The Nebuchadnezzar magazine

Remembering The Road to Pasadena

By Eric-Anderson Kouadio Momou

-Copyright 2025

Akissi,

I do not know where you will go in the coming year. But, here is a thought I’ve written down. I’ve inscribed it, not for your sake – but mine: so that I may come to terms with what has passed, and what may be. 

This is not a story.

It is an admonition, because I know wherever your travels may lead you- you must be cautious. Cautious as to your trekking from off the path of Damascus. Great roads come by few many times. Sometimes many few come by great roads. 

Use your discretion as best you can.

 I do not profess to know life. Anyone who says they do is a fool. But to know the heart of it – that is to say the hope between the isles of desire, and the keep of desparity- and yet still forge on, as that is life. 

I was a boy until our father died; then I became a man. As a young man, I fought to bring myself under the same jurisdiction of discipline. Our Father- His temperament had always appeared calm. Yet, I could not reign my fury, as he had, and so it burned. Unbidden It singed the asphalt, and I could not abate it like a wave that scoured the sea. That boy couldn’t learn; he could not be taught. Headstrong, he strode upon the chasm with a false grit wrought of rusting iron.

There was a time when we walked on King’s street. brazen with bravado, No one could tell us we were young and stupid. None could pull us from lofty thrones of pyrite. None could rob us of our divinity. –not Tsering’s parents, not Finey Jintana’s.

 There are many streets like King’s in Harlem, and I have grown accustomed to them.
Yet, they are not the same as ours. Yes, there are other Kings but not like our own. I miss That street. The one of our youth.

Our group would gather before the light fell. We reclined the seats in our Chevy –and —hot-boxing and told l stories despite nightfall. We did all this in the Lot, juxtapose to seventh and Booker Lane. And when the light fell we would not return home. That was how we rebelled. The lot was not our own, as the sheer fabric of it has been lost to us.
You have seen the crowds: how they gather at the Capitol. I have walked among them. I joined them for a time in shouts of liberation, but I left once my manhood struck.

despite the vigil there is no oecumism.

On the night you leave the home our mother and father you must pack light. Along with your birth certificate and canned foods, take the vinyl cassettes, my books, and mom’s guitar. It is a sacrilegious thing to forget our father’s boubou, so I implore you to take it.  Do not deny yourself your heritage. I am told that You will not need many things in Pasadena, but I know our artifacts are essential.
Could I go back in time, I’d have brought them with me Because The items hold power. They are as vital as the blood that runs through the fleshy foliage of your varicose veins. In my regret I have left them, and this action has sapped me of my goodwill.
With them in your possession, you will summon storms. recall the days you sat in a high chair, as our mother told Anansi stories over cafe au lait . How our father danced to Sam Cooke in his boubou. He told us stories; he sung to you during your conception. These are the yesteryears Akissi, and they must not be forgotten.
Should the vinyl scratch, do not fear: for the songs are not lost. you must pluck them out on the tweed six string from memory. Also, you must sing these stories to your children, so that they may hear our stories like Holy Writ in our song.

Once you have arrive you will seek me out, in the city. You will look in the furthest reaches of it the alleyways, and the school But i will not be there.

and you will tire from your search of me. Then when your sadness will have subsided, you will seek repose from the city. You will tire of the brick and mortar edifices and the smell of exhaust. You will leave Pasadena, once your finances settle. You will break the shackles of your debtors.
Yet As you turn against the tide of change you will meet a man in the city. he will profane your name–and you will let him. And so you will be leaving him. Your fiancé is fate.

When you leave Pasadena, drive through the mountains. Stop the car and step out, because the air though thin , is clean. search for the names of those etched in the slate stone. Our grandmother, scratched hers in with a butter knife; I have left my apothecary there.
In the city
go beyond the church with the steeple, through the sacristy. Walk the streets, but mind the heat. If you must avoid exhaustion, enter one of the many fast food chains, those concrete edifices with air conditioning.



I imagine that behind the defamation of our dispossession you suspect a tear in this fabric. Do you see the puppeteers through it? How they move the people–their marionettes.  one after the other the puppets dance. Moved with pencil-thin fingers wound with invisible lace he is responsible for the strained smiles, the obstinate looks, the thrown punches.

Keep the vigil, so that you may light it aflame with the inferno of your voice, and tintinnabulation of our song.

Then the mob will return home, because the way forward is that which bends back.

And they will fight, and avenge their blood to no end. But it will be for naught. Their plight is that of fools, and you will know it when you see it. 

Once you have left Pasadena do not forget our Father’s admonition:

When you sleep, dream of dawn.
Then you will remember the morning.