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.
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