Welcome to my world of darkness, where dark shades cover the face to protect nothing but the shame of the blind seer.
How I wish light would tear my skin open, flood my inside and give meaning to my surroundings. Then I will no longer pick the knife instead of my comb or bite a stone hard instead of kola. Days I bath in the bucket of oil have been replaced with days I lie down suffering from the pains of a broken toe. I regret in the night when the moon comes around to visit and I do not welcome it simply because I knew not when the sun left. Our elders say we should show respect unto all that lived before us. I hope the moon and sun count me as exception. Fate gave me these eyes the first day I cried in this world and has since refused to show me a window of little brightness. That night, as mother welcomed me to the earth my eyes were shut and they would remain asleep forever.
When men pity me for the absence of sight I pity them for their blindness. For there is more to life than meets the eyes and many of them eyes of understanding lack. Yesterday as the third balloon tried to fly over our village, I saw that its tail would hit the mountain top and all the people inside would walk the roads of eternity; where time dies and judgement follows. The priest of our village was inside too. He had two eyes but couldn’t see that his body would end up in the fire that broke out on the mountains. On his grave lies this inscription – Our watchman with eyes but no vision; with sight but no enlightenment.
Two decades ago, I went to the palace and told our king that his son, his only son should not go out for three days. I saw the prince’s back on the ground in the town square on market day. The king’s advisers mocked and laughed me to scorn. “With which eyes did you see our beloved prince sleeping in the town square? Even in his madness he will never sleep outside the palace. Give him some coins and he’ll leave us in peace”. When our beloved prince went out two days later, his camel tripped and down he fell. His head smashed the ground and he breathed his last. The market women looked on as the only heir of the throne slept on the ground of the town square. With his eyes open and breathe gone he faced heaven in the presence of on-lookers motionless. Who is really blind – Me or our king?
I have interpreted dreams of men, given visions, prophecies too many. The multitudes of the people knock at my door begging “Please see for us”. Many wait all night. “If only you would tell us of our times and seasons” they ask. To one I said “the cloud of death has risen over you. It is ready to rain arrows and sword.” He was killed the following month during the war. Exactly four arrows entered his body before Goliath’s sword cut his head off. To another I said “Your hands will be on the neck of your enemy and his shall be on your hip.” You know of whom I speak.
On the blind sons of men I have pity. When night falls I travail on my journey towards heaven with the heavy burdens of plenty men. I lean on the breast of El Roi and listen intently to his heartbeat. I ask Him to heal their near sightedness, to anoint their eyes with eye ointment. One after the other the burdens drop off my shoulders. Then as morning calls I give revelations to the sons of men who wait patiently at my door for interpretations of times and season.