As the sunlight streaked through the curtains
The last rays of the day illuminating the wall;
I sat still, staring at the sheet of white
Reminiscing of times gone by.
Of moments that defined lives,
Of memories etched deep,
Of people who shaped destinies.
I closed my eyes.
Mama would say:
‘God’s greatest gift, my child
Was giving colour to His creation
Haven’t you seen?
The strokes that He has made on His Earth
So, bold, so beautiful.’
Mama was a dreamer you see.
Captivated by thought,
Sometimes, living in a fantasy.
I wondered if she ever realised
The colour God gave her and me
Gave us the burden of slavery.
Papa would say:
‘Boy, the freedom train is coming
One day, we will leave behind these chains
And we will run with the wind
Through the meadows, through the trees
Across hills, mountains, and valleys’
Papa was a believer, you see.
His faith was strong
In the midst of trials.
No matter how high the waves were
He would hold fast to hope
And sail the seven seas.
The dreamer and the believer
Toiled the hours away
To keep the Master’s kingdom
In conditions so pristine.
Slaves, the Master would call them.
Mama would stare at the big white wall
Whenever she could steal a few minutes
She would ask: ‘What do you see?’
All I saw was a spotless space.
But she said that was her canvas
She sat for minutes and hours
Days and months
For a tapestry of heaven,
Was asked of her; a spinner of chronicles.
For the Master, it was decoration
A cloth to robe his wall with.
For Mama, it was her resistance
A drapery of courage, a beacon of light; amidst the storm.
I asked her:
“How can we see from heaven from here?’
As her hands flowed
In seamless rhythm
She told me the story of each thread
How each one had a tale to tell.
The dark red,
The colour of the fine wine the Master drank;
Also, of the blood that flowed from the marks of whips
The vibrant green,
The colour of the grass of the front lawn
Also, of the wad of greenbacks that eluded our hands
The piercing blue,
The shade of the deep ocean bed
Also, the endless sky under which
One day, maybe, we could live free.
The threads, intertwined
Danced with each other,
As they climbed up and down the tapestry
Moulding themselves into a spellbinding narrative.
Days became months, months became years
We lived suppressed, downtrodden;
But, our comfort lay in the hanging in the entrance:
Mama’s heaven.
A stream which flowed
Right down the middle
Clear skies, without a cloud in sight
Flowers of a multitude colours
Red, pink, yellow and white.
Snow capped mountains
And a bird, with wings stretched
Horizon bound, in full flight.
And then one day,
A trip to town
Blessed by Mama’s kiss on my forehead
Turned out to be the last time.
Papa and me came back to the main house
To see it in flames
Burnt to the ground
Papa ran, while ordering me to stay.
Moments later, a lifeless figure in his arms
Along with a small piece of familiar cloth
Singed with raggy borders; on it
A picture of two smoky yellow flowers.
His face, calm.
His eyes, overwhelmed with despair.
His voice, firm.
‘Come, son.
We have to run away.’
So we ran,
Along the tracks of the freedom train.
And somewhere along the way,
A grave was dug,
The body was laid to rest.
I placed the charred fabric
The remnant of a past masterpiece
Over the ground where she lay.
And I knew
Mama was picking sunflowers with God
In a place far, far away.