"Ayaka"

 

Why do we mourn at a night so fit for moaning?

A night when couples should be cuddled up together to produce perfect euphony 

A night when children should soar on the sea of their mothers gentle caress

A night that should should usher the new twinkling stars to beautify the sky.

A night of tales and not wails

A night of muffled laughter under the moonlight.

A night of avowal of timid affection

A night we should all live to reminiscence. 

 

But this night wears an ugly shade of evil

Its cold hands steals our vibrant hope

It bears a forbidden tale that deafens the whole clan.

Hands are folded into the elbows in shock

Eyes are redden but no tear drops

The dusk came so early at the wake of dawn

And we're not prepared for this sudden rest.

 

A huge Ayaka has fallen at mid-day

It wasn't one of his usual taunt 

But a gentle walk into the threshold of spirits

Where every spirit should go

Where we all must go

Where this young breed full of life has chosen to walk into when the dew of life freshly drops on parched ground.

 

Note: Ayaka means a huge respectable tree. This poem is written in the honour of my friend, late Franklin Okonkwo, who death cut down in his prime. Rest well, brother.