When my father’s body
Is about to embrace the sand,
The elders will ask for the money
In my hand.
When my father’s eyes
Could still blink like the wings
Of a butterfly,
He would say: “feed me, feed me…”
But when he joined his fathers
With muted lips under the earth,
The culture made decisions for me;
And I fed his grave with cattle.
And the elders would say:
“Son, you’ve kept your father alive”.
But death left me with debt.
Now I am old Glued to the chair like a baby.
A fitting crown is my grey hair.
While my son works under
The rising sun,
My fading pupils set on empty plates.
As death smells in my breath,
With the last I wish I could say:
“Son, let me die with my fathers’ heritage,
But let the cattle live to feed their calves”.
By Elijah Christopher