How To Say 'I Love You'

My mum taught me how to say

'I Love You”

through the things that I do.

I didn't understand

how the things I do

could stand in for my voice.

'I want you to look in the mirror'

Mum would say...

I will steady my tiny boy legs

before the mirror and stare

at my bare chest

and stifle a chuckle;

my ears appeared funny.

'Look at yourself'

Mum's voice whispered softly behind my large ears.

I will look at the reflection of myself

and chuckle at my funny ears...

'This is it, son...

when you laugh at yourself

you ridicule the poor and helpless

in the streets'

She points at the scar on my knee.

'I want you to see every scar,

every wrinkle,

every grey hair as a badge of honour.'

'I want you to see in your reflection a sick man

and behind you a nurse, mother, medicine;

the medicine you need to heal our shared pain.

I want you to think back to the times

you were hungry

and there was no food to eat.

How I brought your toothless mouth to nipples

and gave the last drop

of my nectar.

I want you to remember how you go searching in the river,

for periwinkles that don't exist

smudging or patrolling the streets,

picking nuts

and driving me nuts...

and remember how I took you in

scrubbed your body

washed your rags

without a scowl on my face

or a slap on your face'

I'm standing before the mirror

looking at a piece of love

a reflection of my mum

Me...

Her example is the blueprint

I needed to move into the future.

Mum never said 'I love you'

to the hearing of my large funny ears

Yet her actions,

like the music of an Oriental Orchestra

reverberates in my subconscious.

It sings thus:

Love is not a thousand sweet wordsLove is not a well inked poemLove is the little little things you do

Mum is long gone

Yet daily I dance the tune

her flute dictates

doing good

to folks that love and hate...

Showing the world

how to love

how to be relentless,

how to be forgiving

and how to be kind

not only with words

but actions.

#Pengician

#SSA

Comments

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale. "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies" "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat" After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?" "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold patriotis...

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....

Jaachi Writes

Search This Blog