Life is a river. And so is death.

A river whose limpid waves lap at its banks, ferrying grains of whitewashed sand – freights of forgotten hopes. A river with dark currents, restless, perturbing the bleak bowels of the deep, masking the light of day. A river flowing in its destined course, its supple ripples looking back longingly, but never to return – gurgling over rocks that stand sentinel at a bend, the lollop, a lame attempt at a last farewell.

This river has flowed down the months, trickled through the sieve of days – the interminable hours straining my joy leaving a stony heart. It has meandered through the eternity of a cycle – a full year – eroding the heart but not the pain, dulling the tale but not the memory.

It looks innocent enough – on the surface. Its flow is undisturbed saved for occasional frowns when the gentle breeze breaks into a ripple on its brow – calm, serene, bearing the history of its source to a destined sea.

Evening welled up from the east. Up ahead the yellowing sun emptied its gold in the pockets of the west – daylight was being brought to penury. Tall trees swayed in the breath of the waxing shadows, their silhouettes darkening the mysterious dark waters of the brooding stream. This stream – this river, that holds my memory in its clutches – that feeds it with embers that burn my soul. This river that holds a life I had – a life lost in a watery grave. The tale will be told but will never be finished for this river flows eternally – never to be dried up – furnished by unending tears.

Sorrow, bleak and hapless has mastered my heart. The cold hands of the dark reaper has swung his Scythe at a cherished blossom. All is lost.

It was here by this river that runs its course through my little village, that I loved – and lost. It was here, a year ago that this watery vault gulped my vessel of love – my bride.

This little village of Aniocha has had its fair share of some history but I guess the annals would not be complete if the story of a prince is not told – a prince who loved a lady at the peril of a kingdom. The idea of love is not strange to my people for there are no people in this world , if they be men with heart within, and eyes without that are immured from the touch of that divine spark. And for a prince and heir to the throne his privileges and opportunities are more far-flung. There were ladies aplenty who were willing to offer up their love if he had but carelessly nodded to them.

But who can tell where the lightning will strike, who can say for sure where that spark, small it may be will start a flame. For there in a thread that runs through the affairs of men – and that thread is blind.

The sinking of the sun unreels my thoughts – pulls it out from the dark abyss of memory. The same way the lord of the day falls now, swallowed up the machinations of the west, so the love of my life fell consumed by a monstrous tradition.

I am master over a portion of the earthly realm – my people are quick to do the bidding of their future king. But a king is a king. A king is a man. Love also is a king. Love is man’s king. I had no choice – I had to obey the voice of the monarch  - my feet could only go where my heart pointed - even if that path was against the wind – against an ancient tradition – against the very foundation of our existence. For my love great as it was, was lighted on none other than on an Osu. Of that the land would have no part.

For an Osu is a slave – in fact worse than a slave. They were individuals who had been dedicated to a god. They are to have no form of associations with the so called freeborns even in the most trivial of things such as eating together buying and selling in the markets. Such and other forms of interactions must be had strictly between their kind. And intermarriage was definitely out of the question. A freeborn can not marry an Osu and emphatically not if that freeborns happens to be the prince – heir to the throne. But the waves were fervent, feeding the cascade of events. The lodestone that was my heart, spun with the erratic gusto of a crazed drummer and finally settled pointing to the hut of an outcast.