Tell Him

I do not want to hear any more about why.

I want to know why not.

I can write you the story of why, the story of colonisation and socialisation, of depredation and emasculation.

I can write you the story of why, of emotional muteness, of physical bruteness. Of manhood negated, frustrated, contested, neglected. Of lack, of loss, of bottles, buttons and needles. Of guns and gangs, of lawlessness and lovelessness. Of roles reversed, of boundaries burst. I do not want one more story of why.

Tell me why not. Tell me why he didn’t. Tell me why he won’t. Tell me why he does not seek his manhood in my blood or in my bones. Why he does not spell his failure with my name.

I want the story of why he does not blame his nothing on your something. Why he does not hate his hands for the rings or the callouses on yours. Why he does not forget our hunger in his thirst. Why he does not see his power in our fear.

In fact I know that story too. Tell him, my brother, tell him.

The well is poisoned. No matter who poured their tears, their anger or ignorance in. No matter who gloated at the sound of the distant splash. No matter who laughed in the shadows at the echo of contamination. We all drink from the same source. We need an antidote.

If we cannot turn this poison into medicine, then we must dig anew that our sons and daughters might drink from a different well.