Skip to main content

For Boys Like Us

For Boys Like Us

I was in Ulasi Road Primary School with Naeto Uche Njie for a video shoot of his spoken word piece. We had just finished the first and second scenes and sat on the school football field to review the video when I suggested a third scene. 

Uche desired to feature a boy. Any boy. Just any boy.

We scanned the field in search of wandering boys and found a sachet water hawker.

His name, Chimaobi.

Uche gestured at him to come over. He started towards us, a bowl of his ware on his head, a scowl on his face, dust plastered feet in a worn pair of slipper.

Uche engaged him in a conversation in Igbo language. They talked about his education, family, child labour, the boy child, endless hopes and hopeless ends. 

"Agara m school na Monday. Ubochi ndi ozo, m ga re pure water". (I go to school on Mondays. On other days, I sell sachet water).

I'd pause replying a chat and shift my gaze to his face. I could see he's not satisfied. His voice betrayed him. Poor boy. 

When Uche asked what he'd love to be when he grows up. His face lit up, a smile that wasn't there peeked through the cracked walls of his sweaty face.

“Yes, achoro m ibu doctor!”

He'd proceed to tell us what being a doctor entails, smiling shyly.

He seemed lost in his fantasies and rainbow lines of a joy he may never have tickled his boy heart with sparks of hope.

Uche smiled and fed him a piece of his heart: the struggles of a boy child. And. The. Beauty. Of. Art.

I glued my eyes to my phone screen pretending to reply Sabrina's chat, while eavesdropping on Uche's tale. I wondered at the time what turn Uche's life would have taken if someone had fold him in the arms of brotherhood and encouraged him in quite the same way. 

Uche told him of struggles, of hunger, of rage, of cold, of dreams, of hope.

Of joy.

We also didn't forget to tell him about poetry; what it is and why we love it.

From a very young age, boys like Chimaobi are ushered into life from the altars of a stolen pleasures into broken homes and taught the syllables of hunger pangs. He's taught to brave through the storm like a wingless chicken and learn to float in pool of bottled up tears. No, a boy do not cry. He implodes the pain until they built up like biceps of faux masculinity over his broken spirit. 

Some of this training is good. Sometimes, a boy graduates with a degree of independence and self-confidence. Most times, a boy uconsciously push through into becoming exactly the kind of man who will continue to attack life like a rapist attacks a girl child, because he don't know how to think any differently, until he let's go of everything and find solace in the peaceful stillness of death.

But, dear boy, you shall find joy.

Like Uche would say, "I know of persistence and courage. I know how they parent success"

For boys who sing the stars to sleep with sad symphonies that make angles weep, you shall find joy.

For boys whose tears are seen even in the rain, you shall find joy.

For boys like us, who daily beat the wind to it's game and spread our wings with the intent of perching on the sun, we shall find joy.

For boys whose dreams are chained behind bars for offenses you didn't commit, you shall find joy.

For boys like Chimaobi whose only chance at education is sacrificed on the altar of hardship, may you fine joy.

Sorry, I digress.

Chimaobi agreed to feature in the next scene. I reeled out his role in English (my love for spri spri) while he nodded to Uche's Igbo translations.

He played his role perfectly. 

I found joy.

Uche found joy.

Chimaobi found joy.

We posed for this photoshoot.

Boys like us. We beautiful.

This happened a week ago. I ran into Chimaobi on Tuesday on my way home from work. 

He waved. I waved.

He called me 'brother'

I did feel like one. His brother.

So while I lie on my bed tonight and invite sleep to bear me away on her snowy wings, I visualize the unusual smile that would accompany Chimaobi to bed (maybe a mat) tonight. 

In his smile, I have found joy.

Click Here, to download Uche's spoken word piece "For Boys Like Me" on Poemify Magazine

#Pengician #JaachiWrites

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Doris' Torment - A Villanelle Of The Rose | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

POEM 298: DORIS' TORMENT - A VILLANELLE OF THE ROSE Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose It was just so black and mellow But she could never forget the hose That morning, Doris was shocked by the pose She had to calm herself with a marshmallow Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose Later, Doris was spooked by a prose She tried to focus on a fellow But she could never forget the hose Alex tried to distract her with a transpose Said it was time to start thinking about a martello Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose Doris took action like an expose The rose was like a toxic jello But she could never forget the hose Doris nosedived like a tricky chose Her mind became dangerously yellow Doris couldn't stop thinking about the rose But she could never forget the hose ------- This is a type of poetry known as Villanelle. ------- #365DaysOfPoetry #Pengician #SSA Enjoyed reading? Please leave a comment and sharing with friends. Thank you!

Featured Article | Quicken Us, by Paul Albert

QUICKEN US So will not we go back from thee: quicken us, and we will call upon thy name. KJV Then will we not depart from you; revive us (give us life) and we will call upon Your name. Amp -  Psalms 80 vs. 18. Ever watched a movie where your favorite actor was beaten to a pulp? Beaten to the point where standing on both feet becomes a prayer point? But beyond the pain little sparks of adrenaline still moves through His vein, He doesn’t want to give up or rather He is Hell bent to be the last man standing. I am sure you’ve watched such. But wait. Focus on this…  How did that man who has had a beating of His lifetime overcome His greatest fears? Maybe He remembers countless number of people who would become slaves forever to a conquering enemy or how unpredictable their lives would certainly become or definitely the cry of the ones He loves most. Then a spark is ignited, a fire that actually never died starts flowing through his veins again. You can imagine the velocity of adren...

Dear Nun | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

POEM 254: DEAR NUN I pray thee, dear nun, a morning psalm don’t be to me. Would rather you sow, deep in my heart, the yearning of your bud, in the wake of twilight. I pray thee, dear nun, in vain doth my want restrain from wrapping us in a hell of heavenly bliss, for though I kiss my Rosary, still it be blasphemy to rise and fall in lust's refrain. The lingering whiff of your first menses nor the beauty wrapped in flowing gown, doth conceal you inert desires, nor veil, with virtues, you [I dread to say nor write], for we’re far beyond those pretenses in which we cage love in pious frown You could hold a smile, it won't millstone your soul and cast thee hence in heart of Sheol. Shed now your sigh, estranged the flowing gown and let your long-lost heart embrace wanton thoughts. For they both appear, to pay sin’s toll, not one word from thence shall condemn your soul So would you make me now sweat beads from your Rosary? Would you let me take to another realm where clouds shall we...