It Was A Sunday Morning in Abraka

IT WAS A SUNDAY MORNING IN ABRAKA

It was Sunday morning in Abraka,

Babes still in their dirtiness

Of yesterday’s play.

Babes still in the nude of innocence,

The nude of untutored minds.

Water boils in the blackened kettle

As smoke curls like Abel’s to the heavens.

“Time to bathe o”, mother says,

As she breastfeeds the little one.

To wash in the cold blue day

Was too much work for the child.

Mother notices and calls out

“Abigail baf am, make you dress am for church.”

Little ones run around

Clothed in dirtiness and innocence;

Some getting ready for church,

Some getting ready for play,

On a Sunday morning in Abraka.

It was a Sunday morning in Abraka,

Youths beautifully dressed

In suits, long sleeved shirts, pants and

Flower patterned skirts.

Bibles on the palms, expensive scents

Seeping out of bodily sweat

Overflowing everywhere.

Head ties on heads

Where hats cannot stay.

Indeed attention is on God today.

The nightclubs, bars, money and women?

Forgotten!

But wait!

I see two youths

Not to church they hurry

But to money. Mammon calls them.

The road is full

Gaily dressed and colourfully adorned.

The road is happy today.

God has passed again

To take his position

In the denomination around

On a Sunday morning in Abraka.

On a Sunday morning in Abraka,

The police station is devoid of life

But today, it is strategically located

For a show on the frailty of life.

Two youths lie, never to get up.

Their faces towards the sky;

Eyes of one staring at God,

With bullet wounds echoing of a rough death.

Peace it seems their faces occupy.

What they now see and experience,

I know not.

Young men gone too soon

On a Sunday morning in Abraka.

It was a Sunday morning in Abraka,

The old man steps out to watch

The flow of life along life’s path.

He has seen a lot of Sundays and more

And he is still asking questions.

Grandma is outside with her

Bra loosely holding lazy breasts

Washing forgotten dirt

Of yesterday’s drudgery and pains.

Piano sounds purrs from churches

As God is praised in different voices.

Pastors in eight benched churches

Preaching to a large congregation

Of poverty stricken and wealth hoping families

A baby tearfully sucks in the catarrh

From the nostrils with extreme care,

Hoping in liquid silence for fulfillment

On a Sunday morning in Abraka.

These pictures are pictures of a world

Shaken into breath

By the song of the morning bird.

Yesterday is gone.

Today is here.

Tomorrow still to come.

Thus the cycle of life continues

As I paint,

On a Sunday morning in Abraka.

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