THE TALE OF THE BOY ON A SWING
he never mentioned the piggyback on
prickling thorns
affectations traded for a dime
sacks of sugary lies, the ones his forefathers kept under his pillowcase
he never mentioned
the broken gourds of trust and
how his brothers slit his sister's throat
he never mentioned
the pool of blood, of hatred
of pains that built a nest in him
he never mentioned
the hummingbirds that sang ballads
of sorrow, of broken emotions, of grief
depression and shattered feelings
When Papa told me the story of the boy on a swing
he never mentioned the blank nights with no breeze
when breathing was seized,
guided by a barricade of sighs
he never mentioned days his head rested under his palm for seconds, minutes, hours, for days unconsciously
he never mentioned the seasons of drought and emptiness
nor did he tell me about his trolling bills & stream of responsibilities
the ones that drowned his feet
and the ones he floated on like a lifeless goose
he never mentioned
the dreary nightmares, when the nights sleep became a black scoundrel
days his back cracked like a dry nut marched by parading soldiers,
he never mentioned
the broken calabash of dreams
that floats on a sizzling river of anxiety,
or the tears that took a stroll out of his eyelids
he never mentioned
that nights dinner was a wolfbane potion.
When papa told me the story of the boy on a swing
he only told me how he longed to see the greener side of the lake not how his merry dreams vaporised into the wingless wind.
© Oluwakayode Taiwo
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