A Patriarch


Eleven hours of flight across the Atlantic Ocean. By road, I crossed two rivers; river Niger, and John’s River. My destination was across from a market, and adjacent to a town hall. Lush Iroko trees in every direction. Scattered, and casting shadows over acres of brush land.  A grazing field, decades before my life began. My father told me.

Two anthills guarding the footpath. Tall mounds from red soil dug up by ants claiming territories they did not own. I approached the mounds. Termites meandering around. New owners of the land, or mere tenants? No one had challenged their presence for years. My grandfather abandoned the space one hundred years ago. His son, my father, became the overseer until he departed twenty-one years ago.  Timing of birth anointed my only brother as the manager of the estate. A veritable lord of the land. He lorded from a distance, until he joined our ancestors the day I was summoned home. That was how my journey began.

Pieces of broken earthen pots littered the ground. Along the path to my grandfather’s house, birds congregated on several trees with ripe fruits. On one special tree, red feathered birds, and buzzing bees shared their bounty. Beaks and talons probing abundant feasts. Buzzing and gyrations on dripping fruits.

I heard rumbling noise from a distance. Drops of rain on my face. Effervescent sounds on baked tropical soil. Unique aroma emanated from the fizz. Special earthy scent of the first rain. Anticipating a tropical deluge, I quickened my pace to my ancestral house. Corrugated iron roof. Rust and red dust. Delicate floor more than one hundred years old. Preserved for eternity, if taken care of. I removed my shoes and socks. I walked barefoot where my grandfather walked. An owl asked, “who-o-o who-o-o?” Words came out of my mouth, “I’m home grandpa.” A spiritual transformation.

I knelt, and kissed the soil. Sadness overtook me. Tears rolled down my eyes. I mourned for my dead brother, alone. I remembered the last time we stood together. Mourning the death of our father.

I returned from my sojourn, a Patriarch. It is my turn to lord over the land. My birthright.

Written by Fidelis O. Mkparu (2016), author of ‘Love’s Affliction’

My Brother, Augustine


My dearest Augustine:

I was at Papa’s house recently and it did not feel like the place I used to call home. My barefoot on the steps of the verandah did not give me the joy I used to have when we were kids. Unfortunately, it brought tears to my eyes. Desolation is a bitch, and I know her so well. God knows, I miss the fake fight we used to have by the cashew tree in front of the house. The poor tree is now gone. Even the progeny of the beautiful guava tree that ‘stooped’ by Mom’s garden is gone too. Alas, it is only me that is left to tend to Papa’s country house. Reality has been cruel to me, and hard to accept. It has been three years since your death, and I’m still acutely aware that there is no one left to call my brother.