B-urn

"I have a special gift for you,” my mother said. 

It was the day I turned 18.

“Where is it?” I asked,

“Wait till the end of the barbecue," she replied;

It was the yearly Thanksgiving barbecue night,

The urge to fry was high,

And the fire was hungry for flesh;

The day went as usual;

The smell of fried meat churned appetites;

Happiness perfumed the air,

Laughters ignited candles of conformity;

This went on until an eerie silence descended on all at the end of the barbeque.

It was a sacred silence where everyone fell into a trance.

First, my uncle brought a sealed black urn and a white photo album from the living room and put it at the center of the backyard table

Mom told me to sit.

And the ritual started:

Dad turned towards the garden,

where two white Magnolia embraced, 

As if they were confiding secrets into each other.

He stared at them like a tree whisperer.

My Mom sat at the table, 

covered her eyes,

and in a silent sob sang muffled lines,

whose meaning I did not know until I received the gift:

She sang:

Oh Lord, your eyes have seen,

What happened that morning,

when prayer wane in the church lawn,

And the bells rang calling for Thanksgiving fun,

You have seen how the fire gloved men from the bench in the church,

Ended their supplication for you and dutifully run,

Out to the garden dragging their better-halves for a spot in the frontline,

and urging their little ones to hasten, hurry, hurry, 

you should not miss the spectacle in the scapegoats’ wince;

Oh, Lord,

the rush was like a race,

Enough the tree tall,

To view clear from miles,

For all eyes to marvel the tightening nooses,

Squeezing the last words from your children’s pain,

Their necks twisting in the blaze,

the smell of their flesh exciting the crowd,

And bones crackling to amuse,

Lord, your eyes have seen

How your children shouldered a nation’s sin,

Lord your eyes have seen.

At the end of the song, the Black Urn was unsealed,

“This is your gift. Look inside,” my mother said, and I did

“What is this charcoal?” I asked,

Her fingers pointed at an old newspaper cutout. And I read:

‘For the yearly thanksgiving Lynch Party,

Two niggers were beautifully roasted alive this morning

At the Valley Baptist Church.’

“What is this charcoal,” I said again blazing from inside.

“It is your Grandmother’s, right palm,

It was taken as a souvenir by a party goer

and recently bought back by the family.”

"Oh Lord," I said,

"Now your eyes have seen," my mom said.

………………………