When I was young at about three,
My Mother gave me a clean Sheet
Clean Without
Spotless like a silverwool
Crystal like snow
She handed me a sharpened pencil
My baby , she said, write your story
Happy me, but naive,
Innocence was my initials
So,I began to write
Stories my poor mother could not read
Stories in pencils, Sometimes jagons that cannot be deciphered
I was happy because it had made my day
My poor mother protested, yet accepted it as child's play
O baby! What did you do to your clean sheet?
I laughed and thought my mother did not know anything
Fast forward the even, about twenty years after,
My poor mother in her fifties brought
Out my supposed clean sheet
I asked where its from
Asked who has the jagons
No mother , that can be my handwriting
She laughed just like I did twenty years ago
Mother, why did you allow me to
Write jagons on my clean sheet?
She chuckled in silence
You filled with the song of innocence
I wanted to guide you but you
Insisted it must be your own way!
I bent and began to wail
Wailed like never before
I wrote my story haphazardly
In my youthfberance, I was consumed
Then I asked, Mother, what can be done?
She handed me a cleaner
Its high time you cleaned your sheet
And rewrite your story
Then I began to clean-up
Days gone by, I was still cleaning
Months came around, I thought its almost finished
Until years passed when I realised my big mess
I am still cleaning! I am still cleaning!
When would my jagons finally be erased?
I wanted to rewrite my story on my clean sheet
But the sheet is rough and dirty
Mother , please help, I cried!
She could not because old age has knocked
Her eyes gone and could barely walk
Mother please don't leave me like this until she bought a farm
My sheet is still with me
The more I cleaned , the dirtier and complicated
O my sheet, why do you have to be so dirty?
I wish I could turn around the hand
Of time when mother was there,
O baby , dont write that way
Not on the margin my dear,
You have to dot your I's ans cross your T's
Your spelling is not good ,why not this way!
Your arithmetic assignment you are yet to do
O mother , I will attend to it later
Because I need to have fun with my friends
Now , its getting late, am still cleaning
Who would help me out has been
My cry for thirty years!
Written By; Kagbure Sammy Oluwatosin
We really never appreciate having our mothers around until they are gone. Ironically, the little boy laughed at the mum because he thinks she does not understand his jargons. After several years when the boy has come of age, the mum still do not understand it. What a crazy world. Nice one
ReplyDeleteIt is easy and in fact sweet to make messes. The problem arises when we realize the errors of our ways and want to make amends. At this point, we already have our work cut out for us. Lovely poem.
ReplyDelete