The Hemiplegic Generation

By Majekodunmi Ebhohon

NO one fills out an application
  for a stroke.
It just arrives,
  like a power cut mid-sentence,
leaving the room dark
  and the dinner guests
    holding their forks in the air.

One side of these boys
  keeps going to work,
    polishes its shoes,
    says “Good morning, sir.”
The other side
  has quietly resigned
    from the agreement.

The body,
  once a unified republic,
now operates
  like a shaky coalition government
    held together
    by duct tape
    and desperation.
Doctors point
  to gray charts of the brain,
    mapping the infarct—
      that dark, oxygen-less alley
      where the cash flow
      simply stopped moving.

I watch them
  in the neighbourhood,
    suffering from social hemiplegia.
One half
  still quoting old proverbs
    about honest wages
    and rolling stones.
The other half
  knows the exact weight
    of a handgun
  and the sound
    of a stomach folding in on itself
    at three in the morning.

They wake up intact,
  but not synchronized.
The brain sends a signal
  for patience,
but it hits a clot
  in the local economy
and emerges at the fingertips
  as theft.
One hand reaches
  for a prayer book,
while the other,
  following a different set
    of instructions,
reaches
  for the unlocked car door.
It isn’t a failure
  of character.
Hunger
  has a poor bedside manner.

They practice survival
  the way a patient
    in a linoleum hallway
    practices walking;
      slow,
      awkward,
      eyes fixed on the tiles,
      as if the floor
      might suddenly decide to move.
Every step
  a desperate
    neuroplasticity
    trying to teach the feet
    to navigate sidewalks
    paved with broken glass
    and – No Trespassing – signs.

A boy who swore
  he’d never do ‘that‘
now does ‘that‘
  with a surgical precision,
touching the hot stove
  of the world
with a hand
  he can no longer feel.
He calls it ‘temporary‘,
  the way a patient
    calls a wheelchair a ‘loaner‘,
believing the Golden Hour
  hasn’t passed,
believing damage
  can be flushed
    by a sudden windfall
    of legitimate light.

Society stands nearby—
  arms folded,
    like a gym teacher
    watching a kid in a cast—
asking why recovery
  takes so long.
They talk
  about rehabilitation
  and character,
ignoring the fact
  that you cannot exercise a muscle
    if the nerves
    have stopped impulsing.

It isn’t a tragedy,
  exactly.
More
  a medical anomaly.
A whole generation
  dragging their better instincts
    behind them
    like a heavy,
    uncooperative leg.

They aren’t villains.
They aren’t heroes.
They are just people
  learning to speak
    through a slur
    in their dreams,
trying to move forward
  when the primary signal
    from the heart
    was intercepted
    by a blockage
they never had the mace
  to dislodge
or authority
  to outvote.