Tattered Thought Of A wounded heart

That year I read Chimamanda Adichie,
I saw the purple Hibiscus in our back yard,
The freedom that blossom through their leaves.
I became Jaja in my lost world seeking freedom,
Then I remembered father; a cruel and callous man.
History without pages was made in a template,
I could have killed him when he was alive
But nemesis made him pay through his nose.

"Come here! Strip off now!" He always roared.
He would raise my manhood here and there,
Up, down, up, down, left, right, left, right, up, down;
His hand goes with the bleeding manhood.
To him, it was an excited journey of pleasure,
But it was a madness in methods to my soul!

He barked and ranted whenever he called me.
Mother didn't understand my plights; she didn't!
I told her of the molestations, abuse and the shame
A father has inserted into his son but she lost her ears.
The broken god of my heart went astray,
Coupled hatred stored in a frozen heart emerged
From my heart against them all.

Perhaps he should have opened the girls' panties,
Maybe everyone would have believed them.
He should have touched the girls instead of me,
Maybe mother would have understood the girls
better than the black tears that spoke of pains in my eyes yesterday in a bottled confusion.
Maybe he would have loved the groan of the girls
Instead of my hoarse moans that I produced angrily.

That year I read Chimamanda Adichie,
After Palm sunday that the Iroko, Eugene, fell,
He also fell in my family compound in front
Of the broken pieces of the blind gods.
I didn't kill him but nature have seen his sins and took him to give me freedom and peace like the
Purple Hibiscus at the back of our house.
Now, I long day and night to end this insanity;
This tattered thought that hurt my wounded heart.

(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice of Vincent 2016
Yesterday's tears