Conceived, shaped, and moulded by generations
the gentleness of hands long gone
continues to form me.
You gave me the will
to breach the walls of time,
and the keenness
to hold and care for those to come.
I am thankful for my ways,
this chaotic flood of impatience
lit by flashes of sagacity,
this is my disposition.
So whatever I pass on
to the hands not yet born,
behind it will be
the quiet strength you gave.
Everything in me remains undeciphered.
The ancient lock will never be picked.
So –
sleep, giants of my history.
Sleep with surety:
the bridge stays strong.
BEFORE THE LONG BEFORE.
I’m not afraid of getting old.
The mirror and I are on decent terms.
I believe the lines round my eyes are laugh marks, souvenirs from squinting at the sun,
and from years of paying attention.
The remnants of my hair went silver without permission, then mostly left!
So I shave those remnants away.
My knees creak some mornings,
but they’ve earned the right to complain
they’ve carried me through footy, rugby, shouldering kids
and four children learning to walk.
No, it’s not age that keeps me company at night.
It’s the phone.
The one that rings and makes my children sigh
before they even answer.
I’ve made peace with being alone.
Solitude and loneliness aren’t twins
they just get mistaken for each other.
Give me early cuppa and quiet,
an evening book, a chair that fits my back.
There’s freedom in not being needed
every second of the day.
But somewhere between midnight and dawn
my thoughts sometimes wander into darker rooms.
Not death; I’m not afraid of that.
It’s the long before.
The slow unravelling.
The wrong kind of living on.
I’ve seen it happen.
A fall that takes more than bone.
A stroke that steals names, faces,
the way home.
A mind that edits itself
until the man in the mirror
looks like a stranger
wearing my clothes.
I don’t fear help.
Open the jar.
Remind me of the pills.
That’s just being human.
What I fear is becoming
the reason plans are cancelled,
the reason voices tighten,
the reason love starts to feel like duty.
I don’t want to be
the name that brings a pause,
the message that rearranges a day.
I don’t want my sons driving miles to me
with worry chewing at their schedules.
I don’t want my grandchildren visiting
out of obligation instead of excitement
Max and Leo glancing at their phones,
Ifè and Hera unsure why their ‘Yo-Yo’s so different,
Zora and Aurelian too young to remember
who I used to be.
I believe I’ve given a lot in my life.
Four children.
Arms held steady.
Hands offered without counting.
I don’t want my final years
to feel like a debt being collected.
I want to move like wind, not weight.
To arrive lightly.
To leave room for laughter.
To be the “Yo-Yo” whose visits are wanted,
not endured.
The father whose needs don’t swallow
his children’s lives.
Real independence isn’t refusing help.
That’s just pride in disguise.
Real independence is keeping your voice,
your choices,
your right to say, “enough”
and
“no”
and
“this still matters to me.”
I’ve watched good men shrink
until they were known only
by what they’d lost.
I don’t want my story
edited down to symptoms.
I know I don’t get to choose the ending.
None of us do.
You can do everything right
and still end up somewhere you swore you wouldn’t.
That’s the gamble of living long enough.
But while my hands are steady
and my mind still knows its own shape,
I can speak.
I can write.
I can have the conversations
no one enjoys
but everyone needs.
And if the day comes
when I need more than I can give,
I hope I’ll accept it with grace,
not shame.
Because being cared for
doesn’t erase a lifetime of caring.
Maybe the fear isn’t being a burden at all.
Maybe it’s losing the thread,
the one that ties who I was
to who I am
and
to who I’m still becoming.
So I speak now.
While I can.
Because the conversations we avoid today
are the emergencies of tomorrow.
And I’d rather leave words behind
than leave questions unanswered.
The words of Peter Akinwunmi (Peter Ak'i) 