Oh how I
cried when I saw your photo,
Caving from
both sides down into the Mesurado.
The caption
did not help me either,
As I quickly
reminisced my encounters with you thither.
The fallen bridge
In 1970 you
were close to Amelia Capehart Elementary,
There in Vai
Town, I received the first rudimentary.
Running to
see you at recess
Not caring
that I would be whipped for that excess.
Then from '71-'75,
I crossed over you everyday
As I went to
Cathedral to get my fill of hay.
I remember
leaning over the window of the Land Rover
To see the
Atlantic and Mesurado meet as nature lovers.
From '76-'78,
I did not see you regularly
I was at
Grassfield learning to become scholarly.
I saw you
only when I came home for July vacations
Or, on Sundays
when I tramped home after communion.
By '79,
Tolbert gave you a sister,
Her name was
Gabriel Johnson Tucker.
The
architects gave her an impressive design,
But even
then, You did not resign.
From '80-'82,
I didn't travel over You much,
I traveled
the Johnson Tucker Route a whole bunch.
By then, I
was at T-High, in the circle of progressive
radicals,
Little did I
realize that most of them were somewhat cynical.
From '83-'89,
I left the capital again,
Went to CUC
to become a college brain.
July
vacations became our only chance for rendezvous
Even then I
did not treat You as I should.
But from '90-'91,
You were a greater means of survival, and
warring
factions saw You as a benchmark against rivals.
Civilians
from In-Town saw You as an escape to paradise
And we from
across-the-bridge, treated You as a capitalistic
enterprise
Then you
proved your resilience, and multifacetedness
Overused,
Overstepped, Overshot, and Overlooked, You overcame
those
tribalistic thugs that trampled your thoroughfares
to terrorize.
Beneath your
bowers bodies bled bloodily beyond your borders.
I left
since 1993, and now for me you were a memory
An image in
a photograph, a footage in a documentary,
When I saw
the bridges they have in these parts
I wondered
why we didn't keep you close to our hearts.
I realize
that you've suffered fifty years of neglect
As well as your
aging and its concomitant effects.
But to see
you stoop so low in the Mesurado
Is a message
to politicians about much- a- do-
Oh, how
pitiful the sight
A sight that
has blazed bloggers and news sites
That My Dear
Oh Waterside Bridge has caved
And nothing
was done to have Her saved.
Waterside
Bridge You will rise!
Vai Town
Bridge you will serve again!
If it not
done through the restoration of your physical
infrastructure
Then we
artists will accomplish it through our literary
architectures.
Jerry M. Mwagbe (a.k.a J. FUNK) is an artist.
He lives in metro Atlanta.
