Child’s Play?

 

A victim of a dysfunctional childhood.

Wait.

What if?

His innocence snaffled by those sworn to protect.

I mean,

Am I at fault?

Restless, teary-eyed, compelled to a state of anxiety.

Wait,

Am I making this up?

Discouraged, silenced, never to utter a word.

Shh.

It’s our little secret, ok?

 

Dear IyanuOluwa Folashade,

I hope this finds you well. Happy birthday. It’s you, me sixteen years from now. Oh, by the way, nice suit. I write this letter to inform you of a life far beyond your imagination. A pleasant life, peaceful. You have family, friends and you sure as hell feel good about yourself. I mean, you’re writing a letter to yourself for God’s sake. And, before you read on, I ask that you, for a moment, stop, breathe and simply imagine. Just for a moment. Be proud of what you’ll have. Done? Nothing, right? I know. I know this letter will be in vain, but, I write to inform you that your awareness of what is, has been our guide to this life, one filled with joy, hope, and peace. Now you’re laughing, and rightfully so. You think I’m insulting your intelligence, and well, you’re right, I am. You and I both feel the absence of your parents. The loneliness, and your thoughts, bleak, riddled with fear. What should be a festive day is wasted harbouring emotions you don’t understand, and certainly cannot express. So, how at your age are you able to imagine the life I’ve described when it’s no different to the one you live? You lead a normal life, right? Sadly, that is what you’re being taught. Look, again, I understand how meaningless this letter is, how little effect it’ll have on the path you’re on, but do me this one favour, from me to you and you to me. Word to Barry and Paul. Trust that I understand how you feel. It hurts, I know. The discomfort, it’s a sign that your reality is not normal, and as you age, you’ll begin to realise that very truth. Just trust that you’ll be alright, yeah? I want you to trust that you’re right where you ought to be; as unpleasant as it feels, it’s your guide to a truly pleasant, peaceful life.

Peace A-town. Ps. I lied, your suit is trash.

 

You are your father’s son.

We yearn for his love and affection.

You are your father’s son.

His truth, our desires, its validation.

You are your father’s son.

We yearn for his love and affection.

Cry for his protection.

Grow to loathe his misguided attention.

 

Dear Lawrence ‘Iyanu’ Folashade,

I hope this finds you well, you dick slinging, all talk, no tech having ass mother fucker. It’s you, me, six years on from now. Do you remember that day in college when your drama teacher said you hated women? I do, so I’m sure you do too. Well, I write this letter to inform you that he was right. Bleak, I know. Do you also remember your response? I do, I mean, I still laugh at the confidence you had with it. ‘How can I? I sleep with women all the time,’ you said. I laugh, not only at the truth behind those words but at how misguided they were. I wonder if your grandfather with forty-eight kids shares your sentiment. Or, even your father with, well, you’ll soon find out. I wonder if they’d strongly dispel the notion that they hate women, too. Anyway, at eighteen years of age, who dare tell you otherwise? You love women. So, I pose to you this question; and before you read on, I ask that, for a moment, you stop, breathe and think about it. Your relationships last no longer than a month, so, what exactly is it that you love about these women?

Peace, A-Town.

 

I’ll be a better father than he ever was.

I promise to be a better father than he ever was, to me.

 

Dear Iyanu ‘Lawrence’ Folashade,

I hope this finds you well. It’s me, you, seven months on from today. I write to wish you a happy belated birthday and to ask that you continue to find purpose with your celebrations. Yesterday, you chose to celebrate your birthday by visiting the homes you lived in since your arrival in 2003. You stood outside of each home, immersed in the beauty of what once was. You laughed and cried as vivid images looped you into a sense of relief. Each home, its memories, played their part in shaping the man you are today. You stood with grace; joy, running through the five senses with its woes. You saw the beauty in the stairs soused in bodily fluids. You heard those neglected cries. The taste of freedom as you laughed at each traumatic experience. You smelled the fear emitting from each flat window or, maybe that was just the bodily fluids. You were present, letting those emotions sit, as you felt the weight of the world lift off your shoulders. That young boy could not have imagined the life you currently lead. Daily nurture of the preserved space in your heart for your so-called father. Freedom through expression and a true understanding of love and affection, one in which you share with your partner of four years. And, the homes, the experiences, a reminder of how it all came to be. You followed your guide right to this moment, even with the understanding that there’s more to uncover.

Peace Up, A-Town down (Dun Duhn, Dun Duhn)

 

You are your father’s son, but who is your father?

Another victim of a dysfunctional childhood?

His father’s son?

Who?

 

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