The Evening Sun
I'm on my way to the crossroads of an ecosystem where it is preached that sadness cannot co-exist with any other kind of feeling.
I am told if I get there, I probably will learn unpublished lessons about life and the things the Earth does not pour out whenever it trembles.
I've pathetically missed my path as I journey but a woman realigns my mind towards the right direction. She tells me that my body may be lost, but my soul has to be guided.
She tells me that pain is an installation of tattered memories that resurfaces every now and then, and that the words I write down when my mind is in a state of confusion only romances my grief.
She holds my hand and points eastwards to where crows flutter around the airspace, and she asks me to follow the steppings of my receding shadow alongside every shrill from the birds I hear so that I may understand that darkness could sometimes be the light.
I'm almost at my destination and the only thing I can think of is the woman I love, the woman who I met today, and the woman who gave birth to me.
I'm unsure I'll see any of them again and that grief becomes a part of my memory.
Perhaps when I reach this destination of mine, I'll find a place to cast together peaceful words to comfort myself. If this destination isn't death.
IDRIS IBRAHIM is from Northern Nigeria and writes from anywhere his soul is able to connect with the blessings of life's bittersweet symphony. Outside writing, he enjoys debating, soccer, and of course, experiencing the beauty of literature in nature's testimony.