because he was my father & because I had watched him hurl a man across our blue-and-gray linoleum living room like that man was made of porcelain or straw & bad suggestions I did not quite believe the first doctor the nearest thing to god my father was six feet of ecru of curled hair & perfect incisors no parts of him hinting at the ephemeral
Ị ma na: how he began every story each one untouched by English coloured in hoarse Igbo do you know that man with the jalopy was arrested for forgery last week? do you know that the heart is a muscle? do you know that its pumping of blood is a show of strength the heartbeat a violent contraction a bodily paroxysm that as children we were fed only fufu; fluffy & un-flaking the colour of the cataract that took my mother’s eye we knew nothing of garri basmati rice, brown and long-eared soft water yams tar-tamed roads mildness or milder things
No anyị amaghị we did not know my father this man who wore timber for limbs brash Sunday trumpet music for voice who would not subscribe to politeness when the words could otherwise be said was capable of death was capable of rot of stinking of chemist-prescribed drugs & frantic prayers & black lungs his stack of CDs teetering in the blue and gray living room Phil Collins & Elton John & Tina Turner & Brandy & I could never again listen to any without melancholy coloring every lyric
I dump his shaving cream down the tub drain & stifle a scream my sister dreams he is alive again wakes to find otherwise & sobs in the toilet so no one can hear but the walls are paper-thin & no doors were built to hold grief.
About the author:
Chisom Eze is a writer, poet and artist residing in Port Harcourt. He was a finalist for the 2024 Kofi Awoonor Poetry Prize and Verdant Poetry Prize respectively. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Martello Magazine, Resurrection Magazine, Akwodee Magazine, Ghost City Review, The Shallow Tales Review and elsewhere.
Feature image by Nicolas Ladino Silva on Unsplash
Isele Magazine 