In the Rivers, the Harcourt

of Port,

Dark was suddenly stolen from the night

by day-men in uniforms

accosted by powers in mufti,

men with authority, exact ogas at the top

in a bid to make truth a shade of itself

or

to make less-truths shine in unhindered clarity.

Drowning in the Rivers brings feelings

both inviting to the depths and yet repulsive.

Stop to push

Stop to fight

Stop to hate

Start to learn

and you hear many voices, speaking with warmth.

 

They all speak to me

the black valley of Mama Ilaro’s adogan

the bandied air of a greying world

the dried roots of a long-murdered tree

the wrinkled skin of age

the colours of the Mediterranean

the yellow rustles of blight

 

They all speak with many voices

the vacuum of Ribeirao’s still space

the unabridged length of a flat earth

and the accustomed gaze of one-eyed owl

They speak…

they speak to me, people,

of the strifes of sages past

in search for the truth of what

entails the life of man.

 

Is it glimpsed on classical pages of books?

Found in castles built and buried with spoken words?

Is it littered on the streets of common gossips?

Is it the epic discovery of murder by a neighbour

who only chanced upon a lifeless body

but the fate of misfortune pushed him

into picking up an incriminating piece of evidence?

 

Is it the many colours hidden in the magic of white?

Or the red that is disguised as purple

Because being compassionate, it billeted some blue?

 

What did the sages say?

Did they conclude that it is the Christ,

requiring simple grace-shedding faith

that he died for you or

the Buddha who promised an end to suffering?

 

So much to look, yet

so little to see a time.

Never was I told that you read volumes

one alphabet a time, not two,

but join more to form a word and more.

Speed makes the difference!

My Professors never mentioned to

put apart ‘looking’ from ‘seeing’

or apprise me the truth of the life of man

But truly, people,

Pardon my ignorance,

It is the books you read, one alphabet a time

that shapes your truths

and the interpretations of realities,

which words you eat

according to moods, experiences,

knowledge, desires,

sentiments and limitations.

 

The truth of life is like that movie

that you see in a neighbour’s house,

interjected with the noise from the kitchen

bathroom, corridor and from the streets,

influencing interpretations of plots in the movie.

It is like that movie you see

And friends, who have seen it or

who imagine selves to be experts at preempting movie plots,

jostle to pre-inform you of what to expect.

 

Life is a movie,

and the journey through it

determines your truth.

It starts with colours and words

mixed in fascinating ways

that trigger memories, some almost lost

others buried deep in the brains

and through the journeys, reveal themselves

as your reality, your interpretations

of a fast-changing world

of a world of variants

 

It ends with imageries, plots and meanings

that take wings on the shoulders of

unique experiences

subjective insights and

wild imaginations.

 

No wonder in the Rivers,

The road to Justice island is covered with a mirage

that dances far ahead with illusions unbemoaned

for ages unend

but under the cloak of night, one night,

dark was suddenly stolen from the night

by day-men in uniforms

accosted by powers in mufti,

men with authority, exact ogas at the top

in a bid to make truth a shade of itself

or

to make less-truths shine in unhindered clarity.