Like his mother before him, he sharpened his spirit on the knife edge of solitude, stylites on their pillars, they saw loneliness, aloneness, oneness as divine states. Let his shadow always haunt his tormentors. Shidane…Light the torches for his flight to heaven. To make him a hero, not the fighting or romantic kind but the real deal, the starved child that survives every sling and arrow that shameless fortune throws at them, and who can now sit back and tell the stories of all the ones that didn’t make it. I am telling you this story so that I can turn my father’s blood and bones, and whatever magic his mother sewed under his skin, into history. I am my father’s griot, this is a hymn to him. To see his knees bucking under the weight of his thin body hurts me, but I respect those knees for walking across continents, for wading through the Red Sea.
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