It's hard to find an answer when questions won't come out. It's hard to
find a reason when all you have is doubt. With the passage of time,
events and people through my life, I found it hard to know what and who
to hold on to as identities. Seeing into myself was also hard. I
couldn't see my way out, so that was an influence on what I could
perceive of me. Defining yourself is just as easy as hitting a nail into
a concrete wall with your fist.
My effigy always morphed each time I stared at the mirror; that's
not the big, bad deal. The issue rather was that I at times didn't know
what I was changing into. The psychological image always had a different
tale to tell. At a time, I began to hate my mirror. My friends. My
cares. My family. Every entity that had something to say about me, who
had a clue of who I was but never could see the big picture of me. I had
open eyes and open doors, but I didn't know what I was searching for.
Life needs reasoning and reasons for reasoning. You can't find
meaning to life, especially with its many distortions and obfuscations,
if all you listen to is the noise of macerating dissenters. I've over a
period of unfolding self-consciousness realised that no matter how
talented, connected or extraordinary you are, picking joys out of
sorrows and seeing vistas amidst blurred uncertainties and situations is
an inevitable exigency of life.
Everything that has pros always have cons, but the path to true
happiness and self discovery is seeing honey when you see a swarm of
bees, and not venomous stingers. There's more to life than parochial
pessimism.
Realism and inspiration catches up with my mind in unexpected places.
Ara 'deinde.
December 7, 2014.
MMA2, 05:45pm.
Friday 19 December 2014
Monday 15 December 2014
WEIRD...
I download more than a hundred
songs at an internet cafe, select all the songs, click cut, and before i
say Jack Robinson, the system's screen goes off. For a moment, I pray
inwardly that the worst hasn't happened, but then the cafe attendant
confirms my fears. 'Pele,' the cafe attendant pleas. 'Things like that
happen once in a while sir. Please, bear with us', he says calmly,
yanking unwittingly at my carefully concealed temper. I start to laugh,
the opposite of what I would probably have done involuntarily and
without a hassle.
And I get up slowly, muttering to myself 'just one of those things', and briskly exit the cafe. What else under heaven would have sufficed well enough for me to do at that instant? 400 naira and priceless time already down the drain........
As if that was not enough, as soon as I finished typing my little ordeal above into my phone, it went off for no just reason. Now, isn't that weird?
Ara 'deinde,
November 4, 2014.
And I get up slowly, muttering to myself 'just one of those things', and briskly exit the cafe. What else under heaven would have sufficed well enough for me to do at that instant? 400 naira and priceless time already down the drain........
As if that was not enough, as soon as I finished typing my little ordeal above into my phone, it went off for no just reason. Now, isn't that weird?
Ara 'deinde,
November 4, 2014.
HARMATTAN
7:14am, Ota time. I can feel in me the nasty exigencies of the sultry
weather as I walk to the bus stop. The air smells old and rusty, the
kind that makes you feel your body has been whisked away to Northern
Nigeria overnight by mystical winds. Yes, the sailing winds seem like
they can conjure voodoo; the mist of the early morning is sapped by the
wind and the air is white and foggy. The sky looks dead too.
Dust paints every object in sight. It settles under my fingernails and on my skin. Five minutes into my walk, my feet are now a hue of white, like those of a sand castle building kid. Even the goats and chickens aren't spared. Seems they've got catarrh, as the bleats and crows are stifled and far between. Their hairs and feathers appear a bit eroded too, as if the wind contains acid instead of moisture.
You'll leave your skin if you hear me cough or talk. The dust lines my throat and makes me drawl each time I speak. "E kaaro ma", I greet the petty trader I meet on the way. She reflects aridity too.
Ara 'deinde
December 2014.
Dust paints every object in sight. It settles under my fingernails and on my skin. Five minutes into my walk, my feet are now a hue of white, like those of a sand castle building kid. Even the goats and chickens aren't spared. Seems they've got catarrh, as the bleats and crows are stifled and far between. Their hairs and feathers appear a bit eroded too, as if the wind contains acid instead of moisture.
You'll leave your skin if you hear me cough or talk. The dust lines my throat and makes me drawl each time I speak. "E kaaro ma", I greet the petty trader I meet on the way. She reflects aridity too.
Ara 'deinde
December 2014.
NO FREEDOM WITHOUT LOVE (3)
The alarm clock must have sounded like a wounded lion roaring in regal
garrulity into my ears. I had a mundane routine of obeying my alarm's
chiming call every 5:00am, but I let it snooze severally today.
Afterall, I'm the boss here, not the clock. I felt some heat well up on
my chest. No, not the sultry air of the room. It rather was oozing
exothermically and post coitally from my wife's head. Cupid heat. I had
my arms wrapped securely around my Aminat as if a wannabe abductor was
lurking in the dark shades of the room, waiting to whisk my woman away.
Bizarre morning thoughts. Not therapeutic for my nerves.
Nasir and Fareedah ran into the room, an air of freedom and surrealism encapsulating their every move. "Allah be blessed," I muttered beneath my breath. These kids meant too much to me. I couldn't bare to sight any stifling suffering for them. Just as much as the cold thought was not appealing vis-a-vis my sweet Aminat. My wife. Or wasn't she?
"Good morning, daddy," the kids chorused sweetly. "Good morning jewels. Hope you guys dreamt of dad and mum." Aminat woke with a yawny start, grinning at our kids as she sat up. She planted a sweet good morning kiss on my lips. "Today is Saturday. Thank God it is. You guys hang around while I go fix us breakfast."
I watched her fair, slender figure wrapped in a bodice retreat into the terrace adjoining the master bedroom. Her beauty was primal. Even after the twins were born, she still looked very beautiful. Damn that ill theory of women-get-fatter-after-delivery. Even if it was a widely accepted postulate, my wife only got slimmer (not thinner, so you don't start thinking she went on excursion to a concentration camp) and more gorgeous. Beautiful woman, beautiful wife, beautiful mum, beautiful
Just as the kids began to flirt in their habitual way with my thick hair, the phone rang. Tunmise.
Ha! May God bless the gem of a man. A rare one. His story is one fat one. For the gods, you might like to pun. He took me in when I came to Ibadan from my native Zaria. My exodus from that town was what I considered my key to freedom. Just like the Israelites when they were led away from their long term captors by prophet Musa. I had company though. My Aminat. We eloped based on a sole advice I got from my friend and confidant in Zaria: Charity. The only Christian friend I had there, and the only good one. I recall clearly her enthusiasm and vista about Aminat and I. "Please, run away with Aminat and come back years later with a baby. I'm sure your uncle will understand . . ." All for love. I held the bull by the horn and made for its eye.
A few nairas frugally stored away in my petty, long term pocket had stacked up to quite a handful. All that mattered was Aminat's consent to elope with me, and that wasn't an issue at all. She sowed the seed in the first instance. If she was willing to be a stubborn Hauwa to her rich dad, I was more than prepared to be her Adamu. And off we went. Southwest bound.
I informed Tunmise of my brazen plans. I could feel his frigidity over the phone. His voice echoed his fears of my possible fainaigue, but left to me, I couldn't see the responsibility I had to an uncle who exorcised me like I was an Egyptian plague, nor to my in-laws who bore a chasm with me and thought me psychopathic. My responsibility was rather geared towards my nuclear fam. Even though we were worlds apart, I knew she loved me, and I loved her too. All of this I voiced to my Yoruba pal.
"You can come over to IB then," he had ruled finally. "I understand your stance and I promise I'll do the best I can to help." My happiness knew no fences. And the rest, like they say, is history. HIS story. The man who loved and found love. A man whose charity began outside, not at home. A man who found friends' love in outliers. In an Igbo friend in Zaria. In a Yoruba friend in Ibadan. In a lady who defied her quotidian comfort in preference of a pauper.
Tunmise's call on this Saturday had a new direction it would spearhead. "Man, I think you should go back to Zaria with your wife and kids. Your Uncle Bada needs you. Your in-laws do too. Things have to be properly and sensibly done, you know. Don't throw away the baby alongside the bath water. . ." In a flash, I recapped what Charity said years back, the fullness of her suggestion too. ". . . And come back years later with a baby. . ." Funny, there were two now. Twins. No wonder I had been feeling uneasy and insecure. I had managed to build an empire of wealth, comfort and love with Aminat in a faraway land, across hills and seas of ill interference. Still I failed to feel free. The reason wasn't so ambiguous anymore. The sequitur was obvious.
"Kabir, are you there?" His voice jerked me back to consciousness. "Sorry, Tunmi. Can we meet? We need to talk about what you said now. I'm in a fix. Wistful me."
Ara 'deinde
©October 2014
Nasir and Fareedah ran into the room, an air of freedom and surrealism encapsulating their every move. "Allah be blessed," I muttered beneath my breath. These kids meant too much to me. I couldn't bare to sight any stifling suffering for them. Just as much as the cold thought was not appealing vis-a-vis my sweet Aminat. My wife. Or wasn't she?
"Good morning, daddy," the kids chorused sweetly. "Good morning jewels. Hope you guys dreamt of dad and mum." Aminat woke with a yawny start, grinning at our kids as she sat up. She planted a sweet good morning kiss on my lips. "Today is Saturday. Thank God it is. You guys hang around while I go fix us breakfast."
I watched her fair, slender figure wrapped in a bodice retreat into the terrace adjoining the master bedroom. Her beauty was primal. Even after the twins were born, she still looked very beautiful. Damn that ill theory of women-get-fatter-after-delivery. Even if it was a widely accepted postulate, my wife only got slimmer (not thinner, so you don't start thinking she went on excursion to a concentration camp) and more gorgeous. Beautiful woman, beautiful wife, beautiful mum, beautiful
Just as the kids began to flirt in their habitual way with my thick hair, the phone rang. Tunmise.
Ha! May God bless the gem of a man. A rare one. His story is one fat one. For the gods, you might like to pun. He took me in when I came to Ibadan from my native Zaria. My exodus from that town was what I considered my key to freedom. Just like the Israelites when they were led away from their long term captors by prophet Musa. I had company though. My Aminat. We eloped based on a sole advice I got from my friend and confidant in Zaria: Charity. The only Christian friend I had there, and the only good one. I recall clearly her enthusiasm and vista about Aminat and I. "Please, run away with Aminat and come back years later with a baby. I'm sure your uncle will understand . . ." All for love. I held the bull by the horn and made for its eye.
A few nairas frugally stored away in my petty, long term pocket had stacked up to quite a handful. All that mattered was Aminat's consent to elope with me, and that wasn't an issue at all. She sowed the seed in the first instance. If she was willing to be a stubborn Hauwa to her rich dad, I was more than prepared to be her Adamu. And off we went. Southwest bound.
I informed Tunmise of my brazen plans. I could feel his frigidity over the phone. His voice echoed his fears of my possible fainaigue, but left to me, I couldn't see the responsibility I had to an uncle who exorcised me like I was an Egyptian plague, nor to my in-laws who bore a chasm with me and thought me psychopathic. My responsibility was rather geared towards my nuclear fam. Even though we were worlds apart, I knew she loved me, and I loved her too. All of this I voiced to my Yoruba pal.
"You can come over to IB then," he had ruled finally. "I understand your stance and I promise I'll do the best I can to help." My happiness knew no fences. And the rest, like they say, is history. HIS story. The man who loved and found love. A man whose charity began outside, not at home. A man who found friends' love in outliers. In an Igbo friend in Zaria. In a Yoruba friend in Ibadan. In a lady who defied her quotidian comfort in preference of a pauper.
Tunmise's call on this Saturday had a new direction it would spearhead. "Man, I think you should go back to Zaria with your wife and kids. Your Uncle Bada needs you. Your in-laws do too. Things have to be properly and sensibly done, you know. Don't throw away the baby alongside the bath water. . ." In a flash, I recapped what Charity said years back, the fullness of her suggestion too. ". . . And come back years later with a baby. . ." Funny, there were two now. Twins. No wonder I had been feeling uneasy and insecure. I had managed to build an empire of wealth, comfort and love with Aminat in a faraway land, across hills and seas of ill interference. Still I failed to feel free. The reason wasn't so ambiguous anymore. The sequitur was obvious.
"Kabir, are you there?" His voice jerked me back to consciousness. "Sorry, Tunmi. Can we meet? We need to talk about what you said now. I'm in a fix. Wistful me."
Ara 'deinde
©October 2014
Tuesday 2 December 2014
NO FREEDOM WITHOUT LOVE (2)
The
rain spends its full fury as I slither through the fields full of fern.
Even my umbrella's ferrule threatens to free itself from my hand's
grip. I doubt if I (or anyone for that matter) have seen any August
weather like the one we see now. The more I advance under the torrent,
the more sympathetic I get of the fragile ferns. They look too innocent
to experience this macerating stupor the rain is drunk with. Some tall
trees in the drenching orchard have all their branches swaying under the
engagement of the rain bearing winds. That's just how I feel now. My
emotions are swaying out of balance as I crawl on at snail's speed.
Exhaustion of the body and mind set in. That of the body is from my
heavy luggage that provides drag force against my advance. My mind's
weary as an effect of Uncle Bada's actions. Like the beaten fern leaves.
I felt severed from my only family by external forces, and there was no truce in sight. My uncle hadn't faltered from casting aspersions on the attitudes and idiosyncrasies of the affluent. It had surely taken a gruesome toll on my relationship with Aminat. When I told him I was old enough to make my decision to marry her, he laughed sarcastically for ten seconds or so, his laughter changing tone into one of fury. When he was done with his mock show, he forced his burning gaze hard into mine. "Get out. Now! You don't have so many things here, so go out there and make a life for yourself. And marry that scumbag's daughter if you wish." There was carnage alive like burning embers in his eyes. "And Allah knows you don't have my blessings."
He was not toying with words. My lone presence on this orchard that proves thirsty for more heavenly fluid, or rather my Exodus journey now is pragmatic prove for that. I can't reach Aminat on her mobile as my Uncle had slammed my phone hard against the wall two days before. He had spotted me on the shack, talking to her in low tones. He was behind me, so he crept up and snatched the phone from my ears. A shiver sure ran as I turned to look into his angst expression.
"That harlot?"
It pained, like a barb piercing my heart. "She's no harlot. Don't you dare-"
The smash of the phone on the hard ground choked the unsaid words, the ones with real vitriol.
"Be careful, Kabir. I don't want a scene with those bastards."
"Why don't you admit you don't support me because of your pent up anger? That certainly led to the trepidation you show through anger, didn't it? And you're taking it all out on Aminat and I, right?"
He looked sheepishly at me, his hand still leaning on the wooden trebacula. He swore. There was a rod, the one he used for sheperding purposes, in his other arm. He threw it at me. I ducked. And ran too...
I'm under a little shed now, still shivering from the treatment of the two cold areas- my uncle's house and the orchard- as I write this.Worrisome isn't my exorcism from Uncle's house but from his heart. He had let hate govern him. Allah alone knew what Aminat's father had done to sweep any chance of a good opinion under the carpet. Uncle loathed him with unrivalled passion. The coast seemed clear to sweep Aminat into my arms and carry her far, far away. Would that make any sense? What about strained relations between both families? Freedom was almost sure now, at least Aminat never hinted me of her father ever getting in our way. The hanging harangues would be let loose by both parties if my love and I fled. I don't want that to....
My thoughts knotted a veil of sleep over my eyes. Dreamland would be better.
Ara 'deinde
August 20, 2014.
I felt severed from my only family by external forces, and there was no truce in sight. My uncle hadn't faltered from casting aspersions on the attitudes and idiosyncrasies of the affluent. It had surely taken a gruesome toll on my relationship with Aminat. When I told him I was old enough to make my decision to marry her, he laughed sarcastically for ten seconds or so, his laughter changing tone into one of fury. When he was done with his mock show, he forced his burning gaze hard into mine. "Get out. Now! You don't have so many things here, so go out there and make a life for yourself. And marry that scumbag's daughter if you wish." There was carnage alive like burning embers in his eyes. "And Allah knows you don't have my blessings."
He was not toying with words. My lone presence on this orchard that proves thirsty for more heavenly fluid, or rather my Exodus journey now is pragmatic prove for that. I can't reach Aminat on her mobile as my Uncle had slammed my phone hard against the wall two days before. He had spotted me on the shack, talking to her in low tones. He was behind me, so he crept up and snatched the phone from my ears. A shiver sure ran as I turned to look into his angst expression.
"That harlot?"
It pained, like a barb piercing my heart. "She's no harlot. Don't you dare-"
The smash of the phone on the hard ground choked the unsaid words, the ones with real vitriol.
"Be careful, Kabir. I don't want a scene with those bastards."
"Why don't you admit you don't support me because of your pent up anger? That certainly led to the trepidation you show through anger, didn't it? And you're taking it all out on Aminat and I, right?"
He looked sheepishly at me, his hand still leaning on the wooden trebacula. He swore. There was a rod, the one he used for sheperding purposes, in his other arm. He threw it at me. I ducked. And ran too...
I'm under a little shed now, still shivering from the treatment of the two cold areas- my uncle's house and the orchard- as I write this.Worrisome isn't my exorcism from Uncle's house but from his heart. He had let hate govern him. Allah alone knew what Aminat's father had done to sweep any chance of a good opinion under the carpet. Uncle loathed him with unrivalled passion. The coast seemed clear to sweep Aminat into my arms and carry her far, far away. Would that make any sense? What about strained relations between both families? Freedom was almost sure now, at least Aminat never hinted me of her father ever getting in our way. The hanging harangues would be let loose by both parties if my love and I fled. I don't want that to....
My thoughts knotted a veil of sleep over my eyes. Dreamland would be better.
Ara 'deinde
August 20, 2014.
Saturday 22 November 2014
MY FAIREST...
O fairest of ladies
Most beautiful of maidens
Your smile so smooth and mild
Can tame even the fiercest wild.
O fair beauty of the land I see
A horizon off the hills of glee
Your skin so smooth and silky
Evokes of itself a feel so milky.
O fairy princess of pure delight
Waxing stronger in feminine might
Your territory is an Utopia of light
An invasion is to observe what glows therein so bright
O fairer than the fairest
Illuminated pride of the African forest
You are to me the dearest
Worthy of many a forest's conquest
Ara 'deinde
September 2014.
Most beautiful of maidens
Your smile so smooth and mild
Can tame even the fiercest wild.
O fair beauty of the land I see
A horizon off the hills of glee
Your skin so smooth and silky
Evokes of itself a feel so milky.
O fairy princess of pure delight
Waxing stronger in feminine might
Your territory is an Utopia of light
An invasion is to observe what glows therein so bright
O fairer than the fairest
Illuminated pride of the African forest
You are to me the dearest
Worthy of many a forest's conquest
Ara 'deinde
September 2014.
GOOD NIGHT, GOOD MORNING.
GOOD NIGHT (for Amaogu Charity)
Close your eyes, let yourself dream
Blend with imagination like air and steam
View for yourself illumination's beam
Play beneath your shut eyes like a film
The tresses of delight doth our souls find
As we dwell in the comfort zones of our mind
These nightly visions do deny the title 'blind'
And I hope you find you your dream, one of a kind.
GOOD MORNING (for me)
Gone are night crawlers of old
So is twillight's bold spray of gold
Sky's motifs of silhouettic moulds
Dote a day of a thousand folds
The quotidian routine starts on my bed
Thoughts to fend fill my head
I lift an arm, it weighs like lead
But work is the means to a desired end.
Ara 'deinde
November 2014
Close your eyes, let yourself dream
Blend with imagination like air and steam
View for yourself illumination's beam
Play beneath your shut eyes like a film
The tresses of delight doth our souls find
As we dwell in the comfort zones of our mind
These nightly visions do deny the title 'blind'
And I hope you find you your dream, one of a kind.
GOOD MORNING (for me)
Gone are night crawlers of old
So is twillight's bold spray of gold
Sky's motifs of silhouettic moulds
Dote a day of a thousand folds
The quotidian routine starts on my bed
Thoughts to fend fill my head
I lift an arm, it weighs like lead
But work is the means to a desired end.
Ara 'deinde
November 2014
Thursday 13 November 2014
No Freedom Without Love (1)
August 21 at 11:23am ·
We locked ten fingers as we sat on the dried haystack in my uncle's barn. Hers was a hand that exuded opulence, which seemed to play with death and dirt in my weathered palm. Just as much as our fingers figured out how distant our worlds were, our hearts begged for a forlorn fairy-tale to be told of us to generations unborn, one of love. Either of us couldn't fathom life without the other....
I had no money, whereas she was the daughter of a moneybag. I had lots of love gained enough to have spare to share; she had only my affection, as she found out her wealth couldn't buy her love at home. Unfortunately, there was something both of us couldn't get, at least not easily, and that was freedom. Even if I eloped with her, I would have to bear the guilt of "stealing" her from her family all my life, and she would unavoidably bear it as well. My poor uncle also wanted her out of my life because he abhorred wealthy people. According to him, they were responsible for his penury (his harrowing experience with rich creditors must have influenced his line of thought).
Either ways, what tried to melt my world into Aminat's in perfect tandem was love. Our problem was that we lacked our freedom, and it had to be gotten with love. I sat with her on the patch of dried grasses as I kept my gaze to the sky in personal reflection. Uncle Bada had travelled, so I had called Aminat with the phone she got for me couple of months back to assure her the coast was clear for her to come over to see me at my uncle's.
There's no love without freedom, neither is there freedom without love. I hope both families will understand this and give the two of us a chance of life. I really cherish Aminat, but unfortunately, men don't cherish rudimentary values like love and freedom. Not anymore.
Ara 'deinde
We locked ten fingers as we sat on the dried haystack in my uncle's barn. Hers was a hand that exuded opulence, which seemed to play with death and dirt in my weathered palm. Just as much as our fingers figured out how distant our worlds were, our hearts begged for a forlorn fairy-tale to be told of us to generations unborn, one of love. Either of us couldn't fathom life without the other....
I had no money, whereas she was the daughter of a moneybag. I had lots of love gained enough to have spare to share; she had only my affection, as she found out her wealth couldn't buy her love at home. Unfortunately, there was something both of us couldn't get, at least not easily, and that was freedom. Even if I eloped with her, I would have to bear the guilt of "stealing" her from her family all my life, and she would unavoidably bear it as well. My poor uncle also wanted her out of my life because he abhorred wealthy people. According to him, they were responsible for his penury (his harrowing experience with rich creditors must have influenced his line of thought).
Either ways, what tried to melt my world into Aminat's in perfect tandem was love. Our problem was that we lacked our freedom, and it had to be gotten with love. I sat with her on the patch of dried grasses as I kept my gaze to the sky in personal reflection. Uncle Bada had travelled, so I had called Aminat with the phone she got for me couple of months back to assure her the coast was clear for her to come over to see me at my uncle's.
There's no love without freedom, neither is there freedom without love. I hope both families will understand this and give the two of us a chance of life. I really cherish Aminat, but unfortunately, men don't cherish rudimentary values like love and freedom. Not anymore.
Ara 'deinde
Is there anybody out there?
October 5 at 11:14pm ·
Sometimes I sit in a chair, ravaging through the thoughts of how people live a rubbished, narrowly stereotyped life. It really tricks me out how people do the wrong things so easily and so readily. There is such plethora of ludicrous and incongruous thoughts looming and fighting hard in the parochial mindsets of various Nigerians, Africans at large.
It is rather sardonic and extremely lugubrious that most Nigerians lack an iota of self will. Most of the things we find ourselves doing are functions of a stereotyped model of living, inspired by an irrational bunch of macerating government officials. Yes, the government kills so many things in the lives of the ordinary Nigerian. Creativity is at its lowest ebb, and it keeps being murdered daily, and so effortlessly, by a contrived effort of a system worth throwing into the bush, and a burdened mind of the potential creative thinker.
The annoying aspect about this folly is that everyone in this country is very much aware about the stifling situation we have been born into, yet, few people are doing anything to snatch themselves away from the yokes that threaten their freedom. The youth of today is a miniature model of the proverbial eaglet, born and lost in transit into a company of chicks, growing up with them. Of course, the eaglet won’t be able to fly when it grows older. Show me your friends, they say, and I will tell you who you are.
The Nigerian youth is not ready to take a flight. He prefers to stay as an eaglet among chicks, not knowing that when the chicks turn chickens, it won’t turn to an eagle, simply because it has lost direction of a path to a rewarding future. He basks in the euphoria of today’s petty supplies, neglecting a very useful pedagogy that would have shot up his insight and outward vision. He lacks the initiative and creativity that characterizes other youths in other climes. He is not ready for change, still treading in the fallen paths of his fathers. An erroneous mindset is his delight, and he takes core decisions based on sheer and extraneous fallacies.
It, however, should be noted that it is not the fault of the Nigerian youth the pool of problems he has found himself in. it is rather, the fault of a corruptible, disengaged, futile national system into which he is born, with little or no supplements for survival, just like the aforementioned eaglet. The Nigerian system is one in which personnel reigns over personality and prestige, and positions are outsourced only to those who have resources to afford it- and who are those people? The government officials and their fellow come-chop aides of course!
Nigeria is a country that has settled for diminutive youth development, belligerent and brazen-headed leaders, comatose infrastructure, corruptible and corrupted judicial system, malnutrition-infested families- more than half of Nigerians are underfed and most go to bed hungry- with skyrocketing prices of food and fuel, ailing health and power sectors, over-funded salaries of those in government posts… the list is endless. Even a six-year old, if conscious enough about his world, will know that Nigeria is not in the best of positions to offer anything meaningful to his life when he gets older; but you can imagine how much a make-believe fiction has been so embedded in these little minds such that when asked about their future ambition, their regular reply usually is: ‘’I want to become a doctor’’, or ‘’I like to become engineer’’ or even ‘’I will be a judge and businessman’’. If a parent hears his child say he wants to become a footballer for instance, they become hydra-headed, compounding thoughts in their minds. They forget so easily that there is pride in any and every profession, and every child is special when in his own element.
All is not lost, however. Let’s assume that the older generation (40 and above) is dead and gone. What can our own generation do now? We, as vibrant youths, have to put one thing to heart: the future started yesterday. We are already late. We have to give up evil ideas and idiosyncrasies and take up a fort for the future, which like I said, has started already. This tells us something important: there’s so much we need to do, and ought to have started long ago, but life is not lost, hope is not lost too. Time alone has been a bit lost.
The main thing is that we should think of what we can do for ourselves and the good of our world, not what the world is ready to do for us. There is a wide world with wide arms, waiting to receive our accomplishments and our contributions, and in addition to that, waiting to shower us with accolades when necessary. That’s right. We can live a life that can be eulogized. The two major steps to follow are diligence in duties and following of our passion.
We all have one talent or the other. We can all work assiduously, hand in hand, for the edification of our lives and our society. The harvest, they say, is plentiful, but the labourers in this part of the world are extremely few. My friends, it is time to put our sickle to work.
Change is inevitable. Let us start and learn to make a change. Is there anybody out there to heed my clarion call? I hope so.
Sometimes I sit in a chair, ravaging through the thoughts of how people live a rubbished, narrowly stereotyped life. It really tricks me out how people do the wrong things so easily and so readily. There is such plethora of ludicrous and incongruous thoughts looming and fighting hard in the parochial mindsets of various Nigerians, Africans at large.
It is rather sardonic and extremely lugubrious that most Nigerians lack an iota of self will. Most of the things we find ourselves doing are functions of a stereotyped model of living, inspired by an irrational bunch of macerating government officials. Yes, the government kills so many things in the lives of the ordinary Nigerian. Creativity is at its lowest ebb, and it keeps being murdered daily, and so effortlessly, by a contrived effort of a system worth throwing into the bush, and a burdened mind of the potential creative thinker.
The annoying aspect about this folly is that everyone in this country is very much aware about the stifling situation we have been born into, yet, few people are doing anything to snatch themselves away from the yokes that threaten their freedom. The youth of today is a miniature model of the proverbial eaglet, born and lost in transit into a company of chicks, growing up with them. Of course, the eaglet won’t be able to fly when it grows older. Show me your friends, they say, and I will tell you who you are.
The Nigerian youth is not ready to take a flight. He prefers to stay as an eaglet among chicks, not knowing that when the chicks turn chickens, it won’t turn to an eagle, simply because it has lost direction of a path to a rewarding future. He basks in the euphoria of today’s petty supplies, neglecting a very useful pedagogy that would have shot up his insight and outward vision. He lacks the initiative and creativity that characterizes other youths in other climes. He is not ready for change, still treading in the fallen paths of his fathers. An erroneous mindset is his delight, and he takes core decisions based on sheer and extraneous fallacies.
It, however, should be noted that it is not the fault of the Nigerian youth the pool of problems he has found himself in. it is rather, the fault of a corruptible, disengaged, futile national system into which he is born, with little or no supplements for survival, just like the aforementioned eaglet. The Nigerian system is one in which personnel reigns over personality and prestige, and positions are outsourced only to those who have resources to afford it- and who are those people? The government officials and their fellow come-chop aides of course!
Nigeria is a country that has settled for diminutive youth development, belligerent and brazen-headed leaders, comatose infrastructure, corruptible and corrupted judicial system, malnutrition-infested families- more than half of Nigerians are underfed and most go to bed hungry- with skyrocketing prices of food and fuel, ailing health and power sectors, over-funded salaries of those in government posts… the list is endless. Even a six-year old, if conscious enough about his world, will know that Nigeria is not in the best of positions to offer anything meaningful to his life when he gets older; but you can imagine how much a make-believe fiction has been so embedded in these little minds such that when asked about their future ambition, their regular reply usually is: ‘’I want to become a doctor’’, or ‘’I like to become engineer’’ or even ‘’I will be a judge and businessman’’. If a parent hears his child say he wants to become a footballer for instance, they become hydra-headed, compounding thoughts in their minds. They forget so easily that there is pride in any and every profession, and every child is special when in his own element.
All is not lost, however. Let’s assume that the older generation (40 and above) is dead and gone. What can our own generation do now? We, as vibrant youths, have to put one thing to heart: the future started yesterday. We are already late. We have to give up evil ideas and idiosyncrasies and take up a fort for the future, which like I said, has started already. This tells us something important: there’s so much we need to do, and ought to have started long ago, but life is not lost, hope is not lost too. Time alone has been a bit lost.
The main thing is that we should think of what we can do for ourselves and the good of our world, not what the world is ready to do for us. There is a wide world with wide arms, waiting to receive our accomplishments and our contributions, and in addition to that, waiting to shower us with accolades when necessary. That’s right. We can live a life that can be eulogized. The two major steps to follow are diligence in duties and following of our passion.
We all have one talent or the other. We can all work assiduously, hand in hand, for the edification of our lives and our society. The harvest, they say, is plentiful, but the labourers in this part of the world are extremely few. My friends, it is time to put our sickle to work.
Change is inevitable. Let us start and learn to make a change. Is there anybody out there to heed my clarion call? I hope so.
Saturday 1 November 2014
Insomnia in dreamland
September 25 at 4:12pm ·
I paced the dark alley amidst traumatized thoughts. As down as I was with my dark drained mind, the last thing I wanted was to get caught unawares in this eerie and lonesome setting with totally limited audible sounds. Not even chirping crickets or croaking frogs could be heard. It was hell too scary, and it was funny how much I could loathe the lake. I thought I wanted it as a new and lasting home earlier. Death really wasn't easy, but even more difficult were the cold thoughts of suicide. I raised my wrist to a focal distance. 10:17pm.
The freeway conveyed night crawlers with relative ease and speed of flash. The resulting reverberations rolled past my ears, singing emollient tunes I abhorred. Pedestrians were few and wide apart. Just few inanimate things livened the atmosphere: neon signs, street lights, hooting cars and cabs, and the gentle cityscape breeze, though temperature neared zero. I was famished to the marrow (a suicidee should eat, shouldn't he? The strength suicide requires is enormous.) so I entered a small cafe. The neon sign read "B'Ben's"
I hardened into a rigid mass on the frail sit. Heads were few, three: the café owner, his assistant and a lady seated few tables away, dinner before her. It was unscathed but her life wasn't. Maybe just like mine. Who knows...
My eyes were too clear for comfort. It felt like I would keep a vigil tonight. Oh how I longed for the bottom of the lake to seize my being in eternal sobriety. I wouldn't have to think of all the troubles anymore. The death pills at the doctor's I saw on my way would have been a pretty alternative, but I couldn't fathom that, even if it had to be euthanasia. The death would have been too painful, but wait. Who cared anyway? Did the pain of total rejection and frustration not eclipse the one I would ever feel from choking like a beheaded cock after popping those pills? It would have been worth the try...
The café owner crashed his rant into my ruminations. "Ay', young fella, can't you see or hear that I've called you severally?" I stared at him wild eyed and managed a faint apology. He appeared brazen and unruffled. A bit garrulous too, although in a friendly way.
"What do we serve you? It's late, you know. I see you are not only famished, you've got troubles too. Don't give those worms in your belly a field day, dear friend." I smiled wryly at his familiarization techniques.
"What'ya got? I quizzed in a quip tone. He ogled at me above the polished rim of his pair of glasses. "Check the table top. There's a menu."
I spread the menu card across my face like a mag as a visual veil from the diner's view. I wanted to cleave back to my thoughts. My mind was what I felt the only safe haven in the world. Few moments later, his sharp voice pierced again. "Not made a choice yet?"
"No"
"Lemme help ya. I'll fix you a nice dinner, then we can talk."
I guessed he smelt my troubles. "About what, sir?"
"You."
"What. What about me?"
"I'm coming, son."
Soon, the Jap diner was back with a tray which held scrambled eggs and a loaf of wheat bread hostage. There was a tall pack of juice and a tumbler accompanying the arrangement. He also had an Anglophile assistant beside him who struggled to see to it that I have an English dinner setting. He probably was a new immigrant from Africa.
"Good evening sire." He managed a forced accent and a smile. My returned smile smartly veiled my frigidity. My appetite skyrocketed. For a moment, I stored my worries in a temporal virtual sac as I devoured the meal. Everything was chic and gourmet style.
The diner smiled as he watched me down another glass of water hastily. What for? Only the lord knew. I felt sarcasm in the air overriding any bit of warmth he might be creating.
"My name is Ben. They call me BB for Boss Ben in the hood. I run here. Started it few months after leaving Japan four years ago. What's your name?"
I gave him a thinned look, but he didn't budge. Would he squeeze me for my life's hazy details? I battled reticence within.
"Mark." I mustered after a hard while. I wanted out now, but he obviously wasn't done. His next question caught me off guard. ''Wife and kids? Mind telling me about them if you've got any?"
There was a spark in my brain. Thoughts gushed back, full paced. My wife and daughter were with their maker now, as a truck had smashed into their car earlier in the month. The morgue had called my hypertensive mother-in-law about it. I don't think the idiots figured how ominous the effect of their news would be. She died at the hospital after being rushed there in a comatose state.
Here was an Asian diner with seven 'o clock eyes peering at me behind trifocals (Lord, save me from sarcasm) bringing up the pain in a pack. Should I take the pack from him, my hands might get scarred. I didn't feel like trusting him. I felt nothing could stifle even an iota of trust for this stranger out of me, yet I suprised myself when I spoke. I relayed all my troubles to Him, void of abridgment of any sort. All he did while I spoke was listen. I told him of my crashed stock values, my confiscated crib and company, my aching tooth, my bad tempered friends, all of it. Including the most trivial problems.
How I managed to say all I did surprised me, but not as much as my listener's reaction. His mien erased my previous judgment of Him. His presence now seemed to radiate peace in the air, and his look complimented my new opinion of him. He simply said in a steady voice, "it's been three hours since you've been talking. I'll go fix you a cup of coffee, but before I do, let me tell you this. Jesus loves you. He'll take away your pain if you let Him." With that, he breezed away.
Peace flooded me. I still had one last resort to life. I then remembered an adage I once heard: "Failure is not falling, failure is failing to fall. Until you fall, you can't rise." Ben came back, a cup in his hands. He placed it on the table before me and said "And one more thing, son. Don't forget to share God's love. I ran away from Japan because of desolation, but I found a nun here in Illinois who shared the word." He left again.
As he went back to his counter, he paused at the table the other customer sat at. Her dinner must have been cooler than a dog's nose by then. I saw him give her a knowing stare, then he looked back at me from his distance. Tears were in the lady's eyes. The diner looked back at her momentarily and then trudged on to his counter. I figured what that meant easily. She needed the same kind of comfort I just got.
I worked my slumpy mass the nine yards to her table. As I sat, she raised her head for the first time. Her teary gaze burned hard into mine in expectation. "What's your name?" I asked.
"Your name is Ara. Idiot!" It was Dan, my roomie. "This is after eleven. How many times have I've tried to wake you to no avail! You would have slept forever if I let you."
Ara 'deinde
I paced the dark alley amidst traumatized thoughts. As down as I was with my dark drained mind, the last thing I wanted was to get caught unawares in this eerie and lonesome setting with totally limited audible sounds. Not even chirping crickets or croaking frogs could be heard. It was hell too scary, and it was funny how much I could loathe the lake. I thought I wanted it as a new and lasting home earlier. Death really wasn't easy, but even more difficult were the cold thoughts of suicide. I raised my wrist to a focal distance. 10:17pm.
The freeway conveyed night crawlers with relative ease and speed of flash. The resulting reverberations rolled past my ears, singing emollient tunes I abhorred. Pedestrians were few and wide apart. Just few inanimate things livened the atmosphere: neon signs, street lights, hooting cars and cabs, and the gentle cityscape breeze, though temperature neared zero. I was famished to the marrow (a suicidee should eat, shouldn't he? The strength suicide requires is enormous.) so I entered a small cafe. The neon sign read "B'Ben's"
I hardened into a rigid mass on the frail sit. Heads were few, three: the café owner, his assistant and a lady seated few tables away, dinner before her. It was unscathed but her life wasn't. Maybe just like mine. Who knows...
My eyes were too clear for comfort. It felt like I would keep a vigil tonight. Oh how I longed for the bottom of the lake to seize my being in eternal sobriety. I wouldn't have to think of all the troubles anymore. The death pills at the doctor's I saw on my way would have been a pretty alternative, but I couldn't fathom that, even if it had to be euthanasia. The death would have been too painful, but wait. Who cared anyway? Did the pain of total rejection and frustration not eclipse the one I would ever feel from choking like a beheaded cock after popping those pills? It would have been worth the try...
The café owner crashed his rant into my ruminations. "Ay', young fella, can't you see or hear that I've called you severally?" I stared at him wild eyed and managed a faint apology. He appeared brazen and unruffled. A bit garrulous too, although in a friendly way.
"What do we serve you? It's late, you know. I see you are not only famished, you've got troubles too. Don't give those worms in your belly a field day, dear friend." I smiled wryly at his familiarization techniques.
"What'ya got? I quizzed in a quip tone. He ogled at me above the polished rim of his pair of glasses. "Check the table top. There's a menu."
I spread the menu card across my face like a mag as a visual veil from the diner's view. I wanted to cleave back to my thoughts. My mind was what I felt the only safe haven in the world. Few moments later, his sharp voice pierced again. "Not made a choice yet?"
"No"
"Lemme help ya. I'll fix you a nice dinner, then we can talk."
I guessed he smelt my troubles. "About what, sir?"
"You."
"What. What about me?"
"I'm coming, son."
Soon, the Jap diner was back with a tray which held scrambled eggs and a loaf of wheat bread hostage. There was a tall pack of juice and a tumbler accompanying the arrangement. He also had an Anglophile assistant beside him who struggled to see to it that I have an English dinner setting. He probably was a new immigrant from Africa.
"Good evening sire." He managed a forced accent and a smile. My returned smile smartly veiled my frigidity. My appetite skyrocketed. For a moment, I stored my worries in a temporal virtual sac as I devoured the meal. Everything was chic and gourmet style.
The diner smiled as he watched me down another glass of water hastily. What for? Only the lord knew. I felt sarcasm in the air overriding any bit of warmth he might be creating.
"My name is Ben. They call me BB for Boss Ben in the hood. I run here. Started it few months after leaving Japan four years ago. What's your name?"
I gave him a thinned look, but he didn't budge. Would he squeeze me for my life's hazy details? I battled reticence within.
"Mark." I mustered after a hard while. I wanted out now, but he obviously wasn't done. His next question caught me off guard. ''Wife and kids? Mind telling me about them if you've got any?"
There was a spark in my brain. Thoughts gushed back, full paced. My wife and daughter were with their maker now, as a truck had smashed into their car earlier in the month. The morgue had called my hypertensive mother-in-law about it. I don't think the idiots figured how ominous the effect of their news would be. She died at the hospital after being rushed there in a comatose state.
Here was an Asian diner with seven 'o clock eyes peering at me behind trifocals (Lord, save me from sarcasm) bringing up the pain in a pack. Should I take the pack from him, my hands might get scarred. I didn't feel like trusting him. I felt nothing could stifle even an iota of trust for this stranger out of me, yet I suprised myself when I spoke. I relayed all my troubles to Him, void of abridgment of any sort. All he did while I spoke was listen. I told him of my crashed stock values, my confiscated crib and company, my aching tooth, my bad tempered friends, all of it. Including the most trivial problems.
How I managed to say all I did surprised me, but not as much as my listener's reaction. His mien erased my previous judgment of Him. His presence now seemed to radiate peace in the air, and his look complimented my new opinion of him. He simply said in a steady voice, "it's been three hours since you've been talking. I'll go fix you a cup of coffee, but before I do, let me tell you this. Jesus loves you. He'll take away your pain if you let Him." With that, he breezed away.
Peace flooded me. I still had one last resort to life. I then remembered an adage I once heard: "Failure is not falling, failure is failing to fall. Until you fall, you can't rise." Ben came back, a cup in his hands. He placed it on the table before me and said "And one more thing, son. Don't forget to share God's love. I ran away from Japan because of desolation, but I found a nun here in Illinois who shared the word." He left again.
As he went back to his counter, he paused at the table the other customer sat at. Her dinner must have been cooler than a dog's nose by then. I saw him give her a knowing stare, then he looked back at me from his distance. Tears were in the lady's eyes. The diner looked back at her momentarily and then trudged on to his counter. I figured what that meant easily. She needed the same kind of comfort I just got.
I worked my slumpy mass the nine yards to her table. As I sat, she raised her head for the first time. Her teary gaze burned hard into mine in expectation. "What's your name?" I asked.
"Your name is Ara. Idiot!" It was Dan, my roomie. "This is after eleven. How many times have I've tried to wake you to no avail! You would have slept forever if I let you."
Ara 'deinde
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