Prose

Songs of a migrant

I am set to take my chances.

It is only the ears of a child that hear the roar of a paper tiger.

What danger could there be more than the horrors of the homeland?

The night shall provide stars to guide our feet over the great sand and storms of the Sahara.

Are the howlings of nocturnal creatures not a song in the ears of the brave?

Shall we cross the fury of the Niger/ Benue rivers to drown in the little and sweet waters of the Mediterranean Sea?

My head is bowed but I am not cowed.

I will not dwell among the cowards any longer nor help them count their cowries of fear in a land that is constantly adrift.

My eyes are set on tomorrow even if it does not come.

If you will not come with me, bid me farewell, my friend and I shall bequeath to you what is left of my few earthly possessions; a worn-out six-inch mattress and pillow, two black pots and some plates, a bucket, a dusty shelf of aging books and two months of paid rent.

Au revoir my friend and may the good Lord be with you.

I will walk alone, if I can’t find company. I will walk fast. I will not look back. I will not come back. I will get to my destination.

God willing.

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