The sounds of young men shouting
In multi-colored throat, crying
‘I am here!, See my voice!’ all mean
Hearts pleading ‘Father, where are you?’
A fatherless generation
Wails in an urban wilderness.
Concrete gives voice
while the hearts camp in the desert.
There is no way home as
The blank stares of tower blocks
Offer no expression.
They give nothing away to young men.
Young men poke them in the eye and make them blink.
The fatherless offer expression of their own
And take what they need
In the absence of a father.
No ears to hear them, arms to hold them?
These broken sons of a nation
Which has them perch on breezeblock
Instead of crawling into Daddy’s lap.
‘What do you know, mate?’ comes the challenge.
‘I understand the pain’ I say,
‘Because I too built my own wall
And then spray-painted it.’
I gave myself orphanhood.
‘Take that or nothing,’ I thought.
Hobson’s Choice was all I saw
As I painted myself into a corner.
But each one can teach one.
Each one can reach one,
After the paint dries,
And we walk free.
