- The Storried Platform
A LETTER TO A BELOVED YOU – By Oluwaseyi Isaac Ayodeji
I am not sorry your heart is an eyesore. The dents and imprints from my ponderous stained hands tell an eventful story; a narrative yielding to wrenching tragedies and gargling comedies; a terrain punctured with short-lived trenches steeply elevated to heights daring the recumbent sky.
I have taken you on a journey you certainly didn’t deserve, for you steeled yourself against the emotive seedlings I threatened to erupt. You were scared of the unknown, unwilling to bask in the rush of the foreign, too willing to sprawl in the dung of ordinariness. I do not blame you for the affinity for safeness. You are very young but know that growth, that inevitable bastard, will invariably mallet your hallowed haven into a hut of pins thirsty for your blood, and you will desperately seek a new home in a foreign land like a cane-rat after a brutal mudslide. That, my dear, was the purpose of my coming: to hasten the inevitable, to direct your adventures and to cushion your many weaknesses the world will seek to exploit.
Again, your heart is an eyesore and yes, I am not sorry. I gloat at my many impressions: the ugly tilting wrangling the big vein, turning it a sad white; the uprooting and the shred of red flesh for keepsake; the weak beats and the spasmodic squeezes, like mini-quakes birthing a warmth I am very well certain you will hate.
I can take refuge in the fact that I fought a good fight, that a war against cold will stretched months. I am curious about what steps you will take to cure the pain depriving you of sleep. I see you pining for a time the healer of wounds, the wind of change, but you forget that time is indeed growth, and growth is the harbinger of the unknown, the very thing you dread. You forget that waiting is retardation, and the first step to any sort of healing is doing. You should have given me a chance. You should have.
By Oluwaseyi Isaac Ayodeji
I am not sorry your heart is an eyesore. The dents and imprints from my ponderous stained hands tell an eventful story; a narrative yielding to wrenching tragedies and gargling comedies; a terrain punctured with