We are the most passive things in life, not time. Time has an element of harmonic constancy embedded in it- everyday will always have 24 hours each. Change is passive as well. Every second is something more appropriate to say, void of embellishments of any sorts. Maybe young people, people in my genre, need to appreciate this fact some more.
That said, I stand outside on the portico behind Abbey's Ogere house. The sun scorches and tears and boils, licking the skins of critters in sight in radiating ferocity. Down below, masquerades and people frolic, beat drums and felicitate with unseen gods. Meanwhile, inside the house, Abbey's dad keeps Abbey glued to his seat. Finally, I ruminate, he has found someone to ease him ephemerally out of loneliness' grip. He lives alone in this town house.
"Orí e to dàrú o, kò dè ní da fún e", an irked mum curses her small erring daughter and beats the sun's smearing sultriness out of her. In the distance, the masqueraders still dance and the drum lines are still wavy. I'm surprised beyond measure to find that more than three quarters of the people down here are young people, hence my opening retort. Have they forgotten this is the 21st century? There are better things to do than dance away precious time in perversion of gods that can't breathe. And there are churches and mosques here o, but the hearts here are tuned heavily to paganism. That, in a way, shouldn't surprise me. Ogere is a small town typical of Yoruba traditional town settings- old houses, nice roads, rusty roofs, friendly but less enlightened people, frustrated mums and submissive but occasionally recalcitrant kids. More surprising is the presence of many young people here... Oh, my! Have I forgotten all too soon that we are in festive periods? Many of the young men and women and kids in the local diaspora have come back home.
Abbey's father's house is large enough to occupy the quotidian lives of more than 10 people very comfortably, yet he's the only one that stays here. There's a long, large hall, a gargantuan sitting room, four large bedrooms, front and rear porches, and finally, the replication of all these features a floor below (the house is a duplex). His father is more of a sage than a man. A septuagenarian sage. I am not surprised at how wise his son has turned out to be.
Last night, I observed many little wonders in this man, his house and his community. The house might look rusty but obviously, its occupant isn't. He has a physical appearance characteristic of the shades of a once well-built man. His photos on the wall in the hall spells his debonair personality. I'm quite sure he held girls by his spell in his prime. He has an undiminished firmness in everything about him. His voice is still thick and drab. His words? Full of an old man's wisdom. His gait is pleasant and straight, a big feat for a Septuagenarian. Domineering over these debonair features is the fact that he loves to read. He reads anything and everything he finds to read, because knowledge, according to him, shapes refined thoughts. He has a lot of books that border on many subjects. I even can see some great books on fine art here...
He farms- his current occupation. When he was young, he was in the judicial service, serving as a court clerk. One thing that still strikes me about him is his depth of knowledge about many fields. A true sage he is.
Whenever he talks, he makes chronological references to the 60s and 70s. That, I opine, was the peak active period of his youthful working life. He narrates countless experiences that reflect his philosophy in life.
The pagan rants still vibrate the horizon. Dust fills the distance. Men sing and drum and dance and eat and drink. The women are out of sight, probably weaning babies or winning new ones from their hubbies or cursing their kids in the shaded backgrounds. Abbey's dad is cooking. I stand at the back porch. My eyes still take in the sights of this solitary town and its unspoken wonders and woes.
Ara 'deinde
03/01/15
Ogere Remo
#empireofbards
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