by Ooreofeoluwa Kalejaiye

Created on: January 14, 2010

"Only God knows what you were doing when I wrote this

What I’ll be doing when you read this

What day it’ll be, what mood I’ll be in

How you got this in your hands."

-Joshua Owopetu.

                                                          

 I was struck by these words when I read them. I realized that we’re all going through the motions of life struck by different tragedies, surrounded by different circumstances, immersed in different environments, fighting different battles, but one thing remains the same for us all; time. We’re all going through life at the same time. Furthermore, it struck me that in many ways, we bicker and argue over whose situation sucks more or who has it worse in this life, trying to inspire attention from others rather than trying to ease another person’s pain. We can keep doing that or we can stop and recognize those whose hearts are broken amongst us, those whose spirits are crushed, those whose souls are heavy, those whose smiles are a long forgotten memory and we can stretch out the hand of love to them.

 He’s just a boy but in many ways forced into manhood of sorts; only worth as much as he can do for everyone else. He’s broken up by the strength he carries everyday, shouldering a load never meant for him to carry. He has been robbed of love, pressured until the cracks begin to show and still the iron hand isn’t lifted, it sinks claws into him, ripping him apart so he is left with nothing but weakness. He wishes death upon those who own the hands that have yielded themselves to his torture, the ones who gave him life and now tear it out of him piece by piece. If he were never to see them again, it would be too soon.

 He’s just a child with only one constant in his life, a mother who has given him life in more ways than one. He carries around the pain of abandonment for them both striving to keep in check the bitterness that threatens to destroy him. He sees the resemblance in his eyes and in his heart he curses the reflection. Silence greets him each time he asks the questions that torture him day and night chipping away at the semblance of esteem he scrapes up wherever

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