“When an old man or woman dies, a library burns to the ground”.
Seated under a shade, an old crusty library stands.
No dusty shelves to show, but aging lines and cranky bits.
Hands shaky, vision almost failing but intelligence and faith never faltering.
A voice a little rusty but vibrant, thoughts crusty and reeking of memories.
A shade most sufficient, a calming around the homestead
after the sun flirts with the moon at dawn summoning evening.
Unshaken, vivid imaginations crimsoned with the effects that
come with age, the old library stands strong, ever resourceful and cheerful.
Memories still as fresh, events of the past told as new.
Faith never faltering, knowledge never breaking.
Stories by the fire, always as enthusiastic with wit and humor.
Historical events told in folk lore, Geography, and religion broken
down through the ages, tales of valor and strength, virtue and Pride.
Bits of the past and how the ancestors lived.
Knowledge never ceasing, to an audience ever changing.
Life times caressed, his audience will grow and usher in a
vibrant one with different perceptions on life and the world.
He knows of more births and burial grounds.
A life lived in turmoil; he’s seen the world from different angles,
encountered all kinds of people, and experiences.
A blurry vision most sufficient for he has seen it all.
The scars on his skin tell of the First World War.
Truth as he stutters provokes memories of the Second World War.
Taking strides of intelligence for a world he grew up knowing.
The changes ushered in by the industrial revolution and independence.
Various regimes in the country, economic developments
and the changing perception of the world.
A christening different from the world he knew where women
and men had different roles and responsibilities.
Rite of passage caressed through each homestead and marriage was upheld.
Recalling a period where Women were more respectful and took
care of their homes while men loved their women and were providers.
Pausing to acknowledge the world with its changes, covering his disgust
for the stains that provoke a generation that now strokes his carnal distress.
Bits of wrinkled flesh screaming attention, Lines of age calling out to the ancestors.
Many moons dawned, different generations, changing perceptions and views of the world.
Topsy turvy blues calming as the sunset, warmth on his skin receding as the sound of
the African drum for the initiation rites while he was still a young man.
“Death would be most sufficient!” he cries…
Knowledge still as resourceful, the old library crumbles.