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I returned home to bury the light of my eyes in the grave

I was a school dropout of the 1970s. My mother had promised me an education in the lips of a new year as within her heart she knows that it would be like to lead the camel through the eyes of a needle. My father had followed the last train to Timbuktu town; where it was said that “a man must surely visit once in this sphere”. The echoes of the wheels against which the crawling monster crawled away from her eyes as she stands there waving hands at the wind like one who was drowning in the ocean; that was the day I became a man which my father was before he became one like the winds and my mother never stops trying to get hold of the wind in each of cool windy eventide. Morning becomes night as she glared at the rubbles of memories together with her husband and the sudden journey of the man she called mine. I became her lost husband gained in the shell of the boy that I was. With her promises, I stared at the Bull and by its horns, I laid my hands and was driven in my direction as an unlearned herder. Daily I had walked into the room from where my mother had returned to weeping for the future of her children and their education; there she had become deadening and from her voice, each echoed howls and miseries that eyes can’t behold: for the day I sat for my school cert, it was a day to return home to bury the light of my eyes in the grave.  

We are books

These were the last words of my grandfather that he wrote in the pages of time before his voyages into many things. And in this poem, my grandfather is the ink that painted in-between its spaces those lasting inscriptions “that we are books.” If the world now read(s) me, they will read about my grandfather, who, on a Monday morning, went to my school and reported me to my teachers and my best friend; Promise, for my not attending classes again. If the world read(s) me, they would read the thousands of pages that my grandfather saw within me that I was too blind to see; because it is said: “What the aged sit to see, If you aid a child to the peaks of Everest, he can never see it even at the point that he stands on”. My teachers tricked me through my trusted friend: Promise. At the playground of the village, my grandfather, my friend and my teacher wrote within me the last words of this poem; we are books and we should be written in the ink of admonition and love for education with which my grandfather wrote boldly education within the man in a boy’s clothing within me: We are books, write your pages with love.

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