The last Supper – The forest is full of personal effects and comforts

TO THE WOODS WE SHALL RETURN

_A Belief of the papers._

One day, we shall return before the forest fires burn down our roots. Like humans were created from dust, we papers are created from the woods. As humans bear(s) special names, papers too, have their special names. In this world of ours, we are meant to serve the ink holders. From them, we receive orders. Our destiny written with ink that smells of purpose, unlike humans we know were we are headed.

I have a father, his name is Money. He’s this kind of paper Humans can’t do without. He’s the price to their commodity. They spend him, save him, invest him, lavish him, some even heist him, some keep him in places he comes looking like he needs a bath. And some –he swears he hates- bury him.

I have a mother. Her name is Will. She manages the family. Tells us who gets what, or who gets given to what. You know father would always brag; He’s the head of the family. That’s not so. I know it. Father often wouldn’t know what to do unless mother directs him. My mother is the problem of some families. They fight and kill each other because of my mother. I do wonder, if mother is that beautiful, this weakness father feels around her, if others feel it to. Why do humans fight over her?

Money and Inheritance gave birth to twins; a boy and a girl. I am Letter and my sister is Envelope. I came out before her. We usually argue about this. I am Letter; I live a life of an angel. You can call me cupid; when school boys toss me around the class. I am much happier then –flying in the air, giggling with them. You know, the tenderness the touch me with, makes me feel alive, I feel! I mean could feel. And the giggle that comes after –sometimes I wish could reach to them, caress their face and tell them “yes I know”. And the, burying me under their pillow; such night I feel like I am part of their family.

But sometimes, I mean most times –well I am not so proud about this –I bring sadness to some people especially when I come from the bank and I remind them how empty their lives are or when their employer sends me to them. I usually send them packing. If my life was only a way to unite lovers like Femi and Grace, I would have been the happiest child in the world but last week, I got Musa sacked, and just right when he tossed me outside the gate, a car tossed him aside too. This made me think I’m demonic but I’m not a devil. I’m just an errand boy, who lives out the destiny imprinted by the ink lords.

But you know most times I am incomplete. I mean I can’t live out my destiny without my sister. We’re not just twins at birth but twins in life; I mean we didn’t just come out together we also live together. My twin sister is my backbone. Like humans need cloths to protect them, she clothes me with care, and always assures me we would be fine.  She doesn’t let harm come to me.

But I am sad. I think she’s deformed, I think she came out broken. Humans don’t spend time with her, the just rip her apart and toss her aside. This breaks me. But I love her. Humans are just blind and stupid. One time while I screamed in an office as hot coffee burnt through me, she hushed and sang to me as she burnt: my sister –my backbone.

But then our history is sad, we never really get back home, we’re spirits roaming the street. Humans when they’re done with us, when they’ve ripped apart all that matters to us, the toss aside into the wind and then we become dirt, we become part of what the hate. Most of us lucky ones find our way back home – to the woods.

So that’s why I have begged an ink master to imprint this destiny on me, to plead to you that would come across me; when you’re done with me, do not crumple my life and toss into darkness. Just lay me down in the woods by the road side and I will find my way home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A young Nigerian Poet and Writer, who’s living with the term ‘Valorous Son’. My writings dwell much into our present day life and fantasises into the future. I’ve received a number of awards, as the Writer of the year and as the Poet Laureate Award in the previous year.

Ngiga
editor@ngigareview.com
We're legion

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