Wednesday, November 29, 2006
As we mark the World Aids Day this year, we ought to think and rethink the strategies that we are using to combat the spread of the Aids virus. Above all, behaviour change should be accentuated and re-emphasized. This is simply because without behaviour change we are almost hitting a brick wall with bare fists.
My son, I am now an old woman,
I feel the ancestors beckoning to me,
My heart is punctured and frayed,
My body: old and frail.
In the years I have been around,
I've learnt so much 'bout the world,
I feel the time is ripe,
To share with you my arsenal.
In recent months, I've been watching you,
Watching you keenly; watching with eyes of steel,
My eyes have not slumbered in my watch,
My guard has not dropped in my sentry.
My son, I am afraid of what I see;
I am afraid of what I dream;
I am afraid of what I see in your eyes;
I am afraid of your zest and vim.
My son, I am afraid,
The more I think of what you are doing,
The more I age past my age,
The more people comment on how old I look.
These are dark days, my son,
Days your grandpa and I never dreamt of,
Days graced by pitch darkness,
Days I constantly try to wish away.
My son, don't get bored; keep still,
I am not vacillating, be sure of that,
Listen to me this once,
Listen to the drawl and drag in my voice.
This is the third month since I started my 'vigil',
My son, I see different ladies at your side every passing day:
Ladies fabulously endowed with 'well-rounded bums';
Ladies with earth-shattering smiles keep you company.
They call you 'Mr. Chics – the guy with the move',
Thanx to the innumerable sexual partners you keep,
This is sickening, my son:
Downright filthy and inglorious is what I call it.
My son, do you want to see me going to an early grave?
Do you want me to talk myself hoarse – and go insane in the process?
Do you want me to wet my pillow with tears into the wee hours?
Do you want me to see you crumbling like a fallen block of granite?
When Aids smiles at you, my son,
There'll be no turning back,
It will eat and gnaw at your every marrow,
It will turn you inside out – Please spare me the pain!
I don't want to imagine (but it's part of the nightmare I can't ward off),
The tall, handsome son I know,
Being reduced to an emaciated sculpture,
A sculpture with sores, boils and falling hair.
My son, Aids is for real,
It's prowling the neighbourhood with a vengeance,
Please sit down and rethink your behaviour,
An HIV free generation starts with you, my son.
Posted by Ritch's World at 5:12 AM