A Letter To My Late Father

Dear Dad,

     Hope your soul is at peace.

    It’s your son, Atanya, as you traditionally named me. I am now called Abdul Razak. It means servant of the all-provider.

I live in a different country now, the United States of America.  They  prefer to call me Abdul, just to save themselves from having to pronounce ‘Razak’ which makes their heads ache down to its core. And so, Abdul is my new name.  I hope you’re okay with it. I’m sorry if you’re not because there’s very little I can do about that.

Another thing, Dad, is I have a couple of new parents now, one of whom is a teacher. They are angels, Dad! Trust me. They really are.

It is not to say I am disowning my family’s reputation or to say I am stripping you of fatherhood.

You see, Dad, I needed somebody to call a dad and a mom since you are not physically on the shores of Earth, and your wife also is a ‘millionth infinity’ miles across oceans. However, according to Mr. Rodriguez, my Biology instructor from last year, your genes will forever flame in my veins. So, don’t worry! You haven’t lost a son like you did your flesh, even though, Heaven knows I love my new parents to the depths of the universe and back and beyond and with every gene I inherited from you. Still… don’t worry! I love you, also.

And this is why:

You gave me life and taught me to be independent, though at a tender stage of my life; they gave me hope, a stress-free life, a reason to keep living life at its fullest, and to not worry about your departure because I have them at a snap of my fingers. Obviously, both of you played a role in my development; right?

So, thank God!  And bless the moment you laid with that angel of a wife for me. I assume you really enjoyed the pleasure of that period, didn’t you? Well, the other aspect of it is, a life was sparked, which marked the reason for your salvation as I write this.

Don’t shiver, Mr. Amadu. I’m not sending this letter to vilify your soul or slander the casket of your being. It’s only to seek answers to the very queries that have been hunting my mind since you left without a trace.

You see, Dad, here in America, kids interact with their parents, and affectionately plant a faint kiss on their cheeks at the brink of virtually every conversation. The warmth and attachment you can tell is boundless. It can almost penetrate the world from the West through the East. It is unfathomable.

Did you at a point wish that kind of relationship existed between you and I?
How did it pinch you each time you violently mounted a fist on my young fragile skull?
Did it ever occur to you that you were abusing me?
Has your love for me ever made you yearn for the sight of my presence?

I would also like to ask you a few questions about my mother, your wife. Can I?

Okay, I witnessed at the mall, a few months ago, when a young man dropped abruptly to the floor due to an unexpected brawny seizure. His wife stood beside him, totally lost and bewildered. Tears leaked down her pale eyes as we waited for his veins to loosen up. Though the gentleman was out-of-it, he struggled in an attempt to get onto his feet. The wife then reached down to the love of her life and cried:

“No, please don’t get up; you’re having a seizure!”

The husband’s response moved mountains. It shook souls and pulled emotions from across seas.

“No, Honey; I’m not having a seizure,” he responded.

Dad, the man in question was inarguably out of consciousness, but he knew the face beside him was his ‘Honey.’ He knew it was his partner, the woman he shared his bed with- his wife.

Did you love my mother with the same kind of enthusiasm?

Are you certain she would stick a finger up in your defense as to the immense love you showed her?

Told you I now have a second mother, right? Okay, her name is Rose, and she adores me as though we were genetically interwoven.

Do you think my mother loves me as much?

Mother Rose has grand-kids, and if she doesn’t set eyes on them for two weeks, she cries like she’d lost them to a Tsunami. When she doesn’t talk to her son over the phone for a day, she mourns and groans as though her world was ending.

How do you think my absence affects my mother?  I haven’t talked to her for quite a great while now.

Do you think she’s starving for the tone of my voice and the smile of my heart?

Do you remember the saying that our ancestors are knowledgeable of their relatives’ daily adventures?

What did you think your late father thought of you concerning most of the choices you made when you were alive?

Why did you divorce my mother, the woman you took an oath to protect, and love for better and for worse?

Do you think I’d be wrong if I hated you?

Don’t feel guilty, Dad. That’s not the purpose of this letter. We’re human and are bound to make mistakes; right?

God knows that, too.

I’ve forgiven you, and I am pretty certain God has, too.

Okay, far from us now, Dad!

How is God faring?

The Angels?

Since they say the dead know about the Supreme God, I guess I won’t be accused of blasphemy after making these inquiries, would I?

For further clarification, it is not to question God’s moral identity. I have always been curious as to the religion God meets with high approbation, His complexion, and what He makes of the current hostilities we’re pushing against.

Which of these mirrors the image of God?
 

Is He aware of the recent religious turmoil across the globe, and the righteous claims of religious leaders of the various parties and the accusations being raised and stoned at temples and mosques and shrines and, “Mother Humanity?”

Hey, Dad! Are you still with me?

Just checking.

Okay, will I be right if I say God’s religion is Love and His race is Humanity and His complexion is Life? If so, is it fair to say ‘Man’ neglected his own true-self and embraced a ‘code of race’ like the throne of an ancient world, with which he invaded and ruled his fellow men?

So, again, Dad!

What does God make of Donald Trump?

I find this quite ironic: Donald quoted the Bible in his inauguration speech at the United States Capitol, Washington D.C.

It was Psalm 113.

“Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity. It is like the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron’s beard, that went down to the skirts of his garments; As the dew of Hermon, and as the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion, for there the Lord commanded the blessing,  even life for evermore,” he quoted.

He also added: “We are all brothers; we are all Americans!”

Incidentally, it took him less than ten days to partition Muslim Americans from their Christian brothers. So, is the Lord aware that His words have been used in vain? Against His Will?

What about the so-called Jihadist that go about taking the lives of innocent souls in broad daylight? Is The Holy One acquainted with that, too?

You know what, Dad? I think I ought to let Him handle His business at His own time. Sorry if I went too far with my questions. It’s just that, as an imperfect species, with a feeble mind that lacks the understanding of God’s ways, I find it quite murky to comprehend why He takes forever in dealing with people who kill their fellow out of selfishness, when in actual fact, those people can’t in themselves stand the bite of a scorpion.

Aiming at each of them with a strike would get the job done; wouldn’t it?

Why waste time, then?

Lord! I’m starving, Dad, and it’s 3:05 a.m. Need to get something to shove down my throat and give in to sleep, but let’s go on.

I think we should now be more like partners, rather than Son and Father. You know, I mean, like buddies. What do you think?

So, there’s this girl I see in school. Her name is Ty, for short. And Oh! Since oftentimes, we’re divided by racial discrimination, I guess it’s essential to include the fact that she’s black. But I’m black, too. So it doesn’t matter, I mean, even if she’s not, it still doesn’t matter; does it?

Anyway, though, she has never participated in any beauty contest or emerged triumphantly in any beauty pageant competition. I think she’s cute. I might be wrong, but in the eye of my mind and heart, she is. I care less what everybody thinks. She really is. Not exactly in appearance but character-wise. Dad! Oh! I mean, Bruh, I like her! I really do! And God knows I do!

The curl of her lips

The arc of her eye-brow

The blink of her nose

The smile of her cheeks

And the touch of her inner soul

Makes my heart leap in lust

That’s not all, Buddy:

I am emotionally enslaved

To the carve of her hips

The flare of her steps

The tone of her tongue

And the click of her sigh

So, I approached her, told her how cute I think she is, and how I’d like to go out with her.  All the while, I muttered in my heart all the unspoken words I’d been meditating on from the very first time I set eyes on her.

“Right now, I’m not ready for a relationship,” she told me.

“Alright,” I said and walked away, all troubled.

The days that followed were met with sleepless nights. The imagery of that instance hunted my being. It broke my heart, Pal.

How did you,”in heavens hollow might,” get your Queen to your matrimonial home?

Any tips?

Okay, I think I’d let you go now. Dang! That was a hell of a reading, Partner… at least for you because I know you never read a page in the entire time you lived; have you?

Lord, please forgive your soul.

Continue to rest in absolute serenity, my Dad and Pal.

I Love and Miss You Dearly. I really do. And God knows I do!

                                                                                                                   Your Son,

                                                                                                          Amadu Atanya Abdul

                                                                                                                  Jaramillo.

“Length And Width Of Where My Soul Was Nurtured.”

OK! So I’ve had to respond to tons of pounds of birdbrained questions concerning where I’d been brought up. Statistics of ‘jungle cats’ I’ve raced with. How many ‘black with white stripes’ a zebra has. The number of monkeys I’ve been friends with. How swift a bat can ever be. The differences between a cheetah and a leopard, that of a monkey and a gorilla. How… Um…

The list goes on and on. 

I am a hell of a foot away from transfiguring into a ‘Black African Monster,’ if I get one more of such bogus queries! 

Is common sense rather that exiguous in the heads of children of the first world?

The upshot: I am not here to prove I descended from a place out of the worlds. Or an unsurpassable environ where the wind from heavens blew. Neither am I here to tell you some jungle fairy tales.

This is where my heart belongs!

A town located in the Eastern part of Greater-Accra Region, Ghana, known as East Ayawaso. It inhabitants mostly immigrants from all dimensions of the country. Others might trace their routes as far as to other parts of the continent, Africa.

We do not have mailboxes  in front of our houses, but we do have a post office in the heart of the suburb. And though some of the houses (more of compound houses) appear like they’d been in existence from the days of ancient Mesopotamia, we do not live in huts, twenty-first-century mansions are littered within  and a police station we’ve once invaded because we thought the righteous way to go was to take the law into our hands, also sagged along the outskirts. Sub-areas are named after the States of America, to name a couple– Michigan, Los Angeles, Chicago and Alaska. We also boast of “die-hard” brotherhood squads:’The Hollandians,’ ‘Buzza 11’ and ‘The Gorillas(trust me, you don’t wanna mess with ’em),’ and as to why they’d call themselves ‘The Gorillas’? I have no clue.

A majority of the masses are of the Islamic faith, and so, it territories might not be an ideal lane to be trespassed by a homosexual- though Islam preaches peace, the outcome might be slightly overwhelming. A community that gives no room for silence, not even at mid dusk. Full of life 24/7. Flooded with mosques like the abundance of masonic suits in a cult. Sidewalks are lined with miniature cargo storage containers (or better still kiosks) each filled with varieties of cosmetics, while some function as hair salons.

The street of Michigan,Ghana.

An enormous number of the youth range from the ages of twelve to twenty-five, but trust me, an eleven-year-old could auction the entire state of Mississippi under two hours, turn around and ‘greenmail'(I demur to associate negativity with ‘black’) Queen Elizabeth II for double-dealing. I often refer to them as ‘Premature Adults With Armoured Faces.’

Galloping up and down the corners of the vicinity are ‘hood soldiers’ who’d go beyond the walls of Jerusalem just to make a couple rows of  Cannabis Sativa for the day or two. That’s not a rhetoric flare or a metaphor– it’s the truth! and oh! you can also trust them for a creative contagious slogan.

We live a life of blatant hustle, and conscious of how it feels not to know where the next meal might come from, which goaded us to dwell on hope and the need to succeed regardless of the repercussions of choices we just might not be proud of.  

Talent, in every aspect of life, is one of our emblems. A half-literate could rack the brains to solve critical problems the rest of the world had sworn with their lives one needed a Diploma for. Meanwhile, you’d baffle at the magnitude of stupidity some of us can exhibit.   

An indigene of the hood wearing an ‘armoured face.’

We have countless of times been verbally whisked and hurled into slums by neighboring communities based on atrocious histories we’ve set for ourselves. The only ones that recognize and highlight the good of us in every four-year interval are probably politicians, and that’s because it’s an election year. They need the sovereign power of our thumbs to win elections. ‘Uncle Benjamin’ would show up in the hood, sticking half his body through the sunroof of his close-to-half-a-million-dollar-luxurious-car, displaying his thoroughly cleaned and well-managed teeth and waving his white handkerchief like he’s been commanded to wave at God. And because some of us enjoy taking pride out of catching a glimpse of Uncle, they’d skip out of their homes to go yell atop their lungs and giggle and cheer excitements and stumble on each other, crying ‘well done and farewell’ with all honesty. Absurd, isn’t it?

Us in the streets of Los Angeles,Ghana.

The core values of my hometown, however, remain untouched. Respect for the elderly, obedience to the second anchor of Islam- supplication, warm-heartedness, and can-do spirit among others forever perch intact in our genes. Globalization, on the other hand, is taking a great toll on us. Youth activists are emerging, and we’re transforming. Despite the challenges we’re faced with, and what the system has literally carved us into, we believe in change and we know we shall. We’re not a universally-rundown vehicle that’s out of repairing. A dedicated people we are, and with it, we shall chronicle our journeys into excellence. Nima is where my soul was nurtured. There I belong and there I shall forever be proud of.

To my brothers dying to know the part of my jungle. Now you know we’re a people, like you. Live, like you. Think, like you. With challenges, like a renowned citizen of The States. With vehement beliefs, like The Pope. And with piercing dreams like rays of light through a window pane.

 

Writer:

Abdul Amadu Jaramillo, a student of Karen Wagner High School.

 

 

“Kayla”chapter three

With barely two months away from summer break, exhaustion had taken an obvious toll in the school environs– lurking in the eyes of almost everyone.

Teachers were fed up with having to deal with same students at a specific time for over seven months. Restrooms had adopted a heavy stench with most of them having developed persistent stains and some out of bounds. Movies were watched in place of active studies as the STAAR EOC test had become history. Chandeliers attached to the roof in the hallways left half glowing from durable bulbs. And Kayla, though quite worn-out from studies, still a student of Wagner High and a friend of I.

Due to certain misconceptions on the part of my counselor, my schedule was changed prompting me to meet with my first-school-day-friend in the hallway after sixth period. She’d wait for me after the bell had gone in the only shortest route to my seventh period and we’d motion amidst the crowd of teenagers, hug on sideways and go our separate ways at a junction I once stood dumbfoundedly staring at her as she made progress toward her class.

I’ve made a couple of friends– some of whom were pulled by an equalizer goal I scored in a soccer game against New Braunfels FC– but Kayla offered me her’s when everyone else thought I was alien to Earth. Awarded me her company without me having to ask for it, and gave me candies for which I’d always thought of doing a thing as a form of appreciation but couldn’t ascertain what exactly.

There came a quiz: Mr. Rodriguez, my Biology teacher in sixth period, had set up a Kahoot game based on Biology test questions and the winner gets a chocolate.

“‘That should certainly be Kayla’s,’ I thought.”

One had to– depending on the kind of query– hypothesize, evaluate and answer each question in ten seconds, and trust me it was then that I knew my brains could be faster than Usain Bolt.

I missed eighteen out of a hundred questions and emerged victoriously.

Without a pause I rushed to the instructor’s to grab my prize, slid it into my right pocket and back in my seat; all in what seemed like a flash of a flashlight.

The bell went and I was the first to catch the exit– something that rarely happened.

Kayla was, as usual, glued to her spot with a file in one hand gazing at my direction as I popped out from the corner that led to where we met at, and we began making our ways down a stair to the down floor in the hallway.

“‘My teacher was today saying we’ve got to step up our games ’cause she’s got an African boy in one of her classes and that he’s very creative and intelligent. His grades are higher than most of us,’ said Kayla,” as we maneuver through our colleagues toward our seventh class for the day.

“‘The other time Mrs. Mercado– Mrs. Mercado was my Algebra teacher– was also saying it amazes her how a boy not from the United States could be so smart than most of the kids in her class. I knew she was talking about you the instant she mentioned the boy is not from the US,’ added Kayla.”

All she was muttering escaped my ears for I had a project awaiting delivery: how do I approach her with the chocolate?

“Just ask her if she wants it.”

“Or just give it to her, oh no! that’s dumb. You can’t just render it to her.”

“‘You should first ask her,’ a voice on its own telling me stuff and answering them” as we walked.

“‘You’ve got less than a minute till y’all get to the junction so you must act fast or take it home and try again tomorrow,’ came the voice in a more solid tone,” all in my head.

“‘No I’m not taking this home,’ I told myself this time.”

“‘agad dis for you, you wan it?’ I finally told her in an effort to sound American.”

“‘oooh I llav thiss,’ she replied,” in a marvelously excited manner though more like a counterfeit one.

It did sound fake! but who cares?

“‘Did you buy it?’ she enquired.”

“‘Yes, I bought it from Mr. Rodriguez, my Biology teacher.’ I lied.”

But that was to save me from having to explain how it came about and give her the pleasure of thinking aloud and insisting I must enjoy the fruit of my labor.

Thank goodness she didn’t ask how much I bought it, ’cause I had no clue.

The next day came and it felt like it was just an hour ago that I gave Kayla a present I had to compete for but that’s only to my favor as it gave me another chance to meet with her– moments I wholehearted wished they lasted till an eclipse of the sun occurs.

“‘Will you be here next semester?’ asked Kayla.”

“‘Yes,’ I said.”

“‘Awwwww, my dad is moving me to Judson,’ she said,” with a dint of frustration.

I suddenly felt emotionally devastated and lost for words. If it wasn’t for the many voices around us I would have dropped on my knees and cursed at my stars.

Kayla is moving to a different school. Leaving Wagner for Judson, our rivals in sports; we’re like Real Madrid FC and Barcelona FC.

A bond that took me a whole year to create is on the verge of breaking.

“‘We can chat on Instagram you know,’ she suggested,” as I fought back a storm of indignation on my face.

“‘Okay,’ I finally whispered.”

I spent the rest of that day mourning like I’d lost a close relative to a tsunami, which I still believe was worth it.

It’s summer and all that’s left of me is double-tapping her images on Instagram and asking how she’s faring and how she’d spent her day and what plans she’s got for the next day or the day after(which sometimes took a decade awaiting her reply), and taking a minute or two admiring her gorgeous pictures, some of which have captions like:

“Don’t wait for a perfect moment make that moment perfect,” and

“How do you know if someone really likes you?”

How ironic…

Sometimes, I wonder why she left with my words at heart untold. Without me revealing to her how her presence, to me, is worth Donald Trump’s net or better still Warren Buffet’s.

I was, perhaps, waiting for a perfect time instead of making that moment perfect.

Now the sun is set, the curtain is drawn and the lights are out. Lay down and wish for a sunrise at the horizon some other day is all that’s left for me.

THE END.

writer:

Abdul Amadu Jaramillo, a student of Wagner High school.

“Kayla”chapter two

“‘Can I see it?’ asked a girl to my far left,” whom she’d been in a healthy conversation with before I took my seat. I watched as my schedule sheet was held out to her.

Eyes wide with eyebrows pulled against her forehead, “the girl exclaimed upon going through the contents. ‘He’s got Miss Montes for third period.'”

I was at my desk fumbling to appear busy so as to prevent evoking questions from arising. Besides, I have no clue who Miss Montes is; what in the world of teachers is strange about having her for third period?

I found everything wrong with why the girl had to exclaim but of course, I kept that to myself.

I got startled back to reality by the sound of an indication bell. In a split of a second, my paper was handed back to me at arm length, and all of a sudden the room was stirred up as everyone got up crashing into each other toward the door like they’d been told to run for their lives. In twos and threes and perhaps fives we finally squeezed our ways outside only to my dismay that nothing– aside teenagers leaning against walls with their girlfriends’ lips stuck to theirs– was happening. My first-school-day-friend and her comrades from the Advisory class were not inclusive, they were few steps ahead of me rambling about what was none of my business, and then suddenly, I reckon my friend sagging behind so that I catch up and walk alongside her- which I did. Like the other students, we burst through the heavy crowd of students who were aiming toward their individual classes. With the exception of those that thought the school wall was an impeccable joint to express their affections. I kept my cool as we both walked as mute as darkness down the hallway till we got to a junction where she took the right lane without saying a word, not even, “hey dummy I’m going this way!”

That would have been mean if she had but at least she’d have made it clear she acknowledged walking with a human being and not a wood, a wood not worth a fire-wood. I stood by the junction as dumb as Mr. Bean, staring at her dangling brown curly hair as she receded farther and farther disappearing into the massive crowd leaving an imagery of herself in the eye of my mind.

“‘What foolishness I term shyness?’ I puzzled myself when I was able to pull me together.”

Like my first Samaritan, I found someone to coach me to my next class, except that he appeared extremely vigilant and not aimless.

The second day of school was nevertheless a battle I’d rather phrase “Me Against My Instincts.”

I walked into my Advisory class flaming from confidence.

“‘Hei, sap!?’said the instructor.”

“‘Hi.’ I said,” as I curled into the same desk I’d sat in the day before.

A blend of smiles, a soothing “hiii” sound, accompanied by a flash of fingers rose from the side.

“‘Hi!’ I said back,” as I trembled to put out a smile. I bet that smile stood a great chance of being the ugliest smile under the sun.

I’m not a ladies man but I was far from lady-shy in Accra, the capital of Ghana. Why now? I was the kind that told-it-as-it-felt in the lowermost part of the heart to any lady.

Why shy away from a girl that’s not close to someone I’d love to hang out with? Okay, that’s a lie, but, well, at least not in this episode of my life…

Series and series of questions oozed from all angles of my brain; got me sweating under my toes for answers that never came.

Few months had exhausted and I’d finally been able to purchase a phone that only functioned within the circumference of my home on account of the fact that it depended on WiFi only.

Glued to my desk; from the corner of my eye I noticed lady-by-me getting at everything possible to catch a glimpse of what was going on on the touch screen, and then the unexpected happened: she hastily tapped on the search button on my Instagram app.

“‘It’s not connected.’ I whispered to her,” unwillingly and embarrassed.

“‘You wanna look me up? I’ll follow you back when I get home.’ I added,” attempting to appear determined.

“‘Yeah sure.’ She replied,” excitedly.

I couldn’t wait to get home– an absolute fact every young man in my position can’t deny.

‘Kayla xivivi…’ perhaps a thousand more of the xivis was what I saw on my phone as I walked up the stairs at home.

In the pictures, Kayla appeared energetic despite the static nature of the images; her white skin, spotless; her brown hair, almost at waist-length; her choice of fashion, eloquent; her structure, the model type– then certain things I’d condemned with all might made sense all at once: do the guys by the school walls see in each other what I’d just seen on my phone?

Kayla was not only cute, she was kind at heart.

“‘I told my mum I’d made friends with this African guy who’d just started school at Wagner and she said that’s good and that I could help you.’ She once told me as we stalk down the hallway.”

I wasn’t sure of the kind of help I’d ever ask of Kayla but I can’t blame her as the average American’s knowledge of Africa is a jungle embedded with black human species–thus if we’re ever considered humans.

In my second period, I’d been so unfortunate to have had an extravagantly fat black girl who thought she was in the pride of place with the nerves of being a bully– I emphasized on her fatness because she stood a great chance of being a victim of bully than I did, and of her being black on the basis that she was the least person I’d think of being a bully to her own.

That girl gave me a hell of sleepless nights.

If one ever wish for any crisp definition of the word “opposite,” Kayla was an entire opposite of the fat-black-girl, who made me almost hated being an African, in fact, Kayla wanted my friendship purposely because I was African.

–to be continued

Writer:

Abdul Amadu Jaramillo, a student of Wagner High School.