Òkpátó

Òkpátó, are you there?

Can you hear me?

I imagine that you see me

from your side of eternity,

though I can’t say for sure

where you might be.

I’ve never seen you Òkpátó,

but I try to know you

by knowing myself.

I try to hear you in my laughter,

or listen for you in the silence

that slips through my fingers

like handfuls of water.

Water, like the great ocean

that you brought you from

a distant land to this place where I stand.

What do you think of me Òkpátó?

I know I don’t look like you,

though I do wonder

if I have your smile,

the same glint in my eyes?

What do I carry of yours

besides this blood that flows through

my veins; the double helix that joins

us across these generations?

Besides the obvious, what brought you here?

Was it betrayal? A battle lost? Surely,

it was not your own free will,

but I would not be here

had you not come.

Did the shores of the Chesapeake

remind you of the banks

of the Ujiogba River, or

was it all a strange mystery?

Did you have another family,

left behind in that other place?

Oh, how many children

you must have now Òkpátó!

In that land, this land,

so many shades and hues,

like a tapestry of humanity.

Like a field sprouted with

countless blooms dazzling the eyes.

Did you ever think, or realize

that your mere existence here

gave birth to a new world, new realities?

From you Òkpátó, was born

something that still has no proper name.

Your given name has been lost to time,

but here I stand, a testament,

a living monument to your existence.

I am you, but not you.

You are me, but not me.

We have always been together

and so shall we ever be

Òkpátó.

I hope I make you proud.

Òkpátó: grandfather in the Esan language of Nigeria