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Poet: Kelvin K Nyakubaya
We buried the old man the other day, like a seed into the ground. I hope his soul sprouts into a flower, the Forget me not.
I loved him very dearly, still do never got around to remind him that, l hope he knew, I hope he knows. The one life we got can’t be bought, but still, we find ourselves longing to have those fleeting moments we had, back.
Seated by the fireplace under the mulberry tree, with the fire softly burning and his thumb piano in hand, “once upon a time…” He would tell the story of a hunter ‘Kamutatare’ was his name. Eyes wide in wonderment, I listened intently as his lips part ways to tell of a magical time and place when donkeys had horns.
I am the firstborn son to his firstborn son, though he was much older the resemblance was striking. ” You take after your Grandfather…” Grandma would say,” he is a storyteller with dramatic gestures, just like you,” she would add. I did find my voice and learned to write, but the old man never got to hear me utter those magic words,” once upon a time … “If only the dead could read”, I finally did it, Grandpa, I finally did … I wrote sonnets for the world to read and combined gripping imagery with bold statements to feed the theatre of the mind,” talking to a tombstone, walls have ears and the grave has walls.
Seated by the fireplace under the mulberry tree, with the fire softly burning and his thumb piano in my hands, “once upon a time…” I begin to tell the story of a hunter, ‘Kamutatare’ is his name, and introduce my firstborn son to a magical time and place where donkeys have horns.
Though much younger the resemblance is striking, “you look just like him, and maybe one day you too will address life’s pros and cons with prose and make poems out of lemons.”
Journey well Bvudzijena, may your stories console those in the afterlife.

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