Who am I without your care to hold,
Without me as your solace to enfold?
On the eighth of December, in the quiet morn,
I sat with grief, my words were torn.
A laptop screen, a vacant space,
Void of rhythm, lacking grace.
A nudge within, a weary sigh,
Lethargy veiled the morning sky.
From 2 to 5:30, awake I remained,
With nothing but emptiness, deeply pained.
My spirit nudged me to close the lid,
I succumbed to slumber as sorrow bid.
The sun’s blaze pierced through my sleep,
Awakening to a message deep.
My mother’s voice, somber tone,
“Sorry, Daddy’s gone,” her words intone.
Adrenaline surged, my body shook,
Numbness settled, a heavy book.
A lump emerged, lodged within,
A father’s loss, where to begin?
Heat behind my eyelids, a world askew,
Spinning fast, a painful view.
A ringing in ears, a migraine’s plight,
Wrenching pain, heart taking flight.
Tears cascaded, blurring sight,
Father’s name with “die” didn’t write.
Life embodied, not an option for death,
A watery queasiness, stifling breath.
Memories, both cruel and kind,
Break us, leave us undefined.
My heart, a mosaic of laughter’s gleam,
Each shard a memory, a silent scream.
Grief, a visitor unkind,
Empty streets were pain entwined.
Death’s surprise, a cruel decree,
Stealing a father, life’s debris.
Sale and Yawa, names that define,
A heart expansive, a look benign.
Tall, handsome, eyes deep as night,
Beauty that left all in delight.
High blood pressure’s ruthless might,
Dragging down, stealing light.
A work of art, now a memory’s frame,
Reduced to shards, a fractured name.
His presence echoes in my soul,
A building of memories, an endless stroll.
Astounding how one event’s trace,
Leaves scars that time won’t erase.
A world that spits out beauty rare,
Leaving voids too heavy to bear.
Why do we exist, just to depart?
A painful exit, breaking the heart.
Loved ones withering, fading fast,
Graves claiming dreams, a harrowing past.
The cultural truth, a painful plight,
Losing loved ones, day and night.
Not a curse, but a cruel fact,
Yet, not wanting anyone’s final act.
These memories, dipped in pain,
Unsettling, a constant refrain.
Filled with dread, yet laughter’s ring,
Emotional acrobatics, a tiresome thing.
O Death, must your scythe loom near,
Stealing dreams, stoking fear?
“I cannot wait for you to happen,” he said,
Departing before my journey led.
But he lives on in verse and rhyme,
In pages read, a spirit’s chime.
In words that flow, a muse’s nod,
In warmth felt, in the hand of God.
My father, alive and well,
In every verse, his essence does dwell.
Tamani Tatiana Sale
Tamani Tatiana Sale is an undergraduate student of biochemistry. She was drawn to photography and writing due to her love for creativity and art. She love tech gadgets and when she’s not writing, you’ll catch her listening to music especially Afro-pop, binging movies, reading novels and series or reading books related to psychology and self-help.
Tamani Tatiana Sale writes from Jos. She writes about everything that trembles and softens her heart. She is a writer, a poet and a biochemist. She was shortlisted for 2023 Koffi Addo Writivism non friction prize.
