The mellow is upon us yet again in this month’s edition of ‘The Lectern’. The ‘crazy architect’ we will be reading today is Hope; if you asked her, she would say that she only writes from a moist mind. After reading this, I was astounded by the moistness in mine.
As an aside, can we get some dudes with the ‘hammer-n-mortar’ write-ups please? Some fire-brand religious mojo, profanities, and hardcore life lessons abeg…any more mushiness here, and these writers will have me dripping eye-sweat all over #Nuffsaid
Aaaaaaaaand so, for the month of May, of sketches, sketchbooks and…well, moisture (what?!), WAW brings you…Hope!
…that we might be read
I gave it to you…my sketchbook. My most prized possession.
You said you’d sketch and draw for me
Flowers, trees and parks,
beautiful pictures of sunsets and sunrises, buildings too.
So I gave it to you, kept nothing back.
The first sketch was nothing but scribbles
Ugly ugly scribbles…like the markings of a demoniac.
And so I took it from you. I took my sketchbook back
Even though I didn’t want to.
Then you came back.
You were sorry, and you wanted to make it right
I forgave. Just like God taught me
I forgave. And I gave it to you again, my sketchbook.
But when I got it back, I saw worse markings
Very bad ones.
Each stroke tore at me like the claws of a fiery dragon
And sunk beneath my skin
Like a vampire’s fangs.
My heart broke again.
I took it from you. Again.
But you wouldn’t stop coming. You came back, each time
Looking more contrite. And I believed you, each time
So I gave. Again and again.
But I believed. Just like God taught me
I believed. And I gave it to you. Again and again.
There was only one page left.
You came again. For pardon
For one last chance
I had only one page left. I could not risk that.
Then you promised. Like God taught you
You promised. To make it up to me.
For all the ripped pages, the discarded ones. For my broken heart
To make everything alright.
And I gave.
I was hungry, searching for something beautiful. Vulnerable…what can I say?
But I gave. My very last page.
Because I believed.
You were a leopard. On the backdrop of your pale sincerity
Your spots shone…dark and unrepentant.
You did not just scribble this time. You neglected
I found it drenched in the rain, scorched by the sun.
The little boys in the street played with it
Drunks fought over it…prostitutes spat on it.
Then you came along. And with your very hands
You tore it up into tiny bits and pieces…
…and the wind carried it away.
Then you came back
One more clean sheet, you wanted…even if only a scrap.
But I had none to give. I gave all I had to you.
So you left…sad.
And I cried.
Again. I cried.
Because I was hurt and heartbroken.
Because I had no beautiful sketches
Because I had no sketchbook.
By Hope Eboh
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