’s one to remind me of the minuscule, the intangible details of my plans and strategies.
I call her woman who would teach our children the steps of faith in God and mannerism, greasing them with soothing palms and rebuking in love when they curse or fault. Justice and mercy, the balance of being.
Tender but crazy, with many dots of funny. I may sound hopeful like the politician across the street. I may sound wishful and asky about my kind of girl but no, I have already found her.. She’s a passer-by down the street. She’s a sitting mate in the public transport.
She’s the waitress who lipped a smile when we arrived at the diner and gestured us to a seat. She is everywhere I can see, and everywhere the legs can foot. The question therefore should be ‘Am I working on myself enough to be her kind of man?’
Dear Dora,
I am sorry I will make you cry sometimes, and have you regret knowing me. I am sorry I’ll be selfish and insecure at times; clumsy and very guarded and all.
I am sorry I will not be the best of charm at the party with your friends tonight. No flexing muscles like John, no full beard like Drake, no classy shoes and flashy cars like Ralph; flat chest, easy comes fit of my D&C blue jeans. Jeez! I thought they were D&G jeans. Mine is customised… I suppose. Dora & Chris, they had our initials right, Love. Not so bad afterall.
I am sorry I will miss your calls and texts sometimes and forget to return them. So sorry I will not make you laugh like you did last week; sorry for the inconsistency. Very sorry I won’t wrap my arms around you every time, and tell you I love you every morning, like your alarm clock does for a hobby. I am sorry for all my sorries and the sorries yet to come.
I saw you with a gentleman at Freddy’s diner this morning and a different one the week before and the other week prior to the week before and leagues of weeks aback. You looked happy, I haven’t seen you smile that way in a very long time. Maybe he can make you happy, take you to all the places you wish at the wave of a wand, and lounge you in VIP seats at the finest concerts. He looked way older than me and the chemistry certainly didn’t feel like that of a relative, no.
There one goes, and another, and a different other; the lies are seemingly similied. So unhinged from the truth. I don’t demand an explanation; the iceberg has already shredded my ship to halves and mini dorks, so I paddle ashore in my rescue boat lest I drown.
Those were my weaknesses you spewed in episodes to your friends and family over there. The pictures on the walls of your living room now look at me funny, and the rodents even curse at my surname with mouthfuls of demeaning verbosity. You missed all the notes and flanked the hippies heedlessly.
I’m far from the perfect and ideal terrains you seek; but you scarred my integrity. You told me you loved me but those were venoms, you only poisoned me tortoisely. You always wanted more; more money, more jewelry, more attention, but never more of knowing my ideas and dealings. My first tumor and carcinogen; now I am cancerous.
I will have to walk right about now, Love. I will have to buckle my shoes and suit up for a single drive. I’m glad to have known you, and I thank God I didn’t ring any finger on your palm. But just so you know, I never aired your dirty laundry on the dry lines for public eyes to see, neither did I speak of your complaints and copious carelessness to any of my friends to feast on.
To them, you are perfect as every man will ever scribble on his wish list. I am sorry this will be my goodbye wave. Grateful I verily am for our little infinity.
Yours affectionately,
Nii Laye.
It is not that Politics is evil or Politicians have no humanity; truth is, our Politicians have exchanged integrity and morals for popularity and the polls. Now aren’t we all partisans before patriots, racists before humans, even ethnicals before multi culturals, yet complain when we discover same in others? I happen to belt a seat by a Swiss missionary on one of my many travels to school and had quite a tall conversation with this fellow.
He greatly lamented about the mismanagement of our natural resources and we, exploiting our fellow Ghanaian citizens while being exploited at large, by foreigners who drill larger percentages from our resource gains than our government herself. Karma sure never forgets the addresses of her victims.
The Democratic Republic of Congo is the one country with the most natural resources but has had political instability, impeded infrastrural growth, ugly records of corruption and centuries of both colonial and commercial extraction and exploitation with little holistic development whatsoever.
Statistics provided by the Focus Economics Consensus Forecast for 2018 nominal GDP per capita, projected the GDP per capita for 2018 to be USD 468 and that of 2022 to be USD 632. Most naturally resourced country yet the first on the list of the most under developed countries in the world. It certainly raises eyebrows.
I may be sounding political, which is alien to my writing but I am a Ghanaian, and I am an African, and a youth for that matter. I too would like to look back and say we left a good heritage, I too would like to talk about my country shoulder high, and not be concerned about the statistical and economical replies and referrals which might follow my boast.
I too am a citizen and I have a responsibility to my motherland. He looked me in the eye and said these words ‘What Ghana and Africa need are not Politicians. We need Personalities.’ I realised then that we are not entirely infected as a country or a continent and we’re not cursed either.
The virus springs from one individual to the other. This virus is not a respecter of education or literacy, if it were, we wouldn’t have professors who spew copious grammar and theories but have never made any impact on their societies, talk less of the nation.
Thomas Edison, Henry Ford, Abraham Lincoln, Nelson Mandela, they understood one thing and one thing only; Fulfillment. Fulfillment of purpose is when the nurse feels your pain and the doctor honks in traffic carelessly just to so he would reach out to save a life at the emergency ward.
Fulfillment of purpose is when the police officer wears a seat belt in his vehicle or a helmet on his motorcycle and controls the traffic alertly, till his shift is over before leaving his duty post; and the mechanic repairs the tyre just so you get to your destination safely while trusting in his expertise, and not rather do a shabby work for the payment of his workmanship.
I passed by 23 people in about 3 minutes and if each of these 23 has found his or her purpose to strive towards fulfilment, your guess would be as good as mine. Our streets would be a lot safer, our environment would be cleaner, our Ghana-made commodities would be trusted and our country would have a good name.
I passed by 23 people in about 3 minutes. That is 23 different talents, at least; 23 different opinions, 23 different uniqueness and at minimum, 23 different gifts to the world. They all sure have something to say, an experience to share, an idea to materialize or a knowledge (no matter the depth) about a matter. Even the smoker has an advice under his nicotine breath. ” Smoking kills, son. Don’t even think of starting.” one of their many counsels. Strange how wisdom sometimes lurks within the most guttered of corners.
Not to mention the police officer on the rickety motorcycle without his helmet on. He speeds pass other drivers and overtakes vehicles who can’t keep up with his speed. A splendid example of a good citizen! “Afterall, who would dare question me, or even check my license or particulars? I am the law.” he comforts himself with high shoulders and a wink, allowing his seven year old son to return his helmet to its hiding place. “That’s his trouble” he pelts the helmet into a tool box in the garage.
They pull over an oncoming vehicle. “Show me your license, turn on the trafficator lights. Lemme see your air conditioner… erhm, sorry.. your fire extinguisher” He missed the all-famous verse of the ‘search anthem’. Too eager to sing the chorus and harp the bridge (if any). Without waiting for the entire concert to end, the driver flags a cool GH¢5.00, then gets back on the road. “That was only an incentive” he tells a lower ranking officer unashamedly. What happened to service to God and country?
They witness their ordeals; see the axe stuck to a skull, hear the screams of the mothers in labour, and observe the garden boy being wheeled down the hallway, stained thick red with blood. His blood. But some, some sat unperturbed, untouched by the scenes and very nonchalantly, scroll through miles of Whatsapp chats and gravely admiring loads of Instagram pictures. They too are nurses, known to be attendants to the sick and ointments to our wounds.
The same persons who took an oath of service, even to the peril of their own lives and careers. Not entirely a horrid story though; some do come up at a glance to help. With a healing touch, they nurture their patients’ wounds; premiering from words of calm to soothing palms, they stitch cuts and wax bruises expertly like mothers attending to their own whelps.
Of course, they all are not heartless; the few nuts sure do spoil the entire hospital soup. Now people are scared to thread these corridors, questioning the integrity of the nurses we have presently. Seems to me that there are more bad apples in the government hospitals than there are, in the privates. So unfair to the poor and less privileged…
To be continued..
niilaye 