The border called life

I can still remember the time my Grandfather walked me through Igbo Olodumare in the middle of the night.

The lamp that must never die was placed on my palm, and the oil from the burning cup trickled down my arms into the crevices of my thought.

Bent over a dog at the Shrine of Ogun,

I could see the crucifix around his neck dangling – dangling.

How can you bring Our Lord Jesus Christ into a Shrine?, I asked him in my mind. Watching Steadily.

It seemed my mind was in his mind | It seemed the two minds were strewn together like the destiny of death-sworn-lovers | Because he started to answer that:

Life is a border that leads to nowhere | That means it leads to many places.

It can be fragile like the bones of an old man

OR

It can be hard, concrete like the picture of a Priest serving Ogun’s meat as communion.

                                        

                                                    . . .

Now all that is left is a memory of intermingling spirits.

Spirits that now sing lullabies to me on my bamboo bed | Etching my soul into a body that is shameless | A body that is a mountain of fire, Burning down the borders erected to classify people.

This time I remember my old man whose truth was a coat of many colors,

I remember moving through time with the lamp in my hand & I remember dancing in the air.

The Yorubas have a saying: It is who you wish to do business with in the market that you pay attention to. You do not pay attention to the noise of the market.

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For there is no contradiction more, than in the border called Life.

Photo credit: Daniel Miessler

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