Black Journal

June 12, 2019

___

My legs felt encased in steel, every muscle tense and coiled tight. The ground beneath my feet was unforgiving, each step sending jolts of pain up my legs while crushing the soles of my feet. I pushed on, driven by a need to catch the sun as it dipped lower and lower into the ocean. The sand was a relentless adversary, filling my sneakers and making each stride more difficult, but I refused to let it slow me down. My heart was pounding in my chest, synchronizing with my footsteps, and I could feel the cold air rushing into my lungs, invigorating me even as it threatened to steal my breath away.

With each stride, my energy waned, but I pushed myself harder, counting each gasping breath and forcing my legs to keep moving. My breath formed ghostly clouds in the air, visible evidence of my efforts. I was comforted by the sound of the ocean beside me, the gentle lapping of the waves and the soft rustle of the wind. The wind was carrying me along, pushing me forward, and I let myself be carried as though this might be the last time I would ever run.

I stumbled to a halt, gasping for air and collapsing onto the sand. The sun was now just a sliver of golden light, slowly disappearing into the ocean. Sweat poured down my face, my entire body slick with the evidence of my exertion, my life force surging through me. I had never pushed myself so hard, but it felt good to have given it my all. Catching my breath, I gazed out at the ocean, watching as it shifted and changed, ever in flux. I envied the ocean, its ability to weather any storm and always find a way to calm itself. And so, I sat there, in front of the ocean, letting its serenity wash over me, calming me down after my frenzied run.

Every day, I make my way to the beach and find a quiet spot to sit. It's become a ritual, a form of liberation that allows me to escape the constraints of the world and just be. I close my eyes and let the sounds of the beach wash over me, the crashing of the waves, the rustle of the wind, the seagulls calling in the distance. It's a symphony of sound that comforts me, makes me feel like I can let go of all the pain I carry within and just release my emotions however I need to.

I find myself caught between two conflicting realities. On one hand, I am expected to embrace the reality of our changing world. I'm told it's okay to show emotion and be vulnerable. But on the other hand, I must embody the full role of hyper-masculinity, to command respect and protect my family from harm. It's a difficult balance to strike, and I often find myself wondering how I can reconcile these two realities. Can I be a stay-at-home father and still command the respect of my community? How do I navigate the changing expectations of my gender, especially when it feels like the tools available to men are so limited?

But above all, I find myself grappling with the loss of my friend Kichaka. He was the greatest lion I had ever known, a true force of nature, and I miss him terribly. But as a man, I've been taught that I shouldn't cry, that emotions are a weakness. How do I mourn the loss of my friend without feeling like I'm breaking some fundamental rule of masculinity?

The wall in my bedroom is a curious thing, as if it has a life of its own. The cream-colored paint has chipped away in places, revealing the pale yellow of the drywall underneath, but otherwise it stands strong and solid. It's been my silent companion for as long as I can remember. That is, until the day Kichaka appeared on it.

Kichaka was my beastfriend, a magnificent lion with a golden mane and piercing blue eyes. I remember the day I met him, out on a hunt in the African savannah. He was a magnificent creature, fearless and proud. And now, here he is, appearing on my bedroom wall, speaking to me as if he had never left. His voice was deep and reassuring, and I could feel the comfort of his presence even though he was just an image.

He told me I should seek therapy, to work through the pain and the fear that had been eating away at me. But I'm afraid. I worry that it will make me appear weak, and I would lose respect as a man. The wall is my form of therapy, the only place where I can let my guard down and be vulnerable. And so, I listen to Kichaka's advice, but I keep it to myself, hiding behind the comforting presence of the talking wall.

As I sat on the beach, lost in thought, I remembered the world that Kichaka and I had created together. The memories of our adventures, our laughter, and our friendship filled me with a bittersweet ache. But even as I mourned his loss, I felt grateful for the time we had shared and the lessons he had taught me. And so, I sat there, letting the sounds of the beach carry me away, lost in thought and memory.

On the dawn of my eighth birthday, the cock's crow jolted me from my slumber. My father stood tall at my bedside, his weathered hands clutching my first bow and arrow. He declared that today was the day he would teach me to become a man, following in his footsteps as a hunter. We stepped into the warm morning light and set off on our journey, driving deep into the heart of the forest where the songs of the white-necked rockfowls marked our arrival.

As we made our way to the perfect hunting spot, the sounds of the forest surrounded us: the creaking of tree branches, the whistling of the wind, and the scurrying of lizards. I trailed closely behind my father, learning the techniques of the hunt.

After hours of tracking and shooting, we stopped to rest and have lunch. But my meal was abruptly interrupted by the sound of a cat. I snatched up my bow and arrow and followed the sound, leading me to a small golden-blonde cub with piercing brown eyes, hiding at the roots of a waterleaf tree. The cub emerged at the sight of me, its claws sinking into the soil as it stood tall, roaring softly. I gazed into the cub's eyes and knew immediately that it was defenseless. A smile spread across my face as I made my way back to my father, the cub trailing behind me.

The memory of my fallen friend Kichaki still lingered, but I couldn't afford to show my emotions. To do so would strip me of my masculinity and leave my family vulnerable. I was a proud Ashanti man, with a broad chest, a voice as deep as the orchestra's base, and a companion who had walked beside me for nearly two decades. Crying would make me a fraud and threaten everything I had worked to build. Kichaki was a part of me, and we had grown into our full potential together.

As the last rays of the setting sun dipped into the ocean, I was transported back to the moment when I first lost Kichaki. The brilliant yellow color of the sun, a symbol of life and vitality, now served as a cruel reminder of his absence.

I sat on the shore of Prampram Beach, tears streaming down my face as I struggled to come to terms with my loss. In my hand, I held a lock of Kichaki's hair, a physical reminder of our close bond. As the waves crashed against the shore, I felt my emotions swell within me, threatening to overwhelm me.

For years, I had lived up to the expectations of what it meant to be a strong, masculine Ash

network error

anti man, like my father before me. But in that moment, I couldn't contain my grief any longer. The loss of Kichaki was too much to bear, and I allowed myself to cry freely, letting the saltwater from my tears mix with the saltwater of the ocean.

As I watched the sun slip below the horizon, I was filled with a sense of peace. The fading light seemed to take my sorrow with it, washing away my pain. I released the lock of Kichaki’'s hair into the ocean, knowing that a piece of him would always remain with me. The water carried it away, a symbol of my farewell and a promise to never forget the friend I had lost.

With the sun gone, I sat in the quiet darkness, reflecting on the memories of Kichaki and the lessons he had taught me. I knew that I would always carry his spirit with me, and that his legacy would live on in the way I lived my life.