B. Keats Our little house in Uyo is richly treed and imperially grassy. Birds of different species come to sing,lurk,live and breed. One evening,a man called in,I want to watch birds,please. His English was unnaturally polished. I told my mother and she reluctantly agreed but said I must stay with him. He looked neat almost like an English man but for his dark complexion and gleaming white teeth. We sat on the field and watched quietly,separately. Do you watch birds? He asked decently. All his words sounded deliberate,they seemed to be purveyed before actual utterance. I dont have the time,I muttered. Do you love your mother? When she is praying for me. The silence resumed and I cracked it almost immediately. What do you do? I am a poet. What is your name? B. Keats. B? Bill? Brendan? No. Black Keats. The white one was my brother but he died before I was born. Take a copy of this poem to your mother,I will offer it for 500 naira,he proposed. I ran with it to her and she screamed,tell that idle wanderer to haul his tail out of my compound. He heard it and mumbled,the poets tragedy. I saw him the next week walking gracefully and thoughtfully with his head down searching for inspiration and I approached him,he smiled and we walked to his house together. It was a small hut with a trimmed thatch guarded by a guava tree,an orange tree and a mango tree. Although neat and serene,it didnt seem the place belonged to the city. I am working on a project,he began. I aim to write a poem that shall sing to all humanity. I shall complete it in 30 years time. All I must do is keep writing with zest. I write a line each month and I make sure its a good line. I exude all the experiences of a whole month into a line What is last months good line? I asked. The future is behind,he recited. its a good line,I judged. I visited B. Keats many months later,and he was lying weak on his bed. He had dwindled in size and his flesh loosened from his skeleton. He looked helpless but smiled when he saw me. Nevertheless, he gathered some strength in pretentious bravado and rose weakly in great languor then sat erect on his bed. His forehead creased with experience. You could see it clearly.death was wandering in his shade. You have grown bigger;I know the university to be a place where people get thin,he greeted. A spring of tears had welled up in my eyes. I had always told you you have a poets eyes,he added. His eyeballs looked tired of lodging in those sockets,his pale looks testified of being fade up with existence. I am glad you are here,I have a story to tell you but y-- How is the poem going? I cut in. What poem? He seemed swayed. Oh! He recovered. Part of what I have in mind to tell you. I ask myself the purpose of my existence everyday,52 years of my life and I have existed falsely,living in the shadows of others. Everything I have ever said to you is a lie. I am not a poet,my name is not B. Keats. In fact,this place I stay is not mine. You must run away from me and never return. He paused and looked out of the window. You must leave now,he croaked. I left heavy with sadness and was about crying about everything like B. Keats said poets do. But I remembered he said he was not a poet,I wept nonetheless,profusely. B. Keats had influenced me,I had almost become a poet. I returned some months later to his place and I saw no sign that B. Keats ever existed. All about him had vanished. In fact, a shopping mall had been planted there.
Posted on: Sun, 07 Dec 2014 11:06:53 +0000
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