The looks on their eyes are furlong,
as they seem to peep endlessly into a seeming non-existing future,
on the table before them are empty bowls,
but the cups still have some water in them…
Their hairs are whitish than greyish,
no thanks to the moon that shines to reveal them,
making them visible in the darkling night,
and the clouds;
they are racing in haste as if pursued by whizzes,
While the two old lovers continue their banters…
‘They are gone from us,
none of them is interested in us,
or our ways of life.
Our world to them is totally barbaric,
and they will have nothing to do with it again’…
‘Our tongue is barbarians’
doom to go into extinction at the turn of the century,
for they will not speak it to their children,
in the fear it destroys their Queen’s English…’
‘We are cast as irredeemable devils,
in the eyes of those innocent lads,
whose minds are being built on prejudice against our cultures,
the legacies we hope to pass to them are despised,
just like old rags to be discarded on a refuse dump
of an untold history…’
Then, they lift their cups one after the other,
but before they empty the contents,
they turn again to me,
and, with forced smiles mixed with anxiety, they ask:
‘We hope you are the one sent by God,
to listen to these stories about our last moments?’…
As they drain the contents of the cups,
It appears life is paused in that moment,
then they rise and look to the sky,
to see the clouds masking the moon hastily…
They smile and announce;
The sun will still rise again tomorrow…
© ‘Bode Ojoniyi. September 23, 2017
University of Ghana, Legon, Accra
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