There won’t be much listening.
His voice would drown,
Under the whispers of engines & busy city happenings.
He will have to match the shouting of strangers on sidewalks,
The fierce fist fights between cab drivers and passengers over petty change ,
And He will wonder if anybody notices him at all.
He’d need stronger coffee to go through a long day.
He’d order bitterball torborgee with country rice,
Eat to the stares from scrawny kids at the window with drool dripping from their teeth.
He’d get stopped in taxi by an officer,
Gasping at how the officer folds the twenty bucks the driver slips him.
At night,
When the need to speak sits heavy in his throat like a log,
He will have to be louder than my mother’s midnight prayers.
She shouts in so many languages that He’d struggle with which one to answer.
When it is dawn,
When the sun’s slipping from its slumber,
He will dry himself off of roots and grasses,
Sprout His wings and fly back home remembering,
This country kills gods who linger in it too long.
Authored by Abunic Sheriff
Featured picture by ZEF Blog Liberia
