usonga

My father always bought me meat when he was drunk and stumbled home and gave it to my mother to cook.

One day in Loresho my father carried his grief in his palms, stumbled into the living room and gave it to the women and he said mon, ywaguru, women, cry.

I will write about it one day.

Today, however, begging the jiko to stay up with me, I stare at the paper the cook left on your grass, grass on which leaves were classified as dirt, grass that once harboured the pride of a working woman with a personal hairdresser, grass that always made it clear how fortunate anybody was that it agreed to play mattress for afternoon naps.

And I think how love is a difficult thing to translate; that is the way to forgive teachers who made everyone laugh at us because our people mourn as if in theatre.

Maybe some of us are unable to access grief except through the poetry of others.

Like:

Coke madiaba okan madhre kendo.

Like:

Nyaminwa ma ne wa thoth kodo,

Nyaminwa ma nyakawach ga adiera,

Nyaminwa ma ka ne ber to ber to ka ne rach to rach.

Like:

An to aonge wach. Weauru.

Like.

Tho oknyal chietho. Two emichietho.

Like:

Ero wathi rumo.

Today, the road to your home feels like it is being made in real time by a child who has pinched a piece of brown plasticine and is rolling it on a green table and singing a song everybody knows but nobody remembers from where. As her plasticine grows longer and longer and longer, the road grows longer and longer and longer, as if for it too, the anticipation for your grass has been replaced by the fear of coming face to face with the reality of your no-longer-ness.

I know you are gone because for a moment, I thought myself in a 3D movie theatre as I watched the bottle you-know-who threw diving as if in slow motion onto your grass and if there is anything that could have made you get up, it would be this.

Sadness has never found me but I am also very good at running so far ahead of it that it is nightfall and the road is impossible to tell apart from the farm and the fireflies are drunk dancing to the funeral night party songs only they can hear from this far away and there is an infant lake here somewhere and today is my last chance to find it and sadness has forgotten that it was me he was looking for.

My father- he declares war on my silence but this thing- the way it eats everyone who left my womb and they stay quiet makes me think that woven into my bones is a computer code running into eternity that commands my being to be mute.

 

*Psst I am soft launching a Patreon for paying readers, in which I will duplicate okasungora pieces (because open access). If you are capable, sign up to support my work: https://www.patreon.com/posts/26822808 Thanks.

 

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