The Heritage Park - Of Belonging, Memories And Loss
Sonorous waves of untimely songs washed over me in the heat of the August afternoon. A Friday of perspiration, of walking through the human lock of Bodija Market. A Friday of wanting silence after being woken by the Mu’azzin by 5 am, when I was just getting my last quarter of 4-hour nocturnal sleep. And then walking 3 hours later to a lecture theatre where I would be occupied for the rest of my ante-meridian day, alternating between suffering the impenetrative words of the lecturers and the ever-intrusive cacophony of the students. And then going to the mosque to listen to the latest lecture of the Imam about our brothers suffering in Sudan and Kabul and how the angels will fight alongside our brothers from the terrains of Tehran. The manners and passion of his voice, the Imam, coupled with the waves of hotness from the cloudless skies, you could almost exactly be in Gaza. Leaving the mosque to listen to the honking of the vehicles of Bodija Road, the chatters of the Market women, and the rants and loud arguments of the Market men, I wouldn’t blame anyone for wanting absolute silence. And I sat on the concrete chair, finally enjoying the gift of decorum before the shrill music of the birds penetrated my ears and had me wanting again. I picked a rock to disperse my unappreciated singers before I stopped to weigh my intention. Earlier, I couldn’t stop the Mu’azzin and the Imam, because the mosque was their forte. Couldn’t stop the lecturers and the students because the theatre was theirs. How could I even aim to silence the honking of vehicles and the chatters of the market? I would not because I could not. And I could not because I didn’t own any of them. Shall I then disperse the birds singing away while enjoying the shade and coolness of the trees? I would not. Because as much as it belonged to me, it belonged to the birds.
It Belonged To The Lovers
It was in the coolness of the December nights. Students had gone for the highly-anticipated Ibiza party. I was not a big fan of parties but I could give an hour of raving in blue and red lights to my journal for that day. Now, it was time to think about how I would get home for the interannual crossover. I sat on a small rock overseeing the road. The road was bare, safe for the occasional cars that sped off towards the gate. It was a festive period. I smelled them before I heard them, and before I saw them- intoxicated young couples dragging themselves along a leafy pathway. They were coming from the party. They came towards me and sat on the same rock as I was on. If the alcohol left their eyes functional, they didn’t show it then. They didn’t seem to be able to keep their hands off their other’s readily-accepting body. Clothes tugging and rolling and shifting and lifting. I felt like an intruder in the space I specifically chose so no one would disturb my privacy. But I dared not complain. It was for everyone, paired or single as long as there were no lovers. The heritage of the garden was that in the moonlit hours of the night skies, it belonged to the lovers.
It Belonged To The Hunters And Their Prayers
Just last month, another season of convocation was rounded off. For once, I wasn’t hunting and I went to the woods with an invitation. Thus, I was afforded the luxury of witnessing the hunt from the stands, or rather the seats. The hunters came in different regalia and with different skills. Some came with the best of clothes that one could not tell them apart from the families of the graduands. Some came with their big tote bags and mounts of plastic plates and praised and prayed and raised their voices in pretentious laughter, which everyone is aware of, and they are aware of the awareness. But they will be humoured and will leave with filled plates and sometimes bellies. Some lacked the skills and so came in the company of others. You would find them at the back of the crowds, laughing at jokes and tugging at the sleeves of their friends who got the situation under control. The woods saw the trendy graduation proposal. Of couples who spent many of their undergraduate years in the same woods. Under the canopies of the trees floated so many memories of seekers and Hunters and the prey and the prayers.
It Belonged To Memories
I remember the class hangouts that were held in the park. Picnic-styled events. We sat on mats and played games, as a class of bookish people, book games. Quizzes, word scrambles, Charades. The moments of calm after the storms of tests and exams. What better seas than the seas of leaves and cool breezes? The seas that held the waves and made the restless breaths of anticipation cease. Whenever I walked the length of the park, I remembered the exact spot where I first sat alone with my crush. I remembered the way the light brown of her dress and the lighter brown of her sun-kissed skin blended with the yellow and brown of dead leaves. That so much life and death could coexist to give me that peculiar setting of Shangri-La. And now, every brown reminds me of the brown of her eyes and the brown of the dust and the brown of the leaves on the grounds of the park. Each shade and hue of brown belongs to the memories I made on each of those evenings on each of those concrete benches in the park
It Belonged To The Heritages
And now, the birds, the lovers, the Hunters, and their prey, the countless memories forged and stoked in the furnace of its solace will pay tribute. Many of the things we did, we did because some did before us. The birds that sang on the trees hatched from eggs in nests that were built on one of the branches. No lover could claim discoverer of the serene spot. No reader, no hunter, no graduands, no class. All that has occurred is a result of what has already been. We've inherited these legacies, but what happens when they're gone? When the last tree that sheltered the nests falls?
Shall we rejoice in the memories we had? Or mourn the harbinger of them? Will we not partake in sharing the shadeless sunny afternoons because we failed to protect the heritage?
And then years later, as promised, perhaps we will attempt to rebuild these memories and the park. Maybe at a time when the new ones will be outgoing. Or maybe they’ll be gone already. The ones there will attempt to rebuild the park to what it was. But it can never be the same. New birds will have to be discovered. New lovers will have to find and hoard the spots. Young trees can not block the July sun or the December heat. The statues and concrete benches, will they be replaced? The grounds will be littered with bright green and dull green leaves, no browns. And I imagine it would be renamed. Kayode park or Silas Jambo boulevards? It wouldn’t matter. As far as the pretense excludes trying to name it what it would not be anymore, it will be fine. As far as the pretense does not include naming it The Heritage Park.
Quareeb Abdulrahmon
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