A dirge to my unborn

Photo: Mustafa Omar

There were no memories to show me

how to love you…

—Nick Makoha

I grew up in a house of war

where the only way to resolve

 conflicts was

to throw bottles and bury red blood

behind eyelids

I grew up with two images

of God who made love with kitchen knives

and

tattoo each other’s skin with scars

at the sight of each moon

I am a son of Pharaoh

when your mother

shall land you

safely into a nurse’s hands

I’ll be moved

like a farmer who received benefits

for his fallen sweat.

Truth is, I shall be lucky to have you as my child, but you

will be unlucky to be born by me: a freshman to fatherhood.

so when the doctor says your mother will bring

you to earth

I will panic and mix the joy

of having you

with too many perplexities

because

growing up

my father burnt down the bridge

that connects a father to his son

and the map on how

to raise and love you

so pardon me as I will be an apprentice

learning

how to raise a blood into a man

and how to remove mucus

from a child’s nose

with my mouth

without feeling disturbed.

About the author

Abuoya Eruot writes from Paynesville, Liberia. He’s a budding poet and a worshipper of music, who gathers muse from personal experiences, happenings in society, and nature. His works have been published in African Writer, Praxis Magazine, Eboquills, Odd Magazine, and elsewhere.