A mother’s cry
They say that air goes everywhere.
That if the earth’s a restaurant
Air is the waiter..and it serves everyone.
So I send you this prayer by air, Nonso.
My first and my only.
That the tree beside grandma’s hut
under which his umbilical lie, still blossoms.
That the herb which donated leaves to shrink his navel, asks about him
And all the nights that lost sleep to join
a barren woman in her prayers.
They are counting the seasons
And the seasons are pages of life
They say he is in America.
I don’t know America.
But I know air goes there too.
Tell nonso that our forest has grown smaller
that the river now has a bad taste.
I hear stories about America
tell America that we also have our stories
And that no story is superior to another.
I still feel his heartbeat in my chest as it was
when he took his first suck.
Tell Nonso that the waters that lead men north
also take them south.
That a man’s only orange tree is his orchard .
That my dusk should not arrive before him.