When morning is still young, the air untainted,
when flowers stand upright in praise,
and sun plays hide and seek in distant hills
that hold red-roofed houses against lush bosoms,
Elliot sits at a white round table on the west veranda
and reads his worn Bible.
The Holy scriptures
keep hunger at bay
till reading and prayer are done.
He’s first served crackers he dips in "cocoa tea."
We join him for breakfast: boiled eggs,
soft bread and porridge and immerse ourselves
in his West African tales, his untiring stories
of our roots. His hands sway like a conductor’s,
in the thrill of telling.
Age dictates his voice will soon fall silent.
Like thirsty children, we sop up tales,
strain our ears, resist crowing cocks,
shut out barking and cars chugging uphill,
blaring calypso and rap from boom-boxes.
The sun warns with sharp glints on rooftops
that time on this veranda is over
but the stories have enchanted us,
are steeped in our memories.
Our ancestors’ voices, Elliot’s voice, our inner voice,
demand we keep these stories alive.
Can we carry on?
© 2010 Althea Mark-Romeo
No comments:
Post a Comment