Of Flowers That Dare to Dream by Zino Asalor
A wild flower was born in the cemetery, of all places she was born amongst the dead. Sired to forever brighten the days and nights of the un-living. As a toddler, her eyes spoke of journeys to lands unknown, but “home is home,” Mama said sternly. “Home is home”, Papa nodded in agreement.
She dreamt of how different the world would be if life was lived amongst the living, to be smiled at, smelt and to see the colours that rise and fall when a lady blushes. She dreamt…..but home is home.
Still she dreamt, “surely to sit like a Queen in the finest antique vase would be life indeed, last though it may, but a day?” What glory is greater than to share of her scent, sweeter than that of the reddest rose? She knows…she knows home can be made anywhere. She dreams what she knows; she dreams what no one knows.
And the day comes when she is plucked, lifted from the prisons of her birth, carried with caring hands as if she were the last egg in the world. “This must be the day,” she sang. A dream she knew yet a dream she knew not. She was dusted with the softest brushes, petted and kissed like a baby born in the midst of war. “This must be the day” ….she crooned herself to sleep.
Awakened to find other flowers in her bed, she sighs, she shrugs, she smiles: “Even the sky is shared by all stars, yet each one blinks and twinkles like eyes in a dream,” a dream within a dream. As the ribbon is tied, her mind drifts back to Mama and Papa, still dancing their forced dance to the sad songs of the cemetery breeze, still at home. “Home is home,” they always said. If only they could see me now in my black dress with pretty red ribbons. “O this is the day,” she whistled and hummed!
And the car came, Babanginee’s car. Blacker than the darkest night, shining like a second wife, it was. The prize of the pack, the golden coin of the convoy, “how strange yet familiar,” thought the little wild flower. “It must be a dream, undreamt. A dream within a dream.”
So she went, placed ever so gently at the back, inside the case that carried the corpse that once was Babanginee’s bride. Touching both the sky and the coffin of her dreams in the same moment, as they made their way back to the land of her birth, the very prison from where fate had broken her out. She knew nothing of where she was and never came to understand why Mama said what she said, and why Papa nodded. She was in a car, finally! A car that carried a case, that bore a corpse, parked at the cemetery, still she sang “this is the day, this is the day,” waiting patiently for her lady’s blush…a dreamer till the very end.
***
About the Author
Zino Asalor
Born: Benin City, Edo State, Nigeria
Now Resides: Port Harcourt, Rivers State, Nigeria
Online: www.onlyonezino.blogspot.com
Bio: Zino is a writer of poetry and fiction. He loves to sneak underneath the flesh of life to steal glances at the interconnecting veins that run through us all; he finds them in simple stories, and words. He keeps dreaming of visiting Malaysia but has no idea why. Why Malaysia? Do you know? “Of Flowers That Dare To Dream” was featured on the blog naijastories.com. His fiction has been published by StoryTime Africa and Sentinel Nigeria amongst others.
***
image by r3novatio.
