The Chronicles Of A Disjointed Boy is yet to come to an end as John Chizoba Vincent used the magic of his pen to give you another beautiful piece of work.
I’m a boy, I’m not a burden to the world not to you either. I’m a boy learning how to empty myself in the hands of goodness. I’m a boy learning how to wear the skin of my father because mine is too heavy to be worn. I’m a boy learning how to hide under the tears of my mother because I have no means of helping her solve her problems. You can’t look me straight in the eyes, you can’t paint me without painting Misery and darkness and demons. You can’t carve me without carving a demon out of me. Demons dwell in me and that is why I walk around trying to cast them out. I’m positive hiding my ways into what I stand for. You won’t understand what it means to be a boy like me living in this skin of mine, I’m positive.
The boy you painted in your eyes is no more. He was said to have killed himself after you rejected him. The boy you sort after has gone to consult his ancestors, he was said to have committed suicide after you abandoned him for another him. He has gone to heaven. Maybe he would see a better lover over there. Celestial calling and the redemption of his soul is better than the love you give. The fear of love is the outset of tranquillity. Look no more for he is gone to a better home.
It was a happy day, Emeka went to the farm and he never came back. It was a sunny day, Femi went to school and he never came back as a person rather he came back as a breaking news. We held our hearts searching for his fragments on the ground. Listen to me child, you are not going to be able to make your own journey into the world forgetting the smell of genocide. Many boys have been taken in the heat of the moment. Many killed against their wish, who will hear their voices? What voice wouldn’t swallow their tales? What ear will listen to their voices? What mouth will talk about their death? All we saw was blood and skulls scattered here and there. Who will listen and talk about those boys butchered in the wee hours of the day? We think of living while the dead think of living, I wish the dead have ears and mouth and eyes, they could have let us know what is obtainable over there. I’m not masking my tears, I think you know that. I’m not sure if I’m living or dying. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to live again after the first attempt to survive.
Mother said boys are heroes but she has never looked into my eyes to see how blurry they are. She said boys are giant but she never knew how my sisters abused me each night after she had gone to sleep. I won’t tell her either how my sister ate my food and warned me not to tell anyone. She said boys are brave enough to get work done but she never knew the weaknesses behind our smiles. I’m skeptical about who boys are. Some are skeletons hiding under their shadows.
I won’t tell you how they survive abuses because you won’t understand it. I won’t tell you how they wallow in pains trying to be boys. I won’t tell you how they survive smiling out their hearts under the burning sun. The friends they have made are not far from their solitude and pocketed thoughts because they must expand their scopes & rest to what would sweeten their beliefs like the new testaments.
You can’t channel your spirit here and remain the same person you used to be.
I can’t remember who says something is wrong with a man who pretend to be a girl during war. I can’t remember who says boys should only be seen in the battle field. Someone said it and I heard her talking to the cloud. Have you been under a boy’s skin to feel how he held his heart as a butterfly trying to find it’s way into the field of flowers? Have you seen boys fluttering their wings across the flowers of their weaknesses, easy to be dealt with by lashes of words from unknown tongues? Have you seen boys bullied mercilessly by lost tongues who doesn’t know what control means? Probably you are lost , you don’t know about boys, no, you don’t know.
Also read the previous works of John Chizoba Vincent here
I am creating another war under heavens and the sound of my drums shall hold together the soprano of the beat it produces. Boys can’t go back to their placenta for redemption after their massacred ego. who says men on their thin skins are not meant to be catered for by women who seek for equity and equality? Heaven knows in his strong heart who has grown to love boys with a songstress heart. Heaven knows how to name boys in their celestial colours like a brother in ways alien to another brother. We are men of colours patterning our ways to freedom.
of life we have been given, of dreams we hold dearly to our hearts, and the belief of conquering self; boys are not stones, they are humans too. Don’t bother to take side with the one who fights men’s wars with a woman’s tears, he isn’t fit to live here.
© John Chizoba Vincent