Monday, November 13, 2006

My name is Addae

Hi. My name is Addae, but you can call me Christopher. I am six and a half. Do you remember me? I died on the day you were born. I was outside, the sky was beautiful, a million little drops of water glistened on the brittle morning grass, but my lips were dry and burning, and one hundred flies were dancing around my eyelids and on my eyes. I did not know what it meant to be hungry, I had not eaten for a hundred days. Behind me the sun was still beautiful, cradled by the eastern hills, casting long, slender shadows on the huts and across the ochre village planes. I looked and held on to my mother's gentle, emaciated arms. She brought me close to her chest. She knew that soon I would be flying. And I was ready to fly.

Hi. My name is Addae, but you can call me Christopher. I am six and a half years old. You don't remember me. You were too young. But I remember you. The room was bright white and yellow. There were people, they were dressed in blue suits and their faces were covered with masks. I saw your mother. She was in pain but her eyes were peaceful. I did not hear her screaming. All I could hear was a soothing melody I thought I'd heard a million times before. Then you came out, and I saw you. You were very small, but you opened your mouth and were ready to breathe. I came close and we breathed together. You cried. She took you to her chest. I left because my friends were waiting.

Hi. My name is Addae. I am still six and a half. You don't remember me but on the day I died, we breathed the same air together, and I became more than a part of you. I became you. I visited you every year ever since, and I still visit you with all the children who died with me that day, who still die every day, sleeping with flies, cradled by their mother's gentle emaciated arms. So please, don't forget me, my name is Addae, my name is Kisha, my name is Femi, my name is Idoko, but you can still call me Christopher, I am six and a half, I am you, I died on the day you were born.

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Blogger Joseph Gallo said...

A moving and powerful poem, Fouad. Shamelessly unapologetic, beautiful. These are the wages of conscience; this is the burden of hearts.

12:36 AM  
Blogger Ghida said...

I keep reading it and I can't help it. Frankly, it's very tempting. I wonder how it will be in Arabic. Can I try translating it may be if that' alright with you??

9:59 AM  
Blogger Fouad said...

be my guest, on one condition, that you send it to me to read it before you do anything with it. deal? i loved your last poem btw. it should made into a song.

10:22 AM  
Blogger Ghida said...

Thanks. I will now.
Thanks again.. In fact, it was made into a song (by my brother who is a professional MD and an amateur composer!)

8:15 AM  
Blogger Hind said...

Im so very curious about this one.
Would you please one day explain to me what went on? the music is beautiful. But im so very curious about the words, the words, the words, the children.

5:17 PM  

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