A deck of cards,
Chicken soup and bread,
Hip-hop beats from the album Nirvana.
A gang of friends,
A crazy conductor playing six pianos,
Laughter cutting across the room.
It was bound to be a short night,
As sleep vacated our buzzing minds,
Against an onslaught of animated chitchat.
Every sentence come out unmeasured,
Each word lingering a midst eager faces,
All seemingly synced to one verbal discourse.
Each noun an ounce heavier than usual,
From horror series to poetry and back to movies,
From harps to violins and back to music.
From power plays to love and back to philosophy,
From critique to phishing and back to coffee dates
Drifting off-topic, back and everything in between.
The night quickly weaned off unnoticed,
Giving way to the wee hours of the morning,
And the sun rose to a never ending converse.
Script n Rhyme...
Today, we shall lay to rest a man who wrote fifteen novels, bore three sons and a daughter, and waited to see tens of grandchildren. After 95 years, we finally mark the sweet leap to yonder of my mentor, the man who build a global media company from scratch, and shook the literary stage with a simple quake of his pen.
Death is a function of nature that must activate itself at some point. We have no sadness or pain or regret in allowing the African Bull safe passage into that controversial realm – the other life. But we’re joyous to look back and see what I call the Kingdom of Sweat, the palace of pain, and the era of making the impossible emphatically possible.
By all means I am proud that my grandmother accepted this man. I pray a simple thanksgiving to the gods who kill great men...