Broken Wing

A phone call in the middle of the night or the early hours of the morning always bares bad news. The phone rang and I picked it up, it my drunken state of mind from my deep sleep, I could not make up what was being said. The phone rang again, I still could not make up what was being said, and somehow I thought I was just dreaming. The third ring could not be ignored, although I was still drowsy, I forced my eyes to open and my mind to stay awake. The person on the other line could not finish the line. I knew something was wrong, I knew something was terribly wrong.
I drove as fast as I could, with my little ones fast asleep on the back seat. In the early hours of a Sunday morning and my aunt’s house was packed with old women in their blankest. My heart started racing, but my tears ran out of my eyes faster than I could open my mouth and ask what was wrong. Sadness and loss was written on each and everyone’s face in the sitting room. As I entered the main bedro0om of the house, there in a transparent plastic bag, were my nephew’s clothes, coved in blood. I felt cold from down my feet, I could not feel my own heart beating, I cried like I never did before. I wanted to back to sleep and be woken up, from this bad dream. But that was not to happen, I would later be told that my nephew was no longer with us.
It has been almost two weeks from since he left us, and I seem to have lost my sleep. He was not my son, but he was my child too. The love I had and still feel for him, was incredible.
He was learning how to fly; he was at his tender prime of his life. He was an eagle whose wing was broken violently.