To Chinua Achebe - In Memoriam

Seven is all I was, a child,

when we first met
on a simple wooden bench
under a tree in Lagos,
and in my hands, there you were
unsimply as Civil Peace.
They say books are doors to other worlds -
I entered Aesop’s and Blyton's and Caroll's and Dahl’s
even Twain's and Eliot's,
but I knew none of mine
till you came
and whispered to me
about those -isms
of many sorts, of many hows.
You whispered to me
that this little deaf child
can read and even write if she so wishes.
You whispered to us, too,
that there's more to us than Shakespeare, Tolstoy, or Chekov.
You whispered to us that there is in fact
a ‘Us’ -
you stood
and wagged a finger at those deeds;
deeds done with a Heart of Darkness,
deeds never to be taken lightly, ever.
The irony here
is that all the deeds you have done have been done in nought, but light,
deeds that this missive cannot hold.
Now,
because of you…
We shine
because of you…
We read
because of you…
We speak
because of you…
We write in our own tongue.
Phrases like “awrighto” and “My frien why you no de talk again?”
will forever
have a place in the hearts of our bookshelves,
our kindles,
and most of all, in the lightness of our hearts.

Sir, please, go ahead and rest in peace. Forever.

© AH 2013