that he had no money to give his only son
for the length of the day, while at school-
made him feel less of a father again.
In the old uniform,
thirsty with adult stains printed all over,
and yawning shoes,
his son hastily jumped off the back of the bicycle.
The rain and the wind
like two elephants, fought around them
sucking out the few exercise books
into the air,
and picking them off the mud
meant another challenging affair.
The bag had one mouth,
with no zipper to seal its lips,
but banana fibers strapped them loosely together.
Turning to say farewell,
the boy drew tears in his father’s eyes,
authentic tears diluted in the minute rivers
of rain streaming down his cheeks-
that quivered subliminally,
with the bitter scent of poverty around him.
His son smiled charmingly,
never spotting the wounds
in his father’s emotions.
As he never asked God
for a wealthy dad;
but for one
who awoke early morning
before the moon went to hide again;
just to make an African fire and boil black tea.
To iron his uniform with a ‘charcoal iron’
and kept blowing off the stubborn ashes
that escaped onto the linen.
One who toiled gardening,
from before the sun peeped at dawn
to before the moon peeped at dusk-
to harvest an education for him.
He only asked of heaven
a single favor-
to let his dad live to that day,
to that day of graduation
to that day when shoulders are soaked wet
with tears,
to that day of intellectual harvest,
the day love in rags
triumphs
over
money in suits!