He fought so hard to save his once smiling child,
it seemed that the demons had conspired,
angels watched in silence, unmoving to his aid as life left the eyes of his son.
Once he would smile, but now?
Dele lay on lice-infested bed, surrounded by the sweet hymn of mosquitoes,
tended by the sour-faced woman in white,
the hair on his head gone, his steps wobbly like that of a child.
Baba Dele drove the taxi from dawn to dusk,
Yet he could not snatch the soul of his little boy from the monster that had come calling.
They say, —they that wear white in that building, —
that the sickness was in his blood, hidden.
Abasiama Udom is a poet and writer with polymathic tendencies. She is currently pursuing a personal course on the meaning of life and has found a few joys during this study. They are food, music, books, family, sleep, and football.