TRIBUTE TO A PAUPER (A MAN OF LITTLE WORTH)
I come to your grave, O man of little worth, to pay salute to you who lies underneath this sepulchre. Behold I, who has come—wetting your grave with tears—to speak to you.
O man of little worth, who in his own days could barely afford decent meals, listen to my words. It was sad fortune which fashioned your destiny that you had to get little reward for great efforts. I feel your plight: going to bed on many nights and waking on many mornings without hope of filling your belly. Can I be assured that your hunger has been perpetually assuaged over there?
O man of little worth, who in his days could barely get good fabrics with which to clothe himself, can I be assured that you are now dressed in the best regal apparel in the dark beyond? The best of clothings cannot be a compensation for all the years you went about in rags and unpresentable pieces. I now visualize the pain at the centre of your soul throughout your life when you managed to get into any sewn thing to cover your nudity. Would I say that nature never adopted you into her fold? Did she ostracize you and call you to wallow in the desert of nothingness?
O man of little worth, who in his days never really had a dwelling place of his own, can I be assured that you have now found a home in the comfort of the mother earth? Has the soil over your grave provided you with the best shelter from rain and sun? My heart weeps when I remember the days you took the foot of trees as your home, when you resorted to pitching your tent near river banks. I wonder if you ever knew that twice I had watched young boys remove your tent when you went to wash yourself. I wonder if you had the slightest idea of what sorrow filled my heart as I looked on in helplessness.
O man of little worth, who in his days was rejected by his kinsmen and had to wander as if he came from no clan, can I be assured that you have now joined the sweet company of the ancestors who never reject their descendants? I wonder which words I would use to tell you how much I empathized with you at each and every time your kinsmen relegated you to the background in matters of common interests. I am so sorry that they judged you even before you could judge yourself, but it soothes me to know that you are in the best company, with the nicest kith and kin ever imagined.
O man of little worth, who in his days walked about in frail health, know that I always prayed for you that your health would be restored to an extent despite your inability to get yourself potent medications. Can I be assured that you are now in the best state of health in that land of no infirmities? With sickness put to flight, I believe your health has been renewed… sadly… in the world there.
Now, O man of little worth, could I have seen all these and willingly kept silent? Was my heart happy that I had to act indifferent to you? No! It was the sad custom that got me handicapped, for it had sentenced me to the jail of helplessness, such that it would rain doom on anyone who made haste to your aid. The custom labelled you cursed, and cursed would be anyone from whom you got help. I honestly wished I could be your helper. My soul wished to alleviate your pain, but my hands were cuffed. Behold me now, for I have come to pay tribute at your grave. Listen to the voice of my spirit, for I have poured down my tribute to you, O man of little worth.
ABOUT THE WRITER
Daniel Echezonachi Maxwell is a student of the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. He was born in the South East of the country on 22nd September, 2006. A product of Adventist Model Schools and Sacred Heart College, he has a flair for literature and a number of unpublished works. His epistolary essay is forthcoming in Arena Of Wisdom, an anthology of the African Literary Summit, and his works have appeared in Sacred Voice Magazine and Words, Rhymes And Rhythm.
