Beneath The Eastern Tree



I never attempted to court destiny, knowing her nature she would eventually make her way over to me. She takes time out of her busy schedule to send me a message once in awhile, I read it and place it in the usual pile. This last letter came after a few months of a severed connection; she said without freedom everything else is just fruitless ambition.

I sent back a candid reply. Telling her, every morning I am squeezing lumps of coal trying to birth diamonds to finance the pressures of a revolution. If it wasn’t for my wife’s wisdom, refining the raggedness of my vision, I would be lost in indignation. Her time gives my thoughts a private scene for reflection, her presence in itself is like completely different location. 

Lock and key, that which is priceless was always meant to be hers, inescapable my inner emotions she stirs. Essential is her affection, water and oxygen they come after her smile. She walks on my left denying even my shadow any legroom; only a queen befits a queen’s womb, came forth into this world my one and only daughter.

Sitting beneath the eastern tree, lost in contemplation. My thoughts are fragmented by my little one’s laughter, soothing my souls frustration, a little replica of her mother. The sound of joy often floats on a cloud of despair; even as I stare into the innocence of her brown eyes, I don’t know why I sense an impending war. 

A bare witness to the death of hundreds of children everyday, dreams of the harmless stolen by the ignorant man’s bullet. The world nations unite just to move containers across the oceans. The diplomacy of pretentious democracy is nothing more than a chemical poison, I find myself wondering what if human blood was valued at the price of oil.  

Maybe globalisation comes with a health hazard, a neurochemical imbalance that turns humans into drones. Lost souls trapped in tablets and phones, turned into herds void of any compassionate feelings. Starved of the recollection, no longer knowing what it feels to be amongst the living. A few people indulge in prosperity while the majority dwells in abject poverty.

Family and friends constantly ask me why is it your concern? I tell them destiny has a sister named irony and when the slums start to burn the suburbs in hale the smoke. Think about your geography, these are the thoughts I wish to provoke. Poverty will always encroach on wealth’s border, and if democracy is based on the scales of the majority, who’s going to ensure your preserved order?

Mental hunger can never be satisfied by bread and butter. At your own peril continue to ignore the poor man’s hunger; thinking class will keep him obeying because life’s situation placed you higher up the social ladder.  The first victim of attrition is the one closest to the poor; I am African need I say more.  


Hamza Egal © copyright 2014 all rights reserved.  

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