THE QUEEN'S TERRITORY

A

crown is upon the throne,

As the full blue moon brilliantly glows

The queen is an epitome of royalty

So says Buckingham.

This is a little poem, which I composed for the famous, eyebrow raising and mind-blowing Buckingham palace situated in London, England. This is quite an amazing site, quite differing from the statue of Liberty and the famous gigantic statue of Jesus in Rio, Brazil. Those were my seventh and ninth wonders respectively, but this, right here, was the eight wonders of the world.

Its beauty was like you staring at a perfect art portrait done by one of my greatest men of all times, Leonando da Vinci.

A splendor of beauty adorned in glory with an extraordinary magnificent touch.

I could see the palace guards as they changed shifts from their respective guard posts. The land of Queens or better yet,  I just would call it the queen’s territory.

Unlike Brooklyn, New York, which is known as the territory or hometowns for Dons, Mafias, and Capos, Dirty Business Tycoons, Drug Lords and even sex traders, London, England, was a whole new world entirely.

After staring at the magnificence and loveliness of the palace for quite some time, I had to board a taxi to my place of destination in search of a man whom I had always looked forward to meeting all my life and for the past seventeen years he had absolutely no hope of my existence.

The man called Gregory Obika.

Never again would I have to stare at the FBI or the annoying NYPD. Some gangsters in the hood dreamt they could put an end to this cops, but such dreams dare not come true or Arlington Avenue would only end up turning out to be a grave Town.

The streets of London looked clean, though they had the smart looking metro-politan police patrolling the neighborhood and stationed on some parts of the streets but they looked as gentle and mild as the snow. I called them the snow touch. This was very much unlike what you would see on the streets of Brooklyn, where every time we saw the cop, it was a black or white boy getting arrested. But right here that’s all different as both races walked peacefully without any arrest being made or anyone being disturbed.

We reached Merton, a small town in London, precisely at 7:20pm. The cab stopped at two hundred and forty-two Oxen Street, the residence of Mr. Gregory Obika.

I walked towards the brown door and pressed the doorbell. A slim tall white lady opened the door to attend to me. I showed her the picture of the man I was looking for, but did not mention his name, and before I could say any word, she banged the door at my face. Now that’s something you do not do to an Arlington lady.

The weather climate started changing, as little snow balls began falling from the frenzy sky. Well, New York also had a whole lot of snow but never had I felt so cold. I felt almost as if the snowballs here were more freezing than those in the United States were.

Out of great desperation, from the cold, I pressed the doorbell repeatedly and had no intention of stopping until I got a reasonable answer.

The same young white lady came out, but this time with an entirely different hair style; I wondered how she could change it so fast, she definitely ain’t Barry Mr. Fast, the flash guy or something. As I handed her the picture, she patiently stared at it and from behind her, a tall black man approached. It was Gregory Obika, my father; you had no idea what it meant to me to see my biological dad, and not the foster ones in Brooklyn.

Gregory, who looked like someone in his mid-fifties, received the picture from the white girl, stared at me with what looked like a disappointing frowned face. For a moment this made me wondered if I was at the right address. But the frowning face suddenly turned into a beautiful smile, as he asked me to come in, welcoming me into his home. He definitely must have had the idea of where the picture came from. He introduced me to his whole family and asked how my mama was fairing, but I only replied fine. ‘Finally some relief,’ I said to myself, as I was served a hot cup of tea.