The last time we met

These memories are cold; like an icy snake crawling in my veins. Is this not a duplicate of that night?. Or it's just the dawning of a new nightmare?

The last time I saw him, it was just another young night of promising stories. Images of our daily meetings now playing on my eyeballs. Since you left, I've been cursing death anytime I see the moon.

Your cold old voice...
That holds old myth.

Even your obvious lies that seek to elevate "Ananse" your hero, I liked them much.
The last time I met you, we sat exactly here under the colourful moonlight. I remember I asked why you adore the capricious lazy "Ananse" and regard him as a hero. I remember your cold old voice that explained that every hero has flaws.

You said a hero without flaws is a pretender and not a hero. I tried to argue but you said one day I would understand.

The last time we shared that grandpa to grandson moment, you told me I would be a writer one day. Once again, I tried to argue and you emphasised with the fact that I'm a good listener.

Now I remember you said earlier that old men talk like prophets. As I now imprison words with my ink, the reality of what you said keeps knocking at my skulls.

I knew something was wrong the last time I saw you. You looked into my innocent eyes for so long as tears betrayed your emotions. I saw pains in your old pair of eyes. You wanted to tell me more, no doubt, but time was the chief enemy.

This is my pain ~

You never said goodbye the last time I sat under your fatherly presence. When the insects started disturbing the young night, I remember, you said the ancestors would come home soon for a visit.

I asked if you would also come back for a visit when you were gone. You never voiced a word. Silence was our companion for that minute. Maybe you knew better. Maybe you knew it was our last meeting. Maybe my spirit knew something I wasn't aware of.

Your departure is one forbidden story you kept from me.

So today, I will curse the cock that announced the presence of that fateful day; for it came with the cold hands of sorrows scratching my spine.

And when the sun finally settles behind the giant Oak trees of the west, I'll hold a calabash and dance around the gourd until its fermented content intoxicates my entire life.

Author: Benjy Andoh Sergius

---

---