relapsing Fever

sprouting like the bud of a tender flower

with the petals unfolding with the brightness of the sun

nutured meticulously by the freshness of the morning dew

it grows stronger and stronger like the oak in the americas

striking like a teriffic lighting

with its spark flashing from coast to coast;

spreading like a wide fire in the harmattan

defiling the most shrewed fireman's expertise

progressing into a raging conflagration

pounding my heart like an obstinate palpitation

such an amalgam of blow and hope it is

but i savor the pleasure of such a microcosmic utopia

as my love grows by the day

splintered guts: reflections of a bemused philosopher

stalked by some paranoia

vehemently running from his shadow

why would a character like me not?

why would I want to be vulnerable?

I remember the words of brother West

an astute, shrewed philosopher

prophetic and Socratic in the real sense of the word:

"he who has not cried has not loved; he who has not loved has not lived".

love defines, unwraps our humanity

-maybe, maybe not-

I surmise our vulnerability too

I am not just Negro

I am born and bred in mother Africa

how unmanly is it to cry!

if the sayings of West are true

in tandem, its unmanly to love then

maybe the context is cultural

but i tot the language of love is universal

could we question the expression of the same?

.....to be continued