Prologue
The high settles on me like blanket, like skin, warm with life. I watch the stars, listen to the road roar, drag the smoke back into my lungs. At this moment, I feel like love, like the moon is mine to touch, the clouds are flowers to water with my tears and I weep; yes I weep.
Dialogue
A door opens and the orderly asks a question but you see, I have been staring at the wall for too long, I have forgotten where I am. I do not reply. I do not know him. I want to go home, I explain to the wall. The wall is silent, for a minute; you will soon, it replies.
"You have visitors," the orderly says.
I turn to the canvas, pick my paint brush from the stool, touch some yellows to the tip and began to paint the sun.
"It is night. Why do you have a sun instead of a moon?" The orderly asks.
I sigh and roll my eyes. He is so dumb, I tell the wall. It chuckles.
"The moon, the stars are not enough to brighten the night. The sun will reveal the evil that lurks beneath every bush." I tell him.
He nods as if he understands. He understands nothing but soon enough he will.
"You have visitors," he says again.
"I don't want to see anyone," I tell him.
"It is your daughter and she has her baby with her," he replies.
The paint brush falls, the high fails to hold me up. I jump to my feet
"I don't want to see her. I told you, no one should see me like this! Especially her! You must send her away! Tell her I am sick. I will not see her." I tell him.
The man sighs and steps to the side and behind him is my child, the most beautiful being I had the privilege of loving. She is swollen and fat. I sit down and pick up the paint brush.
"You are fat," I tell her.
"I am pregnant papa," She replies.
"Are you going to get married to him?" I ask.
The orderly arranges her bulk on a chair. I hear the chair groan and I feel pity for it.
"I have been married for two years," she replies.
I nod and stare at the painting. It looked bland now under her light. My mouth tastes like meds.
"How are you?" She asks.
"I was painting the sun. The wall said we need to make the world brighter," I tell her.
She turns to the orderly who smiles at her and walks to the side of the room to wait as if I will dare injure my daughter. I am not mad.
"How do you feel papa?" She asks.
"How's your mother? She did not come?" I ask.
She turns to the orderly. The man shrugs. She sighs and turns to me.
"Papa would you like to be at the baby's naming?" She asks.
We are asking too many questions and getting little answers or respite from them. I know what she wants to ask and I know what she seeks to hide.
"It would be nice to have you there. The doctor says you are doing better," she says.
"The well deepens into night,
The sky eats the meteor showers,
The rain drowns the noise,
The flower bends to nature;
There's blood every where.
The preacher has his gun,
A god, a hunger, a temple.
The moon cuts the sun,
The road cuts the world;
There's greed every where.
"Papa!" She says.
The babies grow too tall
To bend, to break, to own.
The lovers flee chains
Like heralds of dawn, chariot
Of fire & blood is every where..
She gets up. There is tears in her eyes now. This is how I end every meeting, with poems that mean nothing. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth but it must be done. She must stop coming to search for me. I am not here any more. I do not watch her leave.
When the door closes, when her hollow steps have faded, when her voice no longer lingers on the wall and her scent is an echo on the breeze, I turn to the wall and there the ghost of Mariam, my wife, her mother waits with the bloodied knife.
"It is time," she says.
I do not deny. I get up, walk into the wall, grab her willing hands and together, we wander into hell.
Orderly notes: The patient seem to have had a heart attack not long after his daughter left. The painting is unfinished. He was tired.
Footnotes
Auctioneer notes: This is the work of a rare talent. It is unfortunate we will never get to see more of his skill. It is an oil painting of the sky at night. The painter's style is quite unique. We will start the bid at five hundred thousand naira.
Epilogue
It is her husband that made her come, a handsome young man. He looks well dressed and has a pretty smile for every lady in the room. They sit at the back and watch the proceedings. She does not smile or laugh. There is no baby. The painting sells for twenty million naira. Her husband seems satisfied and even gives the auctioneer's assistant his number. She seems forgotten in the midst of it all.
It is not long before the money finishes and the fine man disappears. It is not long before boredom dips it's tired arms into her soul and sets her wandering her home at night. It is not long before she finds her father's things lost among other lost things of her childhood. Among them, she finds pictures painted by his hands, poems written for her and her mother, wooden toys crafted for her. It is not long before she touches her hand to her little daughter's face and tells her his story and her new man, not as handsome as the first, lies beside them and shares memory like old wine with them.
