Poetry: In Memorial

I bet nobody out there can dispute it
When I say parenting is a role;
And what a huge role this is for no dodgy souls;
It is also not something to be emotively measured
By the dichotomy of sex that vexes sometimes;
But about who put their soul more in the role;
No disrespect to mothers world over
For all the love and attention you showered your babies;
Is it about the pains of pregnancy or childbirth, especially?
For which you naturally edged it from the heavens;
Is it about being a bundle of delicate intuitions?
Even though it is largely unknown and untapped;
But it takes a little extra that not everybody can give;
That's why I love more who does it betters for me unabashed;
Of course, that clearly is my dad! Like all real men,
Always, he was likewise pregnant with my mother;
Because he felt and cater to her pains, irritableness and anxiety;
Once more, blessed be his benevolent soul in glorious ascent;
He was a gallant battler whom I will forever adore
For his ridiculous parenting ethics;
Parenting for him was an exercise in unrestricted joy;
And not an endured tour of routine domestic shores;
It was all encompassing I should say,
That no one could measure it round about;
But is there a child with a father and not a mother?
Then, Mother, forgive and forget
What may look like my contemptuous overlook;
And for this long,
I could easily have been taken for a son ungrateful;
That, among men, I should talk less and less of you,
Like you are nobody;
Yet, there is no deity, say the Yoruba, like a mother;
And I cannot begrudge them their proudly mother's sentiments;
Now if but in the graces of poesy,
I must hasten to bring you this long deserved expiation
For a goddess that you are;
You brought me safely into daylight;
And so deserve more than some accolades;
You could have flushed me out
Like one of those monthly circles;
As restless sea washed up the dead and unwanted
From its stream beds upon the sandy shores;
Your love till date is unsurpassed by any woman I know;
From the break of day till dusk your ways are fair;
Your works are well cut out for you too;
And you perfectly reigned in;
You are my sweet guardian angel;
Watching my unpredictably tottering steps
Lest I fatally stumbled;
I was a bundle of joy
Continually fastened on your back with *Aran Strap;
Indeed fruitful you are,
If tabooed to count and number your children for you;
It would, however, be remembered
Your womb brought them forth
In hundreds of ten thousand;
And marching on they are
To possess the gate of their enemies;
But how I wish you live long enough, Mother, to see
Many of your children's children;
For beautiful and lovable they are to behold
And your love would not have been withheld from them;
To see your clothes bathed with expensive perfumes
And adorned with the finest of precious stones;
Your feet stride with lion skinned shoes;
To give you rides in choice luxury cars;
And your last days spent in the most splendid of houses;
To my regrets, this is where your fate
Is eternally bonded with your beloved half;
In whom I must say, unequivocally, love and care
For children, his children are most perfected!
Yet, it was in him
                                              The talks of children being insurance for old age perished

*Dedicated to the memory of my mother, Mrs. Olaluwe. She died in 2005.

Glossary of difficult words: *Aran is an expensive fabric popular among the Yoruba of the South West, Nigeria. it is usually referred to by mothers to indicate how much they treasure their kids.

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