The last hour you were here, Mama sat under a lifted satellite cup, tears absorbing the pillow which ought to abstract dreams. Sometimes, quite like the sounds of raining leaflets; the mind resting on a shoulder that ponders over little trickles. I wondered what Madam Amba Sam, the perkish literary scholar of mushroom farming, had conceived the night after this. She is soft and barks through lines of scribbled pages. “I have the urge she do die this night”, I said. With browned rhetorics, I kept painting Mama by her bedside. I knew the time was right. It had already approached the kitchen and had licked the dark charcoal cooking pot. I could feel Madam crying through her broken voweled-consonants that screeched along the tunnel of her voice box. By the time the moon came rubbing the sun of its charm, grave looters came humming songs of indignation. The air was expired. Filtered particles lined under the kettle. I sat writing on Mama’s clothes, writing of smiles and joyful melodies. Before I could realise the gathered weight of Papa and the family members, I had written of the good death had done. I felt my pamphlet rolled sheet-after-sheet. Sheets that kept thanking death for relieving mother’s twenty-three years of sad-crippled malady.
© Nana Arhin Tsiwah
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