THE INTROSPECTION CHRONICLES 1: A MAN CHOSES

Look there, a man alone, grieving. He can’t go home, at least not yet. He needs to get some liquor in his veins to blunt the pain before he crawls across his threshold and collapses into nightmares and sweaty sleep. I swear he reminds me of a man I used to know; married with three burly boys. Wife died and left him with the bills of her illness and the sad empty look of a one dazed from a wicked blow. He didn’t stay long, I tell you. He got a rope and hung himself from the bedroom ceiling fan. It sounds like a romantic story for the ages; a man who couldn’t live without his wife. The three kids are in the streets now; pushing, clutching bleeders and bullet pushers, taking names, carving scars on supple skin, creating legends on alleyways and dark street corners. They no longer remember their father's face now.

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_{Unsplash:Joshua Ness}

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A man tries to pick his glass of liquor and take another sip but his hand falters. He quests with his fingers for his phone on the table. He peers at it, checking the time. He sees the missed calls from his worried wife. The time is long gone but he doesn’t want to go home. How does he tell his wife that his salary bought a few football betting slips for some sure games he got from a betting tip app? How does he tell her that his teams lost and he is bringing nothing home to the table? Would she understand that he actually meant well and had hoped that the money won would change their lives? How can he look her in the eyes and pretend not to see the anger, the hurt, the disgust and the regret? How?

See a man stagger to his feet, stumble the chairs and apologize to the table. Watch him weave through the music, blurry sight seeking the exit fast. Listen to him throw up beside the street light and treat the girls hanging on to the night to a comedy relief. Watch them toss mocking laughter and curses at him as he spits and tries to clean his tie. Watch him stand slumped and rumpled, a man broken by life’s insistent knocks. Does he remind you of someone you used to know?

Do you hear him weep inside his car, his sobs shaking his frame and his big fists beating at the steering wheel in the agony of what he has become? Watch him find some semblance of quiet and study the faraway look that flecks his iris. Do you go to him to ask if he is doing fine? He tells you it is all good, doesn't he? He throws one or two jokes like a sleight of hand hiding the truth behind the forced laughter. As you leave, turn back, see a man’s jaw firm, and harden into stone. See the acceptance of a choice, a path to take to ease all the pain. Do you wonder if he has chosen correctly? Do you wonder if you have done enough to ease his mind?

Come, let’s take a drive. A man drives fast, his hands deft on the gear shift, and his legs firm on the gas pedal and brakes. He is a sports car star, a grand prix champion. He pushes the car screaming to its limit as he weaves through traffic, trailing curses, beat traffic lights, stop signs, until he gets to Udu Bridge and slows down. Watch him stop the car and step out to stand before the rails. Watch him watch the muddy waters of the Usual River struggle slowly through boat debris, swollen logs and wood shavings. Watch him watch the wood market burn the little hills of wood dust into the evening sky. Watch him raise his eyes to the distant light of gas flare, brightening and dimming like a giant lamp, like Mordor.

A man ponders his fatality and his minuteness in the scheme of things. The world revolves before him and he sees that his place is one small spot, a speck of dust among other specks of dust seeking to rise, to breathe, and to become more than what they are. A man questions his destiny as the stink from the lethargic river ruffles his rumpled suit and flings his tie about his neck. A man asks, why am I here? What is my purpose? How did I arrive at this juncture in my life? A man turns away from the river and watches the long line of crawling cars of harried husbands and panicking wives with babies on their backs, babies holding their hands, polythene bags filled with foodstuff clinging to their hands, phones on their ear, wigs askew, sweat on their lips. A man watches them and sees that they live no better than he does. A man sees that they are trying their best and that truly some days are terrible but there are also good times. A man calls his wife and says he is sorry and that he is coming home.

Look at a man hug his wife and kiss her. Watch the wife grumble and frown for he stinks of alcohol and vomitus. Watch a man go on his knees and beg for forgiveness. Watch him make promises that he will keep this time. Watch him set about fixing all that he had broken in his blind pursuit of what was right before him. Watch the wife, her skeptical look, the burgeoning hope lighting up her eyes, the fear that it would all be a mistake, the prayer on her lips. Watch her hug him and welcome him home. They will make do, it is not the end of the world, she says. Did you see that? You saw it all, didn’t you? Well that is it. Make of it what you will.

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This is my Father's Day gift to all you husbands and fathers, hustling, making your family happy, failing and rising above the ashes of your failures, loving even when tired, standing when all you want to do is lie down, making mistakes, making it work. I respect you, I greet you.

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©warpedpoetic, 2019