A TALE TO TELL

This is a tale about a bullet. A bullet that was forcefully let out from the barrel of a gun at an unstoppable speed, burning with rage. This is a story about a man whose mind forcefully made his forefinger push the trigger on that bright Sunday morning in front of a church. This is a tale about me, on the day my soul forcefully pushed my eyes to watch my very own father pull out that gun. This is a tale about a pastor, who like a bag of sand thrust from a roof, fell to the muddy ground as the bullet penetrated his black robe to the mantle of his chest. This is a tale about that scream heard almost on a radius of a kilometer as if not from the throat of a dying man. A sad tale about an eleven year old girl watching her young father bleed to death on a beautifully started day. This tale is about a woman; a strong black woman, running towards her dying husband, holding his head in her soft hands as he drew his last breath.  A poignant story about those heart-piercing words of a woman as she cried to the heavens, “Why oh father?! Not my husband! Not now!”

This tale is about the second bullet that penetrated the head of my father on the same shiny Sunday morning by the action of his own forefinger. A tale about that very same forefinger that was attached to a hand that used to pull my young self across the road, a palm that used to wipe my tears and a fist that punched my mother on that very same bright morning. A tale about my young eyes that used to see that very wise pastor roaming about my home every time my merchant father was on errands. This tale, believe it or not, is a tale about a telephone and a few text messages, filled with sweet similes and metaphors typed by a pastor for my very own God-fearing mother. This is a tale of a crying man and an unfaithful wife. A tale about two deaths on a Sunday morning and two kids left fatherless.

This is a tale about a daughter of a pastor who grew up in murk, never knowing happiness since the sunday morning she watched her father pass. A sweet tale of how she finally found happiness in the hands of a husband. The tale of a husband who promised her never to leave the sight of her heart or hurt her purposely. This is the tale of a love that grew inside her womb then escaped into the world. This tale is really about the day when a daughter of a pastor gave birth to a little sweet daughter and watched her tiny hands, feet, nose and her smooth hair and delicate skin. A tale about how seeing her little child take her first breaths made her forget seeing her father take his last breath.

A tale of me, and how I remember the first day I saw this pastor’s daughter on that shiny Sunday morning as her father and my father lay lifeless on the muddy ground in front of the church. A sweet story of how I found love in the eyes of the little girl I saw that day. This is a sad tale of two fatherless children. A delightful story of how seeds from two different worlds of hate joined together to create a love that is as divine as the wings on an angel. This is really a tale of how I never forget that bright Sunday morning in front of the church. A tale of how I kiss the upper part of my daughter’s right cheek every night and hope I never die like the pastor in a long black robe that hid the desire for sin that created that scene on that bright Sunday morning that robbed his precious life. This is a tale I have to tell not to sell as that would be for a heart that’s frail. This is a tale of time. Time tells bitter and sweet tales but we fail to tell that such tales are only there to blaze our trail and foretell all other tales. This is a tale to keep at a cool corner in your heart. This is a tale to tell....so tell.