I hope there is a metal detector at the pearly gates.

April is coming to an end.
The last of April brings a quietness that fools us back into reality
It’s been this way for nearly 20 years.
For 20 years now April has been tainted
Thus becoming the worst month of my year
For 20 years ago April wasn’t the worst
It was the last for a million heaven-bound souls
For reasons still beyond my understanding
This month and the next two were a paradox
Heaven gained angels and celebrated I am sure.
We lost ours and still mourn them.
I hope they found peace in the after life
I hope St Peter checks for metals
We lost the dead and some of the living
One in particular comes to my mind at this time
He was way too young to see the things he saw then.
He still lives but part of him died that April 20 years ago.
He was a cheeky boy with a crooked smile and a twinkle in his eyes.
He never found mischief that he couldn’t get into
He was notorious for that.
We called him Gasore then.
Little Young Man
Today he walks with the heaviness of a man twice his size.
His eyes carry the burdens
Of a world that lost sense and still carried on.
He is recognizable by one thing: he only wears red shoes.
Once in a blue moon that little boy I knew
Seeps through this strange man’s smile
And winks at me to say: I remember too.
But mostly he just sits quietly and watches
One day not long ago the little boy came to visit
We sat on a Sunday afternoon willing the day never to end
And doing so poorly that we both started to laugh
We laughed so hard that we never saw it coming
The torrent of emotion that buries itself under time
And when it did come it poured from all pores
And the little girl I was clung to the little boy I knew
Still looking for innocence in the dusty aftermath
Of a tragedy so immense ….

You did it didn’t you?
Worried about soiling your new shoes
Worried about what she would say
You just couldn’t risk it!
Such a fine day to be obedient
Gasore what have you done ?
There will never be again
Not water, not torrents
No soap not detergent
Not even Vim or Eau de Javel
Nothing will ever clean your feet again
You took your new shoes off
And walked in her blood
With your bare feet
Over her dead body
Mama won’t be mad
She’s already gone.

-Mpinga-

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