IT’S FINALLY HERE!!
The perfect Christmas gift for your child (1-6)
A fully illustrated Children Story book, with childish drawings to inspire your child’s imagination & budding talents.
MERRY CHRISTMAS Y’ALL
IT’S FINALLY HERE!!
The perfect Christmas gift for your child (1-6)
A fully illustrated Children Story book, with childish drawings to inspire your child’s imagination & budding talents.
MERRY CHRISTMAS Y’ALL
It seems to me that you’ve found someone else Someone to talk to through the days and nights But honey, one thing I know for sure You’ll be looking for me when they dim the lights
Life is not everything, a shadow of me, exists out there somewhere in the sea. Breath is not everything, a slight tense, is making the waking dream come sense. Light is not everything, the new dark comes, for the lonely soul who think he has won. Dark is not everything, light burns the night away […]
Originally posted on Richard Rensberry, The Grumpy Poet: Some Days Some days are empty some days are full Some days are timid, some days are bold. Some days are broken some days unfold Some days are some days with no where to go. Some days are precious, some days grow old. Some days are happy,…
Where does she go when her home isn’t her home? I am worried about her. This girl whom I love so much. I am worried that her home would one day turn into a dungeon where she would be tortured by the people whom she should’ve loved but couldn’t love because these people whom […]
Most grown men were previously of the opinion that they should always have the major say in their romantic relationships. They realized too late that they had succumbed to female charms unconsciously. Like most people they discovered they aren’t built outwardly as they are inwardly. They lead themselves on with the false hope that they could blunt the sharpness that heralds the things they covet the most, like most women so pitifully do. Majority of men love the attributes of the women they end up with, not the women and that is their undoing.
Women aren’t on the same level playing field with men. A woman yields for the man to thrust himself into her life. When she momentarily refuses to yield and he persists forcibly, that is defined as rape. When she is coerced into giving in unwillingly, it hurts hers and she ensures it would practically displease him too in the long run. The woman wants favours and still wants equality, leaving her man with the vague decisions of what are actually his strengths, choices, rights and his initiated ideas. His admonitions and inclinations are shredded with all the belated unexpected outpouring that follows the subsequent sense of abandonment dimly registering in his complicated thoughts, when she gets her way as always.
Yet she will still hurl varied insults at his person, distorting and trampling facts. When the fragrance of the truth is confronted, it will always smell quite feminine. There are no legal statutes governing the woman’s natural strength sapping and ego violating antecedents, that always ends with a fuming fretted man.
Strenght of a Woman
I never feel more alone than when I hear their muffled voices of happiness and I’m locked inside my room of solitude Wishing that I could make it all stop. The voices The noise The laughter And mostly the pain ~N
The complete absence of choice is the complete absence of humanity. In the absence of freedom is the absence of choice and in the absence of choice is the absence of reason, which creates the most ideal atmosphere for anarchy.
Suspicion breeds curiosity and inquisitiveness is the keenness kind of knowledge creator. Simple baseless faith tends to cloud reason and render the few designated roles of human senses useless to personalized existence. Choice keeps life bubbling with its common logic. It is after all fear that compels sensible caution the most, manages to preserve all kinds of life forms, irrespective of intelligence. That most naturally reflects choice the most. As surprisingly silly an assertion as it might appear, this facile truth dandled the length and breath of life in all is ramification.
Like the borderless hues of rainbows, chioce is the true reason for change and change is the sole continuum of all life. Choice is fully absent in the peripheries of the most emotionally touching incidences that concludes a life and in the most frequent basic incident that sustains it, but it is everywhere else in all of every lifetime.
Winning ways sought
Speak for their sort.
In their earliest thought
They very often do not.
From many we choose
With lots more to loose
And in all this huge fuss
We thrive more confused.
So with cares of lusts
We live out their costs.
In picking from lots
Best chances are still lost.
Fever: Gentle Aching Fever (Book IV)
The Poet in the Poem
INVITATION ONLY By Elizabeth O’Connell-Thompson When they come knocking, I take them by the hand that had been a fist moments before and show them something beautiful— a black creek in the woods, a doe’s skull in the field. I lead them just far enough away that they can still see the house, but not […]
Most current leaders in the black race personify a notable class of people in the larger society that most profited from secular and spiritual corruption. Business men are successful because they are connected and got the most compelling undue advantage to enrich themselves. Clergymen would personify those that had become mythical in their every thought, speech and actions because of the prestige and respect they enjoy from the increasingly popularity of worshiping vague celestial divinities. It is globally the turn of black people to predominantly fear and revere everything termed sacred and the black race have since owned it, more than any other race or people before and now.
This divine slavery has advanced to such an extent that the state of superiority enjoyed by a revered deity is used only for personal advantage. Rogue tendency of being holy is currently more commonly exploited by all types among every brand of the darker races and their leaders. It is their turn to copy the old well tested antics of the white elite.
It goes to show why clergymen shouldn’t be secular politicians, no matter how many good men before had successfully done so. There are more harmful possibilities to it than there are good ones. The confessed faiths of clergymen can only be bias to their beliefs and where they must fairly administer over persons in a secular setting with competing diversely held beliefs, then they must be hypocritical in their desire to be fair, thereby failing to be true to their own faiths; the very basis for being considered ideal for public office in the first place.
…Our lives cover Such a tiny span Of this time’s Endless coil…
One strange thing about the drunkenness of power is that it leaves no trace of a hangover because it never really intoxicates in the first place, instead it infects like an ailment. What it does is put the mind in a state of make believe stupor. It lies to the person, telling him he is indeed invincible and that he can walk naked on a busy road without being seen by the ever present pretentious crowd. When a mad man walks around naked, it is only because he doesn’t logically know he is naked until he is healed. This is quite unlike the drunk man who is always fully aware of what happens to him, if he is still consciously awake while drunk. Then by all intent of purpose, the powerful man lives in that state sandwiched in the mystical void between insanity and drunkenness, while actually being neither of them. So when this borderless state concludes its hazy mazy course, it still leaves behind a lot to rationally reflect on, unlike madness which leaves nothing of its past or drunkenness which leaves no immediate memories or vivid perspective of the past.
Power’s negativity leaves regrets, shame and disgrace, because it can be remembered as it was. In its selfish ways, power has an impulsive mind which with steady time has the tendency to become unwaveringly firm in its will to pursue a course it had lashed on to by its proud faith in its perceived abilities. It takes up a nature rightly construed to be initially foreign to its natural one and summarily makes it its own. Power denies its perilous positions because it doesn’t see it clearly like it ought to. It is an enigma that inserts a conjecturable attitude in itself.
Power is an attitude with an enticement induced with dubious intentions as the cost of most of its decisions are usually more than less not what it is personally prepared to pay for. The potentials of power are commonly not fully tapped and when applied unwisely, never really realized in its entirety. They almost never get fully achieved. The dubious craft of making power create wealth is thus never fully achieved when it is considered that wealth isn’t the attraction in itself, but what the wealth represents always is the absolute objective. It is predominantly such an overpowering desire.
Power craves wealth for the power it gives.
Fever: The Appetite of Fever (Book III)
The Poet in the Poem
The waves continue to crash Insatiable, the passionate seas Their love burns, and in a flash they turn The lilacs and lilies to ash in the breeze.
If there is one thing I’ve come to learn so far, it’s that time is indefinite, unreliable, and precious. We have all lost something to it, whether that be a relationship, an object, or a person. Time is one of the things we can lose but never ever get back. Which brings about the question; […]
The settings might differ from one case to another but generally speaking women are really like birds when hurt. They fall off the so many trees of their painful romantic memories and just any well placed fellow can pick up their flightless form, hold them, toss them, strip and grill them the way he wants before devouring them to his heart’s desire.
It is feminine’s most natural need to be loved always. It is the most vulnerable nature of a woman, one she does not really succeed in doing anything about. On the part of the man, he can only hope that he can belittle the strength of the woman by making it appear less the issue in his pretence that it is. The strength of the woman is always that very visible influence she has, but the man never appreciates and respect but habitually needs. The might of the naturally endowed woman is ironically most telling in the young lady, still growing and inexperienced, than in the much older, already experienced women. As soon as a girl first experiences the subtle gains in the influential might of her unique feminine attributes and realizes that she could literally downsize, cut and render worthless, to near non-existent, any age difference between her and much older lustful men with a little effort, she instantly ages further than them and momentarily own their emotions, repeatedly.
She grows not in age but in the more worldly rewarding craft of simply being a human being, that sole complex entity that personifies both men and women in the naturally naïve, emotionally weak but capably strong nature of humanity.
STRENGTH OF A WOMAN
Where is the bird that hatched this egg?
Flying above the world, up so very high.
And the monkey the farmer wouldn’t beg?
Laughing up a branch, he threatens not near.
Will they ever marry their ideas, so very big?
As always they steal, flock, eat and do share.
Flying above the world, up so very High,
The bird still returns down to hatch its egg.
Laughing away harmless threats if not near,
The monkey’s hunger for the farm will beg.
Their ideas created their world and it is clear,
That strength of the woman gave marriage a leg.
Strength of a Woman
The Poet in the Poem
Written by Jacob Ibrag I’ll steal all of her tears away. It’s the least I can do, she gives purpose to my kleptomaniac ways. I’ll adopt her stream till there’s nothing left but a smile on that face. There it is, the curvature of her lips. What I’d do to steal one kiss. She promises to never shed a single tear again. ‘But that’s how I know you’re real,’ I tell […]
Gone were the days when natives of the African continent were caricatured as red fat-lipped human flesh cooking and eating cannibals. They have only recently started to actualize that picture. They have made the initial label appear like a futuristic fictional work and not the old missionary tale it was. Native Africans have graduated into mean heartless people who chop off their fellow natives limbs, lynch, massacre and burn up the neighbour’s corpses with impunity. They are marauders that kill and roast the corpses of neighbours, in their homes like hunters.
In all of Africa, corruption is that quiet old pre-independence illegal small structure, built with dry wooden walls of sticks with a thatched grass roof. The earliest native semblance of civilized governments had met the frail hut and turned it into the big personal brick mansions in the outskirts of their villages. The post independence created democracies copied badly because they didn’t naturally evolve and the military dictatorships bullied their way in and institutionalized corruption. They renovated it completely into a massive block of high skyscrapers, with reinforced concrete walls with solid steel fittings and aluminum and glass trimmings, and site it in the middle of the big new cities.
Corruption has taken on a permanent imagery in Africa, much like natural mountains that had been there all along, like immortal living emperors of old reigning over frightened domains, showing love for their land by keeping their subjects alive only to work for them.
Fever: The Origins of Fever (Book I)
Fever: Rising Temperature of Fever (Book II)
Fever: The Appetite of Fever (Book III)
Fever: Gentle Aching Fever (Book IV)
Fever: The Coldness of Fever (Book V)
(Excerpts from ‘Sporting Chance’ in ‘Everyone hates the English’)
All sports are really silly juvenile play in a sense. Partakers and spectators alike, love competitive sports because of its semblance of a life of manageable fun and the larger human drama it samples. It is a sequence of testing controlled effort against visible resistance in established circumstances. The thrilling mysteries in the unending sequence of match ups and the unpredictability of the results of all games, adds to the fun. The fun in sports is not suppose to make sense, all kinds of play shouldn’t. Play is fun because it is illogical and only saddists empathize with the naïve old Indian village Chief who thought he had solved a perennial football problem by comically recommending that the twenty two players on the pitch are given a soccer ball each to end their pointless running around like a herd of mad cows.
The purposeful running around is what Vijay loves the most in football. Vijay is crazy about football, considering it the king of sports with the best all round athletes in every regard. He agrees football is indeed a gentleman’s sport, played by hooligans because it teaches manners and tests character. Rugby truly likens the hooligan’s sport, played by gentlemen because it alters character and in its very physical fashion, it emphasizes brute force ahead of skills and intelligence. Golf is a long walk on the grass, cattle do that. Polo is the kings’ sport and only the horses are really skillful. Horse racing is for servants of kings, with the royals ever present to observe their subjects and domain. It is unfair to call horse racing a sport, unfair to plowing bulls and the slaving peasants whipping their beasts into line, without their fellow impoverished brethren betting and cheering in the trees.
Then there is the similarity of the common footballer to everyone else in the world that wishes to excel in life. Footballers are typical average athletes, they are amongst the world’s most selfish people and their work is just doing yet another of the world’s selfish hypocritical jobs. They are talented and a bio-engineered reality that manifests as a combination of highly skillful performers and acting stunt men. Footballers have to make out they care about the billions of passionate fans who actually do care about them, their physical, emotional and healthy state. At the pinnacle of their careers, footballers are incredibly well paid to do what they would ordinarily do for virtually nothing in return. If they don’t get a penny for doing their jobs, they will still get the same jobs as unpaid players, until they can’t do so.
Like millions of their less fortunate colleagues who don’t get opportunities and fall on the wayside, all footballers still don’t aspire for anything other than a paid job. Vijay always knew he wouldn’t do anything else but play football and when he discovers he finds little fun in playing football then he will get out of it. But the truth is, he wouldn’t truly enjoy doing it if he is not being paid to do it. The thrill of the game is sublime yet as addictive as the gospel to a Jesuit. The referees can go to hell with their calls and the spectators can chew their nails to the quick with tension, but the world of the footballer is his alone, nothing else exists. Families must wait, friends must worship for notice and religion is best handle like underpants, you might have one on or not, it doesn’t matter. Life is the game first.
SPORTS FOR PLAYERS
The Coach isn’t selfless but human too,
He is the person with a plan for everyone.
With abilities as experience all learnt anew;
He is an optimist, patient as sure as the sun.
The Player obeys the norms and urge,
Enjoying the dreamt up living, yet real.
Dancing to all songs with a new surge,
Blinding days are lit with a light to feel.
The Sport is heartless and demanding,
All companies it keeps are envious of it.
Consuming lust filled, never satisfying;
On its sure ride it will keep every bit.
The Game is simple and easy to chase,
Embraced in choices to choose and make.
Stages of gains at every level of the race
Made the whole thing Sports for players’.
The Poet in the Poem
Strangest explosion rocks the Karachi international airport just as a massive deployment of US marines arrived the busy airport. Stories of the victims and their relatives, responders and their purpose, perpetrators and their reasons, unfolds a tale of current resolutions based on old conceptions. The narrative tells of the most diverse colorful global characters surrounded with a good mix of friends and foes.
There is David Holden, the English Doctor who loves humanity more than his origins. His idea of getting use to scarcity in the midst of plenty paid off in his later years as a charitable medical doctor with the United Nations, WHO and Red Cross, while working with refugees all around the world.
Abdul Kazaar Ali is Doctor Holden’s opportunistic aged patient who lives out his perception of Muslim norms like he desires. In Karachi, bearded old men must daily demand the honourable respect only reserved for them after death. Only the living can tell the honour bestowed on them and the dead, the judgment they spent a life-time waiting for. Abdul Kazzar wanted his reward on earth and his son; Umar Ali, held much promise after he ran off to England and started working in London to learn the lucrative wisdom of the English.
Aaamu and her mother Rael are Kenyans with Somalian origins. They live by their wits as their circumstances allow. Ladies always come first in typical English fashion and Rael Amu is obsessed with being first but there are very few things in which a young Muslim maiden gets to be first in. Rael passed on her obsession to her daughter and gave her all the tools she needs to be first.
Then there is Fatima, who is smart enough to outwit her sexuality but too human to resist normalcy. From a tender age Fatima figured out that she only got a better deal when she isn’t identified as Arab or Muslim. In America the distinction between the two is inconsequential. Fatima only had to behave ideally in the care of her uncle, Suleiman.
Suleiman’s wife is a delightful gentle half-literate girl named Khadija. She is younger than Fatima and imported from Yemen especially for marriage. Khadija came to Suleiman untarnished by western ways and speaking some English, just enough. Partially caged-in, according to Suleiman’s mildly liberal interpretations of Islamic rites, who ensured Khadija isn’t more exposed than her elbows. But Khadija discovered a lot more than Suleiman cared for.
Ruth is the young Israeli genius whose Jewish father; Avi Jonah, gave her a lot more than just his name. She was born in Tel Aviv and grew up there into a strong healthy industrious lady. Ruth had a pleasant childhood, unlike her controvertial nation’s. All through history every true super power took its turn in bullying the proud Jews.
Avi Jonah is more Hebrew than he is Jewish, that comes across in his lessons to Ruth and her siblings. It is the Hebrews forte to be proficient in history and like everybody else, their history is always opinionated.
Lee is Ruth’s Chinese boyfriend and school-mate in London, who is trying out his fantasies alongside his opinions. Lee didn’t talk much and hated talking about himself to anyone, Ruth was the only exception. Lee spent most of his leisure time, while growing up in main land China, learning what most enlightened minds in the world had to say about things. His brilliant mind was full of information about diverse cultures from every part of the world.
Professor Henry Benjamin is Lee’s octogenarian landlord, a world renown, multiple award winning, retired academician with many reputable publications to his credit. The steady presence of Lee and his equally excellent girlfriend was a big plus for the aged man with a very weak heart.
Then there is Sean Samuel, the Irish-American reporter with a huge reputation he constantly seeks to live up to, like his proud American nation. Sean wasn’t ever much of a fighter, with his uncles’ tough reputation he never had cause to prove he is a descendant of an Irish gangster from Dublin who migrated to New York city to continue being a crook.
A MUST READ
To some young single girl, married men are ever comfortably understandable, matured and polite in their fair and unforced disposition. However the wanton desires of these young girls never warns them that the intentions of these much older men does not always look as fair as they are always pretentiously justified to be, in their deceptively natured maturity. The woman’s all-embracing monstrous natural need to be overwhelmed by a man, who aim to get the better of her, justifies her consanguineous attachment to her eternal older brother, the man.
The honourable older married man always has the most desire to be secretive in such relationships. While the younger single girl would likely show some pride in her bigger achievement, the setting would hurt him with an odd sort of feeling afresh with old emotions of being an unworthy person. His older and more honourable world would notice his failures, even if it identifies with his expression of it. When he is certainly found out and has to confront his critics, the older married man could simply hold his head high and be proud of his shameful freedom while the world he has conditioned will fall silent snugly, presumable out of interfering in his business, as the public end up secretly more embarrassed than he ought to be.
WILL YOU MARRY ME?
These intimate songs we sing
Blend aged dreams into a ring
That weds our gendered stew
In matrimonial oneness not new.
The Poet in the Poem
The simple people are always confronted by the complex ones, who always seeks to tint their simplicity and make it more complicated. It is a tough struggle to remain simple, surrounded by a world of complexities. Personal lives have gone beyond live and breed.
And in all life, the most shaded lot are the people
THE COLOURED SHEEP
Bah, bah black sheep, they always point you;
Wolf in your clothing or something ever new.
Rainbow and gold pot in your closet is true,
If you’re concerned, skies aren’t ever blue.
The skeletons you cupboard are there for show,
Honeycombed for Bees, your Bearness will shoo!
The Poet in the Poem
(Excerpts from the Fever Series Books V)
A nation where the extensive roads are barely wide enough for the huge over loaded and over used trucks of all sizes, where highroads are as narrow as foot paths at the height of the raining season, when tall grasses narrow down highways with every curvy slope. A nation where paved roads are as old as the hills they cut through, where highways cratered like the best hostile fighter pilots deliberately make enemy runways after carpet bombing. In a nation where drinkable water is bought only in flimsy transparent packs, sold because it is a huge favour to retailers and drinkers alike, for there are no safer alternative under these circumstances.A nation where the next fellow lives off the sweat of others.
Time flows like ocean waves. No two waves are alike but they all are of the same nature. Time reaches the shores of the Niger-area like floating dead fish caught on the high tides, crashing on rocky coasts, with the many compromises of the perpetual sick west African republic. The waves hold little promise, yet plenty of scented hope ever fills the air with a smell that never seems to materialize to something the people can see. The people wait for their hopes to become meals but they are not assured dead fish can serve as seedlings. The coastal hard rocks are not the complicated destinations they are made out to be but personalized obstacles the people must surmount to reach their objective of a harmonious federation. The visibly stressed state of the people of the Niger-area renders their hope impotent. Their faith in the daunting prospect is inadequate to lift and aid them towards reaching their most desired place of complete national comfort.
Dead fish is soon bad and will serve no good purpose on the meal table after a short period of neglect. The nationhood suffers neglect and the people hadn’t set out on a good bright day, long in the gone past, to catch the fish but wait ever again for a wet rainy stormy night to pick up the dead fish at their rocky coast lines of difficult politics, laced with nepotism and tribalism, with bias politicized ethnicity, pack full with pessimistic cultists, passed off as traditionalists, academics and religious voices, as they all wait for the predestined future until it fails to arrive.
Separate persons complicate the polity with cynicism that covers up the rough outer wrapping of nationhood with little sincerity that doesn’t give a clue to what negative repulsive selfish intent is packaged within their nature. Their love for their diverse principles consumes them and profusely stinks up their country. This is revealed to the detriment of the same nation they don’t claim to sabotage like they know they are doing. They live a lie they know but will never admit it.
The whole concept of a single national identity was conceived on this disjointed selfishness and that is why the country’s coast is full of bad smelly inedible repugnant fish. That ever burning and ever consuming fire of time has been deployed to destroy all the past good deeds of fellow countrymen by those that come after them. The old memories of the currents successors own moments of cruelty, meted out in reprisals to those of other countrymen, easily forgotten in the midst face serving praise. The people’s general ability to beckon at reciprocal acts of kindness with that interested indifference that hints their want for it, does not expose their pressed, penned up yearning for it. Pretence has shamelessly made the people appear all spent and dried up like the well seasoned dried harden foreign fish the people favour so much. The treated European dead fish they crave.
They are all alike in this regard, in their deficiencies not in their uncommon preference for the well stocked fish but more so for their compared similarity to it. They are well stocked up old common fish, seasoned and rendered lifeless by their dogged preposterous desire to be relevant for ever so long, even if they are aware that they will end up dead, dried and dined by they very own fellow countrymen. The people of the Niger-area are as yet politically useful to all but themselves, with nothing to show for it. The sight of an offensive nature that was lurking within them for so long in their nation-ship isn’t good to see. Since it is the secret of providence that it doesn’t respect destiny, theirs appears more of a tragic shallow experience, as against that of other nations with very similar origins.
The leaders of the Niger-area simply replay the same old music they learned long ago from their colonial masters. The indigenous rulers divide and rule still, like their colonial leaders did. The little bit of success they register or merely claim to have achieved, doesn’t really show that they deserve recognition for those small gains either. The leaders and the led alike, lack the courage to speak up for the good in the face of the bad. The seas were simply filling up with dead fish and it has more to do with the action or inaction of the led than the selfish management of the leadership, because they had built dams to hold back their overflowing rivers of prosperity. The led masses wallow away in the cruel patience of wait, as they pant their tasked calmness, as if they had actually ran a race physically. They wait still and wait and wait still. They are panting their tiredness with the rage of the wait and not the struggle of it that they know nothing about in their lazy comfort.
The people are still holding on to a vibrant confidence that still assures them that they will be richly rewarded and that their perceived cowardice doesn’t flush their struggling resilience, still resisting their final ultimate defeat. They have endured the deception of many of the same kind for long. They have heard and seen each time as yes is maneuvered to mean no with shameless ease, and have come to accept that most times maturity is the diplomatic ability to disguise a lie as the truth. Still they related well when there is no way they could heed the need for caution without requiring to justify their obvious refusal to be sheepishly led and appear unethically rebellious. They have inevitably reached a point where and when every single simple harmless grudge will grow and become a deep set angry ancestral feud. They had witnessed their striped linen of nature so reduced, simply because it had always been taken for granted and it shows in its inadequacy.
Fever: The Coldness of Fever (Book V)
The Poet in the Poem
“As it is usual when talking with the speech impaired, the three of them ended up mostly loudly exchanging cheap pleasantries than anything else. It is simply hilariously hard to maintain any serious discussion with the old man. Aside from Baba Yafku’s insane love for veering issues towards his affection for nurturing plants and his natural gift for it, conversations with him is always an ever frustrating experience.
“Thomas had little difficulty in understanding Baba Yafku but it is hard for most others to comprehend what the old fellow is trying to say. Even when a discussion is about Baba Yafku’s favoured plants, communicating with him doesn’t get any better for most. Still the former gardener’s limited verbal communicating ability didn’t stop him from doing a great job of representing the interests of Thomas in Badagry. He supervised the delivery of agricultural produce to middlemen in Badagry and collected payments on Thomas’s behalf. The old man made purchases of essential items needed in Samiku and sent them over promptly. It was a brilliant arrangement and Baba Yafku lived up to his part exceptionally well.
“Baba Yafku managed quite well though he is hugely handicapped in speech and conversations. His repertoire of sounds assisted in making himself understood well enough over time. As the persons he dealt with grew increasingly familiar with his humming, clicks, hisses and coughs alongside his elabourate hand gestures as he expressed himself, the old man’s impromtu sign language easily served its intended purpose. Still most times his crude manner of expressing himself does not give him the seriousness and logical effect he requires to make salient points and make himself fully understood as comfortably or as adequately as he wants.
“That night, as Thomas and Sweet talked with Baba Yafku, the old man tried to tell them his pathetic story. He tried to speak of his worries and sufferings but in the frustration of his speech handicap he only struggled to say little that was comprehensible to the couple. He was emotional and it was a lot harder for him to make himself understandable. He told his personal story like he would a parable and the desired immediate impact of his tale was sadly missing, even though it was clear to see that he was hurting. That visible expression of pain plastered on his old wrinkled face soon got him the couple’s undivided attention and it relieved Baba Yafku to see this. He briefly felt a high sense of achievement. This was however marginal and it proved to be short lived because in the exuberance that it ushered, Baba Yafku hurriedly ended his story with a sudden unexpected request.
“The old man implied he wanted to follow the couple back to their hinterlands home in Samiku. The request wasn’t expected by the couple and they reacted to it with what they considered as a moderately civil response. It seemed logical at that point in time for them to be mature and proper. So they did what felt right to them, for the sake of soothing the emotionally hurting man sitting right before them.
“Thomas and Sweet looked at each other before they took turns in speaking. They were subtle in the unintentional nature of the arrogance they exhibited. They gently declined his request and in their shallow understanding of what he tried to tell them, they had merely assessed his importance to them only if he stayed in Badagry to take care of their business and house. They wanted him to maintain his trusted vigilance over their town home and also keep eye on their other interests.
“Baba Yafku’s serious speech defect had failed him in his attempt to tell the couple about the sad events he had experienced. He wasn’t entirely successful in conveying the gravity of his second wife’s recent act of cruel betrayal when she absconded with her younger lover. Fuafa was the first woman to want him, ever. She was almost as old as him but he wasn’t conditioned to be selective. His speech impediment didn’t bother her and Baba Yafku loved her dearly for this. He didn’t mind the stories told about her past, of how she was said to have abondoned her old husband in the village years ago and returned to Badagry to peddle her body to construction workers and fishermen. Fuafa loved him and he loved her.
“He loved her more when in his old age, she gave him a son. She returned from a brief visit to the village with a five years old boy and a glorious story of getting the boy from amongst the countless orphans in her village. Then when their son was twelve she suddenly left with Baba Yafku’s savings. He was hoping she will return when the money runs out but its been a year now and no sign of her. Baba Yafku feared the worst as he has asked around for any news of her. Most people were blunt in telling him to be happy he is rid of her. Still losing Fuafa wasn’t half as painful as the more recent sudden death of his only son in a boat accident. The young boy took a liking to fishing and Baba Yafku thought it is a noble trade. The state of mind of the old fellow wasn’t quite clear to the couple and they were unable to properly identify the true value of his leaving Badagry for good. Leaving with them at that moment of his asking was his remedy to living the rest of his life all alone, in utter anguish for his losses. The thought of staying with Thomas and Sweet in far away Samiku felt like heaven to Baba Yafku. He would grow crops, his dearest passion. He would have a family and two lovely children to live the rest of his life teaching the splendid pleasures of agricultural wonders. It was a dream the couple was denying him.
“The nature of his unfortunate abnormality didn’t help in conveying this to Thomas and Sweet. As such his delivery of the painful loss he felt didn’t give off well and win over the sympathy he craves from them for his patient suffering. He had instead encountered what seemed like unsympathetic faces, devoid of the understanding he sought in his current crippling emotional plight. It was a hapless feeling for him as the couple showed the usual response of humour for his tasked communicating and not the sensitivity they ought to express for his predicament.
“This worsened things for Baba Yafku as he discovered the only people he had any tangible hope of understanding his difficulties weren’t offering him any solace. The couple appeared to hold themselves away from his inner pain by their own personal preference for his selected service. This realization hurt him so much. It hurt him with the rekindled feeling of emptiness, with such heartfelt pain. The old man’s emotions held him penned in, in subconsciously conceived hostility. It was suppressed by a judgmental hatred, the type that reveals in being found to be less agreeable and hospitable to denial and rejection, than being civil.
“Baba Yafku felt betrayed and disliked farther. For someone who grew up in the limelight of little value and had relatively succeeded in his struggles to put some value in his existence in the face of everyone who had belittled him, the old man still wasn’t prepared well in advance for the magnitude of these series of harsh rejections, from a wife he loves, from the death of his only son and from the people he respected the most. All of which came together, at a facet of his elderly life when he thought he was happiest and from the most important people in his life. The wife running off with yet another younger man, reeked of his failings and his bodily inadequacies. His beloved son’s sudden death hinted of fate not being tolerant of his happiness and finally the refusal of companionship from the persons he thought valued him the most farther cemented what everyont thought of him.
“Baba Yafku’s sense of overwhelming disappointment showed as they all went to bed, that uncomfortably night. Thomas and Sweet hoped he will shake off this moody spate by morning but they were unaware that Baba Yafku was determined to explore the only exit he felt was still open to him. The first sign of something is afoot was when there was no sign of Baba Yafku when the small family prepared to leave their small Badary house in the morning. Baba Yafku knew they had to leave early to catch the lorry but he wasn’t around to bid them farewell.
“The severity of the situation appeared out of the blue. It belatedly woke the couple from their revelry of quick early morning departure. Someone unknown to the couple raced down their street, like a serious contender for a sprints medal, to inform them Baba Yafku had hanged himself to death from a tree in the dark grey early hours of that morning. The couple’s shock was absolute. Their old gardener had only the night before confessed his struggles and problems to them. They had seen indications that he was losing grip of himself but dismissed it as merely a bad mood and they did nothing to soothe his worries. They were mainly preoccupied with their own selfish need of him and didn’t really help him. It was not so much the scale of their contribution but the seemingly lack of honest quality to it.
“In the annals of every sort of emotional problem, the inconclusive pages of remedies reveal that no problem is ever completely solved. No chosen solution to emotional problems comes with the most dramatic impact like suicide does. Its impact is everlasting and final. It leaves the successful applicants of its harshness permanently quieted by its unworthy experience and their hapless confidants feeling cheated and betrayed by the selfish worthless imps that thought they knew better. The framework of the human nature enables people to thrive on the unique ability to overcome almost every emotional challenge by just facing up to them.
“The naturally empowered person really has only his speech to make a case. It is certain that free speech always patiently unshackle and vindicate itself verbally. The guidance of common wisdom isn’t as available to the mind as it tends to appear to be in most instances. Hence the most literate and exposed minds will fail in drawing from their wealth of knowledge at times they ordinary should. It isn’t that there are physical or emotional reasons for this, it is simply because human shortcomings manifests in their expressed actions, showing off in their bias nature towards some of their superficial desires. This twists and mangles the unconscious preference not to be objective and with no hiding place for the illogical choices readily available, people are led farther astray on perceived higher adventure for naught. Nothing worthwhile is achieved from their pointless quest in the long run.
“Each passing day seems to constantly remind life of its impending certainty of demise, as it fans the flames of memory with the hopelessness of living an ever ending life. Humanity goes through its troubled times mindful of the unworthiness of its difficult unfortunate struggles. Ashamed that he had lost control of his emotions, which had kept him rational all this long while, Baba Yafku didn’t wish to live any longer. His most bitter thoughts couldn’t farther entertain such tasking times all alone. He couldn’t again recover to stand firm on his feet and keep his already grounded fears aloft, without any assurance of respite subsequently.
“Over the years, in his sustained push and search for respite, he painstakingly concluded that the only true respite is not in his final destination after his physical death, but death itself. Still with suicide, Baba Yafku got it woefully wrong without the slightest option or chance of reversing his bad choice when he subsequently discovers he is wrong after all, if he ever could.
“The crooked manner of suicide never really has truth in its comprehension, hence suicide is quite varied in its assessment. Its invariable judgment is greatly impaired by its mortally inconclusive rationale. The handiwork of this sort of very personal self-accusation, trial, judgment and execution, is unequalled in every other regard. The normally singled out nature of it appears to chart a course that clearly disagrees with the logic of it and its very own emotional compass.
“There isn’t any real difference in every kind of induced unnatural death, because all killers are basically only murderers. In the perspective of the only possible beneficiary of suicide; as sure as something is wrong, so is it right in its wrongness. Obviously this view isn’t shared by most. The essence of any thing wrong is in the absence of what makes it right, as in the presence of what makes it deemed wrong. So it could really get complicated to determine what is right or wrong most times than often. The marinated perspective of that lone suicidal person is excused by his emotional rapacious intelligence. Logic is handicapped at the instance of deciding to commit suicide, that it cannot see its own abnormality.
The simplicity and complications are quite liberally intertwined with the individual’s ego, or a lack of it. Their sense of purpose at that point in time is incapable of taking any other decision. It is more so, for such an important decision with far reaching finality implications. It thus appears incomprehensible from a detached perspective. Baba Yafku was grossly bias in his thinking for himself.
From where comes all this dew,
Delighting thoughts with to chew.
Soothing pressures that boo,
But sound frightfully so lewd.
I grabbed the wind horn I blew,
For I alone do hear it so true.
A loss I think I’ll cause you,
The pains might escape a few.
My swift scheme hardly new,
Like good cheats daring who.
Life is the full pot of new stew
Emotional foot found with its shoe.
Fever: Rising Temperature of Fever (Book II)
The Poet in the Poem
An excerpts from the Fever: Rising Temperature of Fever (Book II)
“When Daraba inquired why she couldn’t go to a school like all the other children they met in Badagry, Thomas paused before answering her truthfully. In her juvenile inferiority she was being quite reasonable as she points how humiliating it was for her, not being able to tell other children which school she went to. Thomas put her down and looked down straight into her clear innocent eyes, with a discernment that excuses the implied immaturity in her purpose for asking the easy question beleaguering her innocent thoughts. That lone question hadn’t imposed on him any condition but as if she had pulled on the clutches of the responsibilities he had taken on by firstly having her and secondly, making every important early decision for her, the girl forced her father to fraternize with the true reality of their relationship objectively. He felt the freedom of his parenthood turn ultimately into a sort of bondage. His scales of values drastically altered to suit his thoughts of her as his adorable young child and an inquisitive adult in the future.”
“The blunt instructive strokes of fate continue to paddle behind every living swimmer. The earthly powered chariot that carries forth the living person is dragged by the indomitable horses of destiny. They pull him along almost gamely in leaps of momentary progresses and failures. They take instructions and veer left or right, but are dependent upon to pull on until the ride ends. The horses of destiny will rather keep their hooves than have horns because they can move on only freely but cannot pierce and create a route. Time would show how ideal the couple’s choice to personally instruct their children is. Surely the nature of the character thrown into the knowledge their children had readily acquired has proven to be good at its earliest stage. Desire for personal freedom is found in every human heart, but it has to be identified and made functional by the sort of tutelage the person receives initially, from the children’s earliest time of existence.
“It is most often a neglected responsibility of the parents to point out freedom early to their children. That is mainly because it suits the easier form of instructing the child under subtle duress rather than appealing to the child’s blurred and yet unclear sense of fairness, priority and selfless reasoning. The child must be relied on as a grownup, to ensure he or she is lifted beyond all the sorts of pettiness and confusions of temporal life and its ever present pressures of suitable choices. When the child’s individual attributes grows up into its final form, it maintains the basic ethics learned. As adults near most answers, they conclude their choices for sincere good or lustful bad not by drawing from lessons of their personal discoveries. Instead they gain from flooded tides of released strife and confusion which intoxicates with hatred and malice they hadn’t been allowed to conquer as kids.”
“Out of everything that transpires in a child’s youthful process of choosing, comes that enduring compromise, waxing eloquently about in the real virtues of freedom. The popular notion admonishes that perseverance erodes the quality of time spent at it, but the chastening factors endured are by no means mere acts of discipline. They are in fact instructive instruments, perpetually caught up and retained in the reins of necessary human hope to exist quite admirably. A child’s growth should not be bathe in a one sided intercourse with life so that it is controlled. Lessons beaten into the kid’s psyche shouldn’t be actuated by the child’s willpower being trampled on. A child of such creation stays back from the rest of the world like a heckler, criticizing others for the mere fun of it only.
“Such children will be wholly dependent on the hardened eccentric tendencies with so much vicious temper and a wicked loud attitude. They would function as if they hate their own bodies and life itself. While in the child that had fewer restrictions placed on their childhood choices would develop that great boldness in dealing with life and its many tasking hassles later on. That pretext of shielding away the hurting effects of a richly rewarding life that comes with sincere knowledge from childhood, only impairs the adolescent’s choice even further.
“Parents who do this only plot in vain for their children because the pressures of external origins will end up misguiding their children and confusing them even further. But when the guided children make their own choices, regardless of the many impediments associated with doing so, then their achievements aren’t ever exceeded in their overlaying importance. It is the parents’ responsibility to hold onto the child at their early time of need. Support them until they are able to stand on their feet and walk. Then they must quietly withdraw and allow them freedom to begin to learn. It isn’t the parents’ calling to shackle their child’s decisions.”
FREEDOM IS NOT FREE
Faith abounds and is free,
Freedom is force being absent.
Force is ever there to see,
Freedom has force not faith;
Freedom is faith and not free.
The Poet in the Poem
Stories are teachers, they are molded to have an impact on young lives. They register morals that impart on character and norms. If they give off a trace of the forbidden in fair light, then culture and its future may suffer for it.
As the young grow, their paws seek everything. Their teeth playfully bite the soft or the hard with innocence and very little comprehension. They attempt to caress fire until it burns them.
You are only young once,
Blossomed to take your chance;
To scent the world’s spring
With the fruit kinds you bring.
“Through eventful years the sticks ever pile,
Hopes with the trunk that vomits emptiness.”
The recent loudly revisited agitation for a Biafran state from Nigeria calls for another look at my poem “Fever” and excerpts from my Fever Series (Books I-V), where I told a somewhat fictional historical tale of the Nigerian state. I am currently rewriting the series and almost done.
The Poet in the Poem
Through eventful years the sticks ever pile,
Hopes with the trunk that vomits emptiness.
The mighty broom swept so long a mile,
Still dirt abounds as its proud fruitfulness.
Mourning tears leave this feeling of numbness.
Eras of evolution has not changed the egg,
The needs of man same and ever will be so.
Maybe a broom will kill lizards on a clay keg
And not break it too like the stick did before.
In this concoction only soluble particles’ temperatures soar.
Promise of the lands are all pointing,
Yet the future is hot food in the mouth.
Bodies buried and alive, had and are, waited and waiting,
For the joy in swallowing and satisfaction they sought.
Over hard filled years waiters without appetite rot.
The dogs in this story are the traitorous pigs,
Their patriotism is fake like sweeping grains with a rake.
Locusts that plunder the field leaving tiny dry twigs,
Their determined whispers stir reasoning ideally fake;
These dishonourable gentle heads that ache.
The locusts ate the grains, the rake wasted the rest.
The broom was left so little in its fold.
In this farm, pigs serve dogs for it’s their best.
The egg will likely shatter in hands that shouldn’t hold.
They chest indifferently the agony of the rest in the cold
Excerpts from Fever Series Books I
“Through eventful years the sticks of time ever pile, just like the people, what they represent and what represents them. The people have become a loose fitting collection that isn’t a strapped up and bonded broom, just like their land that is rich and rife with such inspirational promise.
“Nigerians are willing to be bonded up as one unit but they couldn’t possibly give an ear to the assumed wisdom in the words and experiences of their past. The people have since learnt the hard way that the sweets they have are actually sour and the sour taste is soon made bitter by their refusal to swallow their constant rejection of dependence on any sort of bonding.
“Though Nigerians are reflectively one and their historical past the same, the people can only remonstrate together over trivial issues, reminiscent of their ancestors and their quaint past that they endlessly repeat in their infantile present.”
Fever: The Origins of Fever (Book I)
Fever: Rising Temperature of Fever (Book II)
Fever: The Appetite of Fever (Book III)
Fever: Gentle Aching Fever (Book IV)
Fever: The Coldness of Fever (Book V)
(excerpts from Strength of the Woman; Chapter 6)
Yet again modern men remain quiet, but quite resolutely still steadfast in the sustenance of that ancient model of their gradual dominance over the women folk. It is not ever fully concealed or nearly abandoned in its impertinence. It recaptures every single edge it lets off and increasingly intimates its younglings with the self esteem of its virtues, before they even fully grasp how to also intimidate with it.
Their expression of this intent is unguardedly simpler when they are young. That is when black and white is blurred into an innocent grey and the earliest gusto of the showmen’s world they are born into cannot fully differentiate immodesty from humility. They tend to hide their shortcoming so poorly then.
Young girls in the male younglings’ presence are made tolerant of the arbitrary interference to the optimistic promise of their natural feminine love as shown manipulatively and reinforced. It is initially pleasing, but it doesn’t eventually gladden as it doesn’t ever exempt a single one of them. Subsequently, all women get to feel fully uprooted and well armed with an arsenal of useless weapons.
In his immediate community, the young boy isn’t ever seen to be criticizing his women folk, instead he is said to be just ever critiquing as he ages into slowly appreciating them. Even as sister resists attempts to belittle their efforts to make her brother her bettered partner, he yet upsets her with the most solemn words of disrespect and embarrasses her best effort to give him a revered distinction. Remarkably, this is most probably a distinction he doesn’t ever show he deserves.
It is the very old: BATTLE OF THE CELLS
Who must comes first,
Males or the females?
This knowledge a thirst
That quenches with cells
If what is common birth
Forms females or males;
Supremacy is their myth,
Caged within each cells.
Still the sole permit she is allowed in corroborating with him is amazingly incompatible in the scheme of things, as it sparks of a series of fixations that he needs countered but doesn’t ever let. He forever masters her identity and its personification. Her lamentation is always in true isolation because he causes it with the continuous surge of his self worth. The strayed debris of her glories is made an eclectic collection of incongruities, meant to suit his pleasures. She is forced to shyly thank him for this same insult to her person over and over again.
She is stopped from worrying about the things he does habitually, those that fix a solemn expression on her gloomy face and eternally ambush her with listless accusations about falsehoods, mindless of her integrity. Her expression of her exhibited feelings is considered improper, even as he insinuates that this same altruism of hers, conflates into her most loved attributes. He shamelessly sees these virtues as ingenious, stimulating and inspiring.
As such she is made his ultimate item of ridicule by his very own instruments of condemnation she still adores.
That is the crux of the STRENGTH OF A WOMAN
Where is the bird that hatched this egg?
Flying above the world, up so very high.
And the monkey the farmer wouldn’t beg?
Laughing up a branch, he threatens not near.
Will they ever marry their ideas, so very big?
As always they steal, flock, eat and do share.
Flying above the world, up so very high,
The bird still returns down to hatch its egg.
Laughing away harmless threats if not near,
The monkey’s hunger for the farm will beg.
Their ideas created their world and it is clear,
That strength of the woman gave marriage a leg.
Strenght of a Woman
The Poet in the Poem
Victors don’t flourish if their vanquished had perished and death can only lose. If the fear we bear of death doesn’t give death peace of mind, then what has death? Death can’t have us or keep us for he passes on only, going through us for the briefest of moments. Death tends to reveal the two most important lessons in our limited lives and these are firstly; Where there is a life, there are always lies. And secondly; Every road leads to the same place. Death’s power ends where it starts.
Death is always an unexpected familiar guest that steals from all.
Cruel, cruel death
We have never met.
I only just heard
Of the fear in tears you said.
You’ve been about the herd
And oh the wonder you fed.
Who tells if you’re sent
When you only just left?
The old woman’s maid
The poet in the poem
“The world is full of loud commentators, with deceptive commendations their many willful listeners obviously find aptly admirable and not coy. But I am an exception to the norm, among the few appropriating critics who equate affirmation of evidence with the clearly advertised ruse with serious concern,” Cyril started.
“You and I know that getting into Europe is the easy part. But living in Europe in the most sub-standard conditions, a far cry from illusions perceived, assumed, created and forwarded, is the real tough part. Africans integrating into evidently hostile economic and social European societies that segregate against foreigners, as they increasing learn to abhor migrants for clogging their systems and worsening their already precarious situations, is the reality of things. I will rather accept the fair situation I can manage right here, than pursue an elusive pot of gold at the end of some European rainbow.” Cyril was assertive and Mr Bill was impressed.
A fellow intellect, the English man thought. Then the elderly man tarried at the door to explain further. He felt Cyril has earned the right to understand why it is only fair that Africans escaping war torn regions or economic difficulties or simply seeking to better their lot, must get a chance to pursue a life anywhere they desire without any hindrance from those who seek to make choices for them, yet again.
“I am not doing this for the money,” Mr Bill said. “I am doing it because it is the right thing to do. For centuries European slave merchants own Africans and traded them across continents as they pleased. Everywhere they took them, the prosperity that was gotten through their unpaid work for centuries funneled into making these European nations the model economic and social communities they are today. Then there was colonialism, when European nations arbitrary siphoned the wealth of African nations for free and incessantly bullied them with the same effect, which resulted in making large economic powers of European countries.
“A lot of people consider the abolition of slavery and subsequent independence of the African nations as an act of charity, a favour granted the most belittled and unjustly treated people in all history. No it is not and any thing that remotely offers a whiff of reparations should be encouraged and milked till it is drained. What do you think the world’s racial history will be if the black man was styled as the clear antagonist? Just consider that before you write off your siblings.” Mr Bill ended.
“You should consider that most of those going over will end up as liabilities. The long established tedious ways for Africans to legally get into Europe ensured only the best Africa can offer do migrate. The new trend only dumps from the dregs of the continent. At this rate Europe will be full of the sort of people that it needs the least. It is like allowing locusts to rest on your farm because they also have a living right to feed. But maybe the English do not really care and it is a continental Europe problem, since England is still an old independent island, still on it own while playing to be part of Europe. Still with its currency in place, as the presence of the Queen imprinted on it.” Cyril remained every bit as steadfast in his opinion.
“Good people do bad things for good reasons, my friend.” Mr Bill said.
Honesty is not seen as it should be anymore, it is not seen as a wholesome noble act of justice, and not even measured and scaled properly or ensured or indeed insured. In its place is an insatiable quest for a luxurious life style that guides a preference scale of needless priorities.
Only the human conscience has the most taming influence on the excesses of people.
TAMING AS THE CONSCIENCE
With this thought comes the word
That a taught mind does afford.
From the heart’s thrust for action,
The spirit reveals its intention.
Creeping up guts and spines
Of the anguished, as he pines.
The real is seen not as before,
For requests never ever bore.
One thoughtless act or yet
Another rehearsed and so wet,
Could afterwards be active
And securely hold any captive.
Days go by written with them,
Hours pass mindless also then.
As minutes and their seconds
Of their pain’s mocking bonds.
The poet in the poem
The desire to right the wrong of another by embarking on the very same quest they had undertaken usually ends with behaving exactly like they did. It may be best not to criticize those who criticize you, instead give yourself less reason to, if you could manage it. Living as best as you can is more than often the most suitable remedy to handling unfair criticism.
But the world is full of lies and people living their lies.
Those who curse the dog’s wet nose,
Let them please cast the first stone.
It can’t wag its tongue mouth close
As they commonly do on their own.
It barks its reason like all of those
Who do but wouldn’t leave it alone.
The poet in the poem
“These classifications of races we use are flawed. They do not identify us like they ought to and are only popular by default. The term Caucasian got redirected to refer to the European race. It was devised as Caucasoid and initially only used to describe the people native to Europe and not North Africa, Asia, North and South America. Caucasoid was originally used for Europeans without regard to their different skin tones. It was used to denote one of the three manufactured classification of human races, the others being Negroids and Mongoloids. These three races are still in use, regardless of inaccuracies.” More pedestrians tarried and stopped to listen. Leroy raised his face and voice.
“The origin of classifying white people as Caucasians came with the discovery of the Georgian skull in the sixteenth century, it was used to hypothesized the origins of Europeans. Caucasian was coined by Christophe Meiners, a German philosopher, and got widely circulated in intellectual circles amidst criticism of its correctness. Meiners proposed only two races; Caucasians and Mongolians.
“In comparison to Mongolians, he described Caucasians as more physically attractive, with pale skins and Caucasians as more sensitive and morally virtuous than Mongolians. Christophe Meiners made further distinctions within Caucasians, deducing that his indigenous Germans are the most attractive and virtuous of all, claiming their region to be the epitome for the Caucasian race. His classification is not based on any scientific criteria. The classification was more subjective than objective. Meiners posed that Caucasians had “whitest, most blooming and most delicate skin” and Europeans with darker skin are “dirty whites”, tainted with Mongolians. Skin pigmentation is still regarded as the main difference between the races and Adolf Hitler had borrowed from Meiners’ logic.” The numbers of listeners grew. The black leather jacket steered at the back, his shaven head’s eyes narrowed. Leroy smiled and relished the discomfort he caused.
“Later the expanded human races were spread into five, based on skin colour, justified with scientific coincidences like cranial measurements and facial features. Caucasians the ‘White race’. Mongoloids, ‘Yellow race’. Malayans, ‘Brown race’. Ethiopians, ‘Black race’. Americans, ‘Red race’. Later still, the importance of skin tone was down-graded when it was observed that peasant Caucasians work outside and had darker skins through a lot of sun exposure and darker skins are a natural feature of Europeans around the Mediterranean. Still there was never any scholarly consensus on this findings. However scientists maintain racial categorizations of colour works. In the twentieth century it was increasingly used to justify political policies based on prejudice, like segregation and immigration restrictions.” Around thirty five people now stood in front of the sixty year old migrant from Jamaica, who has worked as a handy man in the same London elementary school for thirty five years. The attraction was swift and they listened with rapt attention, taking in his every word like the mild sunlight shining on them with little warmth.
“Races are presently classified based on colour, skull collections based on cranial features and anthropometric measurements. Caucasian traits are accepted as a narrow nose, a small mouth, thin lips and a balanced facial angle. These features are recognized in contrast to that of others. Caucasians have minimal protrusion of their lower faces with retreating cheekbones, making their face look pointed. Their hair texture vary from straight to curly or wavy, contrasting the Negroid’s springy and the Mongoloid’s coarse and sparsely distributed varieties.”
Leroy tugged at the remnant of his bushy hair as he said ‘Negros’s springy’. In a classroom of six year olds, his hair will make a perfect teaching aid. But these are not kids, just misguided grown ups. Another thought flashed through his mind.
Leroy: People age but remain like six year olds till they die, still learning.
A review by Faye Diabel https://fayediabel.wordpress.com/
Yas Niger’s “The Man in the Moon”
“It is a fascinating tale of a culturally engaged street corner preacher, a usually misunderstood necessary oddity in major metropolises built upon colonial legacy – where the non indigenous culturally marginalized, some of them forcibly brought to build the same thing they, now, are blamed to have polluted. It is, a story said from its characters and supporting onlookers’ perspective, an insightful fiction.
“The character development focused on three actors who kept on yanking the story into motion. It is like a pyramid standing on Leroy – a self-anointed ambassador of a motley group that he himself reveals his estrangement from, depending on its state of affairs – as revealed by his following statement “… I much rather say I am black and proud, than I am a proud African …” Therefore, it is safe to say that Leroy’s sense of belonging, vis-à-vis Africa, is selective, although there is a dose of Garveyism in his preaching that all black people are from Africa. His consciousness, which was supposed to be the key to his inner peace, might very well be considered as the basis of his tragic state of being.
“Then comes Mrs. Gregory, the essential story spinner – a provoker Leroy couldn’t live without, who summarizes the bad and the good, the two sides of the coin, of western civilization – the target of Leroy’s preaching; and then Henry, a dog given a humane characterization, a dog with a mind, caprices, and feeling; he too helped run the story to its destination. As much as they get along, there is a deep-seated love and hate. To me, it seems that Leroy loves Barbara but hates Mrs. Gregory. On his fateful day, he accepted Barbara’s invitation – as Leroy the man, but Mr. Freeborn got ambushed by Mrs. Gregory’ Caucasian embedded anxiety about black men’s motives.
“I knew, and mingled with, some Leroy Freeborns; fascinating people to be with, While perching on their stage – under the bright sun, until it is time to get home, when the sea is done swallowing the sun and the moon’ reminder that it is time now to have an inner preaching with one’s pillow, to say the least, or the time to cuddle and nurture love ones; and then you wonder whether they would prefer that the sun will never set on their day to day reality. He is the man in the moon, while standing on his pedestal, fading into the ghost of his shadow just a step down from his makeshift launching pad.
(Some excerpts from “The Man in the Moon” Everyone hates the English)
“It is not an insult to call me black, it is purely descriptive. Africa is firstly a geographical location, an address. It is a continent with more than one race on it, Negros and Arabs are indigenous to it. Without the slightest risk of sounding the least controversial, you will agree that there are Caucasians native to it, that means Caucasian-Africans. So when you call someone an African-American, you are also referring to Arabs and other Caucasians of African origins. But don’t you only wish to refer to the blacks, when you say African-American?” Leroy shouts at the top of his voice. The opening remarks ought to be delivered loudest, so pedestrians can hear him clearly as they go by. But the words are as important as the volume.
“The origin of the term black for Negros is indefinite. It is easy to guess that Negros were the first to call themselves black. All through history, naturally occurring darkness with daily year round nights in the tropics, has been associated with blackness and it is ideal to use black as a synonym for extreme darkness. The trend remains still, even if black is considered improper. The degraded imagery deduced from the term black can only be expunged by the achievements of those who can not escape it, if they wear it and must live with it. Skin colour can not be removed like some piece of clothing.” Leroy was being just assertive enough to reel in listeners. The first few pedestrians paused and veered closer to hear more.
His next line determines if they stayed. It is imperative to retain the earliest callers, their interest tends to attract others and a steady increase in numbers builds more interests. People are habitual copy cats, they only linger if others do. The material he delivers will do the rest and Leroy Freeborn always has good material.
“The most descriptive term best suited for the Negro’s visibly dark complexion is black, just like white is best suited for Caucasians.” Leroy spoke forcefully, then he repeats a summary of his earliest words, for the immediate benefit of the new arrivals joining the first few who heard him commence his rant for the day.
“Even if a popular law stops the formal use of blacks to identify Negros in its entirety, black will still be used for those purposes it is best suited for. The truth is, Negros are best identified as blacks and the home of all black people is Africa, our proud mother land. But going by the recent expression of freedom in our beloved Africa, I much rather say I am black and proud, than I am a proud African.”
A collective groan from the dozen or so people already listening in front of Leroy’s small raised platform, greeted his last words. As usual, the indefinite insinuation of the shared groan didn’t fully register approval or disapproval.
Twenty five years of standing on the same spot on the broad sidewalk, with the kind permission of the late owner of the nearby toy store, under the blue morning skies of England’s capital city, every Saturday in summer, spring and Autumn has taught the sixty year old native Jamaican the ropes of the demanding talking trade.
Leroy appeals to the intellect of just anyone, from unkempt homeless bums to unemployed graduates, from housewives on shopping runs to tourists, who only speak enough English to understand directions. Leroy can work a crowd into a frenzy and answer reasonable questions or hateful queries hurled at him with the articulate elegance of age and much knowledge. He had regulars, some have heard him for over a decade. A few regulars arrived and increased the growing numbers.
Leroy acknowledges a few nods from familiar faces and continued his tirade. It was going to be an interesting day, the small crowd appeared genuinely interested.
“I own the name Black Man! It is me, I claim it as mine and my proud identity. But who are you sir?” Leroy points at a white man in the front, not one of his regulars. The man smiles back at him, amused. It was a normal response.
“Come on people, don’t be shy. Someone speak to me. Are you white, if I am black?” Leroy looked at yet another white man, a recent regular. Then at another, but still no answer was offered. They were being careful not to walk into a trap. They were there to listen to his harangue and not to engage him in a discussion.
“I am Caucasian,” a male voice from the back said.
Obscured from Leroy’s veiw, the fellow didn’t reveal himself but it was easy to tell the voice belonged to the man in a black leather jacket. His clean shaven head gave him away, not the plain uninterested mien he unsuccessfully tried to pass off.
Vital tip Leroy: Those crazy bald heads don’t keep straight uninterested faces.
Life tends to congregates us in one loving hub of family and friends, wooing us to have and share love for one another, as it educates us with the knowledge of our inevitable end and final separation. But it never empowers us with the secret of bearing its insipid emptiness and harsh betrayal. It is cruel and just not truly fair.
The following poem is an experience also documented in the novel: ‘The old woman’s maid’
A strong gust of air blew
And twin curtains withdrew.
Float horizontally in mid-air,
Like Angles’ wings would pair.
The mother walked in her peace,
Embodied in that first brief glimpse
From within a curtained covering;
Into our world an Angle steps in.
Unique as, loving every person;
Everyone passes her tests’ reason.
Saw goodness, polished badness;
Her large heart sought happiness.
This world her one own family,
Which will see her out, sadly.
Her motherhood a duty not a task,
In her circumstances that lack.
A right for which she had fought,
Is her motherhood in every breath.
She lost physical battles down here,
But won the war with years to spear.
Then she had cancer and died,
Joining all those from us deaths hide.
The victor hasn’t yet flourished
When his vanquished all perished.
Death can only but surely lose,
Yet the fear of him we choose.
He doesn’t get the peace we see.
Then what really, really has he?
He can’t keep us as ornaments,
Passing for the briefest moments.
His power ends where it starts,
Coming and going, never ever lasts.
He reveals two very key lessons
In this very life for all persons;
Where lies a life there are lies
And all roads to a same place plies.
It is really true then and no fuss;
God sends his Angles amongst Us
Takes them when he misses them,
Out of a world that cherishes them.
THE POET IN THE POEM
When a bird sings,
It’s because it must.
What any age brings
Speaks for you most.
Age plays the most games with women than it does with men. This is mainly the case because the woman was apparently drawn up into the human picture and plan, to perpetually be the subordinate of the man, with the definite fate of being indefinitely shortchanged, taken for an eternal ride and destined to be cheated by the clearly better edged up man.
The woman would obviously always not be preferred to her brother. She doesn’t get a better deal than her male siblings, as a child. She is bullied by her own mother and all female relatives into becoming like them. She is made only an amiable play thing by most relatives and more so by the sympathetic but guarded and invariably laid back attitude of her male relatives.
She is spanned and toyed with by her male partner like figure, because of her presumed limited capabilities, mummified by the shackles of his marriage and her subsequent motherhood. She is used and reused for her immeasurable, recyclable and incredibly cheap worth. Then eventually buried in and with the intangible praise she lived a lifetime hearing, without experiencing or feeling.
Age would always deceive every single accomplished or failed woman alike. She would live on to recount her worries, those she had since forgotten or gotten quite used to, until they don’t bug her any longer when she is used to them. This is the curse of the woman irrespective of her people or their creed.
THE POET IN THE POEM
It was dangerously late and cold outside. There were signs of an impending thunder storm too. The Call girl was obviously terrified by the prospect of facing those horrendous conditions outside. She hadn’t been lucky and didn’t catch the fancy of any of the male guests the previous night. She was so desperate to earn something that she waited till it was too late for her to leave and it would cost several times more to transport herself home that late and she could afford it. So she hid in a deserted corridor, hoping to stay out of sight until it was dawn and she could leave quietly, pretending to be leaving a guest’s room. The receptionist had discovered her tucked away behind a massive curtain and some decorative floor pots and insisted she left.
The stranded Call girl offered the receptionist a bribe in cash and kind, but the cagy young man wouldn’t play ball. Kengua found that last bit amusing as the Call girl reached out to the receptionist with loving probing hands, pleading with him to assist her. The young lad was adamant, obviously he was more concerned about keeping his job than he was about getting sexual favours. Kengua had to offer the receptionist some cash to let the Call girl stay. The young man agreed and the girl was relieved to be able to stay on within the secured premises of the hotel, until it was bright and safe in the morning. It hasn’t been safe around the entire country of late and the Call girl was more than willing to explain this farther to her rescuer. Kengua had no choice but to listen politely as she went on to tell him things he already knew about.
“There has been spades of night killings of local people, since ire Muslim youths went on a vengeful campaign in retaliation of the multiple bombing incidences, alleged to have been carried out by the local Animists youth in the area,” she reported in very good Hausa.
“The recent spate of violence had started when Animist youth were purported to have used a powerful locally assembled incendiary bomb on a Friday afternoon, at the largest Mosque in the town during mid-Friday prayers. The explosion had killed over five hundred men at once. It was the first bombing in the immediate area but not in the entire country.
“The other bombings of its kind had killed much less victims, but cumulatively the casualty rate was getting so high because the Muslim community doggedly refused to suspended their big Friday prayers, insisting it wasn’t an option. The fanatical local Muslim clerics kept preaching that those who died as a result of the Mosque bombings were headed straight to paradise to parley with the almighty God, his dead prophets and immortal angels for all eternity. So the more the Muslims refused to stop congregating on Fridays for mass prayers, the more the casualties.”
Kengua listened to her without saying a single word in reply.
“I’m not taking any chances,” she concludes.
Kengua deduced she is obviously a Hausa Muslim girl from the region of the country around the capital city where Kengua stays. She was only making a living the best way she could, in the part of her country more hospitable to what she had to do to get by. She was only marginally dressed in a flirtatious fairly large brassier she was passing off for a mini blouse top and in the highest possible white mini skirt. Her bright red panties kept showing in crimson flashes against her dark skin. No matter how hard she tried to keep her underwear hidden and from being seen by others around her, she was always doomed to fail because her skirt was too high up. She kept clasping her thick thighs tightly, crossing and uncrossing her short plump legs to no avail.
There were traces that she had attempted to bleach her dark skin into something lighter in the past but she must have given it up when she couldn’t afford the pricey creams any longer. She now had amber coloured streaks of stretch marks around her very visible thighs that Kengua found nauseating. It was obvious that she didn’t flaunt her thighs in the afternoon, only at night.
She had the most colourfully thick application of cosmetic make up on her face and it made her look more like a Japanese opera actress than a serious prostitute. It was little wonder she got no offers, Kengua thought as he kept his eyes away from looking directly at her. Dressing up and looking like that is simply just a necessity for her trade, in her opinion. She and her sort had been so badly indoctrinated over time and she was particularly too illiterate, to know better.
It is more than a shade easier for a girl to be corrupted sexually, than it is for a boy. A girl is naturally more endowed with the implements to lean back on and conveniently make a living off in the dark, more than her male counterpart. Besides, her clients are naturally conditioned to pour in, in droves. Most times, the girls are culturally pressured to play along when economically tasked. It is a merry go round legacy they inherit and grow up to bequeath to their successors.
Sitting next to the talkative girl most of the night, into the earliest morning hours, Kengua realized how stereotyped his treatment of Laraba affections towards him was. He reflected on the silliness of his assumptions and concluded he had no right to decide for Laraba before he told her his sexual predicament. He wasn’t even in a bad state and she would most probably be delighted by the experience. Meanwhile, there was no stopping the Call girl from talking on.
“I didn’t even know how to say the alphabets until I started this work. The very first teachers I got were actually members of a French NGO. They came to the brothel I worked to educate us on the dangers of HIV/AIDS. They kept making us repeat the letters ABC, which they went on to explain was an acronym for Abstinence, Being faithful to one partner and Condoms. We had lots of fun memorizing it but then they got a rude shock when they discovered we didn’t even know what the original ABC stood for or is used for. So they taught us the basics.”
Kengua learnt the Call girl’s name is Hajo, when she kept repeating her own name in her haphazard story telling. She sometime refers to herself in the third person as she chattered away, completely mindless and uncaring that her sole listener wasn’t contributing or enabling her with nods or even looking her way. She was simply satisfied he was awake and appeared to listen. Out of sight but still in the lobby, the loud snoring receptionist slept soundly on the floor behind the reception raised wooden counter. That also reminded her of yet another story she had to tell.
“The girl snored louder than this young receptionist throughout the night we were locked up in the cramped jail. We had to be locked up with some male criminals in the same tiny cell. It is the only one the police station had and the cops didn’t trust us enough to leave us sitting on our own behind or beside their open duty post, while they slept away their night duty hours.
“I was barely two weeks into this trade then, when we were unfortunate to get caught by the police men on patrol. The police had raided our regular hangout at a local bar to possibly round up criminals and it turned out that the proprietor of the place had fallen behind in his regular security payments to the local police chief. The raid was actually a timely reminder.
“Our fellow work girls who had enough money on them, had summarily paid their bail money up front before they even got arrested and those who had boyfriends amongst the raiding coppers, got off on good behaviour since they had good reliable character witnesses.”
Hajo giggled alone to her witty summation.
“There were twelve harden criminal men in that tiny cell room with just the two of us, off duty Call girls. The criminals waited until it was all quiet outside before they woke us up to the duties they had in mind for us, all night long. They whispered threats and demonstrated how they will snap our frail necks with their massive hands if we dare call out. I was terrified but the other girl dropped her panties and took a missionary pose like she was out to spread the gospel.”
Kengua started to find this story a lot more interesting.
““Hajo,” the other girl called out to me from beneath the first rogue that stepped forward and mounted her. Her name is Mina and she is a veteran from many years of active whoring.
““Just try to sleep.” Mina encouraged me but I was too scared to even look at her any more. It meant six hefty guys a piece and there was no telling they would stop at just one turn each. I just swallowed and braved up the onslaught. It was slow going and I stopped counting at ten. The men just kept taking turns at sampling both of us. They went about it silently and the coppers just a few feets away from us didn’t hint they knew what was going on while we had no choice but to resume work right within the belly of the law, under its protection.” Hajo giggled.
“I was soon very bruised, hurting and bleeding. That must have irritated them because the few that were still up to it, concentrated on Mina onwards and she laid back almost perfectly still. I was worried for her at first, scared she was unconscious. Not until I heard her snoring.
“She actually slept all through the ordeal and when the morning duty sergeant let us go by dawn, Mina simply stood up, yawned like she had a good night sleep and walked out as steady as a reigning queen. She certainly must have handled about thrice my portion without noticing it. I was really hurting afterwards. I walked funny in my anguish and wasn’t the least embarrassed to spread my legs apart with every stride I took, like a big slender crab. The criminals in the cell and the policemen had a big laugh watching me go when we were released in the morning.”
Kengua laughed politely too.
“Though I was bruised and couldn’t walk properly or indeed work for weeks afterwards, I got the last laugh. It became known that most of the guys we were locked up with were part of a notorious armed robbery gang that had killed a number of citizens and policemen in the area, running into a year before they were nabbed. And their case was swift and highly publicized.
“Mina made me go with her to the robbers’ well attended court case . Mina said it would be a therapeutic experience for me to see the men that brutalized my source of livelihood get what they deserve. Mina had become my closest friend after our common police sanctioned gang rape. She had been so nice to me afterwards and practically nursed me back to good health.”
Kengua’s thought briefly veered elsewhere. He was wondering if the priest’s wife had returned to her room. It was just a couple of hours before dawn and Hajo had been talking non-stop for more than two hours. Kengua’s mind returned to Hajo’s narration soon enough.
“The gang’s trial was held in a huge hall at the edge of town, not the regular courtroom. Three federal judges were assigned the case as the government made an exhibition of the trial because it was an election year and the politicians were in a very showy mood. The judges took turns in calling out the years of jail terms they were sentencing each of the criminals. They made it sound like the number of years they were calling out were just hours or even days, not years. Not 365 days or 52 weeks but a staggering 25, 30, 45 and 50 years were called out for each count, and there were as many as 12 counts for each of the twelve defendants.
“Each of the three obese judges seated behind a massive table on the raised stage had alternatively returned to called out the sentencing, until each judge had a fourth turn at it. Then finally the usual concurrent adage to the final sentence of the verdict instantly made amateur mathematicians of everyone in the court room, as a majority of the spectators in the hall tried to work out the number of years each of the criminals would spend in prison.
“Predictably, Mina had erroneously arrived at an incredible 150 years each and voiced her joy out loud but she was greatly disappointed when a elderly man seated nearby explained to us that concurrently meant none of the robbers would be in prison for more than fifty years. I was watching the youngest member of the gang closely. He was almost in tears. I wasn’t sorry for him. He had mounted me too and I especially recollect he was heavily endowed and tore me up. He sat back and counted out his own share of the decades of incarceration in one hand, with his other hand. He went over each of the five fingers repeatedly by briefly holding each finger of the first hand between the forefinger and the thumb of the second hand, touching each finger lightly.
“He starts from the smallest finger and ended at the thumb each time, repeating this six times over. He must have ended up with the same utterly wrong heart wrenching figure of over a hundred years doled out to him because he visibly broke down and wept. I felt sorry for him and it made me reflect that I was no different from him in many ways. We were creations of our last resort and just as he is physically endowed to be brutish, I was also hollowed to be whorish.”
Hajo had conclusively made a very salient point that resonates around what Kengua knew to be true. He felt sorry for her and as if he were paying her for keeping him company, he gave her a generous helping from the thick wad of the very low valued local paper currency he had in his wallet.
She wasn’t pretentious in her surprise when she received the money and offered to quickly give Kengua part of his money’s worth of service right there on the large leather sofa he was seated in. He declined and the disappointment he saw on her face was also quite genuine. She actually pleaded with him to reconsider, assuring him that she was safe and he wouldn’t be disappointed. He was adamant in his refusal. She was ecstatic as they said goodnight, though it almost dawn. She hugged him as he stood up to leave, before he was even remotely aware she might. He was stunned but didn’t cringe or feel repulsed. She needed the sympathetic hug.
Early all the time,
Always in its prime.
The sights are blind,
At night we all find.
So in their prime,
The nights of time;
Whiter though blind,
Says what is to find.
In whirls of a mind;
Never there to find,
Nights sure as time
Are safe for to pine.
The ashamed bitterness that hung in a hidden cloud over Labara’s immediate family for many years had finally dispersed with the birth of a baby boy. It was a long wait that is erroneously recounted as lasting just slightly under half a decade; the number of years between Labara’s immediate younger sister and their parents’ last child. That is a total of four long years, with four miscarriages for their mother.
Sometimes the four earlier tensed up years between Laraba and her immediate younger sister are included or further back still, the swift two years between Laraba and her immediate older sister is added. But in reality the long wait started from that impatiently hurried single lonely year separating Labara’s immediate older sister and the family’s first born. It was from this onset that the despairing clouds started to gather, when their parents’ desire for a son didn’t happen at the very next time of asking, since it didn’t select so do so the first time out.
As inconceivably stupid as it sounds in this more advanced century of Biology, it is still widely entertained that their mother was at fault. As such she had been made to live the silent shame of being termed responsible for that elusive male child’s refusal to grace them with his entrance. It agonizingly took so long that she made sure she doctored the final home stretch to suit her own circumstances.
Laraba claims she wasn’t eavesdropping but it wasn’t ever a tenable fact. However her version clearly reveals that she heard her mother twice talking to their ever fashionable and eternally unmarried aunt, about having the right sex on the very next child she would bring into the world. True enough, after each time she heard them talk about it, there was always an immediate miscarriage afterwards.
Aside from the two instances of note, it was rather odd that of all the four times Labara’s mother had miscarriages, before a boy finally came along to the relief of everyone, her mother’s ageless, unmarried, fashionable younger sister was always around just before it happens. It was too much a coincidence for even a kid. Though a lot of slack wouldn’t ordinarily be allowed Labara’s father in the sphere of general intelligence, but even he couldn’t be that naïve in these days when a fetus’ sex is clearly not its secret alone until it emerges with it.
Laraba is that sort of girl with more intelligence than conscience and her father is the complete reverse. He is that meticulous sort, whose timidity is deemed as stupid because he always uses proper, kind words. To him, it probably was inconsequential that his wife and her sister chose to misrepresent miscarriages to him, and quite rightly naming the circumstances while insinuating they named the procedure. It seemed his mind locked him out of common sense, but he is in fact only happy to let them deceive him, even as he wasn’t compelled to let them know this. He would have been quite prepared to let them go through with it anyway.
The family had latched onto the idea of having its own mini man before it actually did. The fervor of this heighten expectation was not the type to redeem if not realized. The family had been disappointed for so long and it not only rebelled mentally but with sickening good cheer, it admits this quite openly too. Labara’s mother rebelled secretly and did away with as many girls as she kept, making way for the boy she got desperately readied for, by the world she lives in.
As if by the perversion of natural justice, aptly termed as poetic, the alert and readied older sisters of the baby boy soon slumped into the reality of having their lives being lord over by a helpless new father they must cater for jealously. The family openly shifted all its focus to the new born king and this triggered off the demise of a once held indelible dream, which still dazzled them, up till the point when the sisters realized they had become second classed in their very own family. As expected it made them more receptive of the honest truth of their existence as mere women. The reality of the situation dawned on them farther as the boy aged. Hitherto every single one of the family’s four girls was a daily recipient of such wondrous, untarnished affection from both their parents. Then the illumination of the true character of things was ushered in, in the darkness of the ageless sexist periods of old, the red flag went up at the same time as the checkered flag.
The anticipated arrival of a baby brother came with the true realities they actually were born into. It dawn on them that his belated entry into their sweet world was actually a blessing because it made them recognize clearly their minority status. Inasmuch as the four girls’ parents tried hard to show some equality, it was always clear that their world now revolts around the baby boy.
The sisters just had to hold on, heave and spin their lives around for the boy child. This metaphor is appropriate in this context, because the girls’ demeaned world literally became the boy’s merry-go-round, without a shadow of doubt. The sisters’ basic needs took the back stage of servitude, while they indeed continued to be handled with laced laxity. But that wasn’t really their main worry, as they showered their own honest love for their sole male sibling while concealing the overwhelming debris of their envy for his gloried presence, that brought their own heady days to a labourious close. The boy presented other worries of crucial note.
Labara’s parents found themselves prioritizing every detail in a scale that heightened the value of their sole male child ahead of his four older sisters. They prioritized easily enough because they created these priorities. It was somewhat a belated redemptive measure they couldn’t resist in the tense atmosphere the late arrival of the boy had put them in, one that was pervaded by rumours and the like.
Oddly though, as they blundered along ignoring the innocent suffering of their daughters, their close and careful approach reduced their once quite glorious family into a nervy apparition. They wasted much time on trifles in the self-inspired troubled setting they didn’t have any real control over, as their longings yet grew into the same diseased craze eating deep into them. The family was slowly ravaged and it became a reflection of its once single oneness, bounded in mind and body. It took to functioning as if it was being eaten by a very harmful addiction, copied but not contacted from the world all around it. The parents rudely lost track of what the majority within it really is and the part this majority actually play in the life of the more recent revered existence of the minority amongst them. The parents thus created a young prodigal chap, as their only son turned out to be, making him the subtle arch-enemy of his four sisters.
The parents especially lost track of the uniqueness Laraba represents and her absolute manner of refusing to be subdued by anyone. This is a hugely expensive oversight since it is always Labara’s desire to scrutinize every available detail and employ even the most painstaking method to achieve her quest to establish her absolute authority. She is dogged in this regards, even it if it belittles all others.
There is no grudging the natural fact that the boy initially fitted into the scheme of things like any other new baby would, needing a lot of care. But because he is also a boy, all the possibilities showed through to their fullest potentials with time, as he was weaned, started to walk and talk. His older sisters’ soon reluctantly succumbed to the reality of his present and future assured dominance, though they still wondered why it had to be so. They came to terms with it with time, as all the experienced narratives they heard assured them it will remain so all their lives.
Even as a wee baby, their brother had the status of the dominant stag and the future assured them only the prominence of bereaved female mourners in his funeral cortege, as he will then as surely oppress them in death as he does alive. His ability to crawl into mischief wasn’t much of a worry but his fast increasing ability to speak meant he was able to state his worries and demand privileges, and these were always going to be those he learnt from his parents. His needs were always going to be those that class everybody in his immediate family; other than his father, as his subordinate. His earliest comprehendible utterances had that subtle speech impediment of children, but as he spoke more clearly and properly, the nature of his spoilt personality showed through.
Labara’s baby brother started to openly show his arrogance, it became more evident in how he spoke. He badly copied his father’s masculine manner of speech, only his words were more of scampered phrases and not clear cut sentences, but still they could be understood well enough. To those outside the family, the hastily gabbled words sounded like drowsy murmurings most times. But his parents easily condoned his deliberate rumbling and his older sisters had to adjust to it. The girls couldn’t do anything like hustle him into making an effort to be more comprehendible and God forbid they hit him. The onus was always on them to make the effort to understand him, as he sounded like he was struggling to read out badly written nonsense, which made sense but never makes pleasant hearing.
The sisters repeatedly got a glimpse of the future ahead of them with the little bits of mean things their younger brother arbitrarily does. They debated about ways to curtail his present excesses but there was always that looming reality that hung unseeingly just over the horizon, a burst of reality that assured of the piercing insight of truth in the form of a rising tiny star son that acts like the rising sun.
Everything promised the girls a lifetime of being permanently subordinates to their only brother. The three other girls took it in their strides but Laraba wasn’t done with fighting for her prominence yet. The four sisters would spend their hard gotten time away from their daily chores, to have prolonged chats about the very consequential matter of handling their brother’s excesses. And as he grew older before their eyes, they discussed his future dominance over them. They couldn’t revolt out of respect for their parents, but that only enabled him still.
The sister couldn’t come to a clear cut agreement on how best to handle him discreetly. They tried to avoid doing the numerous unbecoming things they needed to do, choosing not to soil their hands and conscience as they trash out the grey areas they never seem to conclude on. The sisters knew they need to be firm in their resolve but some of the girls actually believed their sole male sibling is messianic, like their parents ardently do. Laraba certainly didn’t, she was instead enraged that her sisters weren’t on the same wave length as she is.
Each time Laraba tries to emphasize her grievance with this blatant regime of inequality they live out, the sisters end up with heated quarrels about a dispute they all actually do believe is stacked against them. Soon she got tired of trying to win over her sisters and assessed the precarious situation on her own. She has had her fill and aim to end their kid brother’s relished humanized God-ship status.
He pretentiously appears and acts a lot frailer than he looks or feels. He became increasingly snobbish, making his many demands known to every one of them in the rudest way possible for a child, a mere six year old. Even the parents were not spared the starkness of his disrespectful excesses. But obviously because the parents were quite tolerant of him in the presumptuous pretext that they only just love him and not worship him, they condoned him needlessly.
The two older sisters grew a lot less preoccupied with their parents’ obsessive affection towards their youngest sibling. But they still limited their expressed disparity, as they were secretly quite vocal about their displeasure. All the sisters equivalently loathe their brother’s ways but their main concerns were still unclear in a fuzzy way, like sight in a dark night. They all cast aspersions they couldn’t defend as they mainly chose to let the uneasy peace reign than tamper with it.
The annoying boy wouldn’t budge from his lofty perch when urged to do so. His refusals were always spiced with the most degrading insults. He repeatedly gets his way since parental rebuke is literally absent or is presented as some form of subtle pampering, scavenged from within the conscience of his parents, empty of the venom it needs but full of contrite promises that indirectly hurt his sisters.
Man envies other fauna’s
So ordered chauvinism;
Governing sexes’ manners,
Which he lost to pessimism.
His most domesticated flora
Flowers in care and abuses,
Beyond its feminine aura;
Winning just as he looses.
The good old Goose
Lost her lone Gander.
Proudless of her loss,
Matured beyond order.
Living with only them,
By the hedges they grew.
For that edge over them,
He still says, ‘Grâce â Dieu!’
Good for the goose
The indigenes of the region are vastly non-Muslims and Animists. The festival they came for is an annual celebration, when local pagans made merry and feast all day long in honour of their symbols of worship. Kengua and the driver had to make twice the normal effort to find a local who speaks the uncomplicated Hausa they were familiar with. They were lucky and got a lot more than they had hoped for when they stumble into an English speaking fellow, seated alone in an old plastic chair. This fellow was only too happy to answer all their questions.
He is amiable fellow with a loud voice and the befitting cheery nickname of Bantimu. He offered to show them round and be their guide the next day too. Bantimu had gladly offered Kengua and the driver seats beside him. He gave them cold drinks and introduced his beautiful wife when she came over with the drinks. Bantimu and his wife were a delight to watch together. She mocked him for being a baby because he wouldn’t let her burst open a swollen boil on his knee. Kengua especially loved hearing Bantimu translate his wife’s words as she teased her husband incessantly with humorous gaily jibes. His translations got quite the rapturous laughing admiration of his impromptu guests and farther encouraged his wife to pester him some more.
Finally Bantimu succumbed and exposed his leg by raising the lower edge of the long Arabian robe he had on. He revealed a visibly inflated knee, to let his wife attend to the shiny turgid boil dead in the middle of his right knee. Bantimu’s wife sat on the floor in front of him, with a pin and some cotton wool. She pierced the boil and Kengua sort of enjoyed the sight of Bantimu’s brave facial expression as he dealt with the first wave of pain from the pin prick. He was however not as successful with the increased pain of the letting out of the pus from the boil.
“Good boy,” Bantimu’s wife coaxed him in her good mimic of her husband, imitating Bantimu rather than speaking English. She giggled as she stood up, after letting out most of the milky bloody pus trapped inside her husband’s swollen knee. She didn’t apply anything to the deflated boil before leaving the now gashed wound open to heal on its own, naturally.
The quite lyrical beauty of Bantimu’s conversation skills began to show as they sat in the fast aging day, sipping cold drinks and enjoying the view of the busy neighbourhood.
“Everyone’s life is like a swollen boil, isn’t it?” Bantimu started off on his first of many thrilling monologues of the day. “Many years ago, as a child, my friends and I had the misfortune of relying on a braggart older teenage fool to teach us how to swim in our local river. We had no idea he couldn’t swim either but because he was a lot older and taller than we were, we assumed he could. He would walk firmly but gingerly, with his feet touching the muddy slimy bottom of the not so shallow waters. I can’t remember his real name but everyone in our village called him Dada, because he had a natural growth of tightly dreadlocked hair. Well, we all thought it was only natural that a fellow like him should swim like a fish.
“Dada was a very tall fellow for his age and was able to barely keep his chin above the water surface with just marginal difficulty, as he almost effortlessly momentarily leaped and bounced off the rather close water depth for him. The lad simply tiptoed with the long reach of his strong athletic tall legs beneath him and moved with relative ease. He beat his arms through the water surface as he pretended to swim when he was actually just walking on the bottom of the slow flowing river. We couldn’t tell what he was doing because the greenish shade of the water made the rivers depth hazy and we couldn’t see beneath his chest. We merely saw a brave swimmer.
“Many months later, Dada lost his footing and slipped one day. The slight current of the river carried him further into the slightly deeper part of the water. When he got back on his feet, he had a shock. His head stayed submerged even when he leap. We could see his frantic waving hands as he gulped down large mouthfuls of water with each time he tried to call for help.
“Oddly, we had all become more capable learners than he was a reliable teacher and two of his best pupils swam over to his rescue. We pretended to accept his story about his feet being tangled up in some underwater reed and only laughed behind Dada’s back about the incident, more out fear than respect. He was a lot bigger than we were and could beat us silly.”
Kengua wished he had come along with his mini tape recorder, as Bantimu concluded his short story telling with a philosophical flourish.
“Two of us saved Dada’s life that day. If he hadn’t held us up in turns, inside the water almost daily, while we beat our feet and arms in swimming motions as he stood firmly up on the river’s muddy bottom, giving us his bogus lessons on how to swim, he would have drown that afternoon. He invariably saved his own life because he had taught us how to swim.”
Kengua naturally wanted to know if Dada ever learned to swim as they grew older. Bantimu shook his head negatively in reply. It is a common way of answering in the mid-west of Africa.
“He actually never did. Dada was too proud to admit he didn’t know how swim. It became increasingly difficult for him to reveal this as each one of his old students became very strong swimmer. He actually stopped going to the river all together.
“Dada’s life story likens my boil, doesn’t it?” Bantimu concluded. The philosophical end to the story’s message wasn’t much, but it was sort of worth the short wait, the smiling Kengua reflected. They stayed with Bantimu until early in the evening, when they returned to their hotel.
This poem is not about money & wealth, but about people & their sexes….
Heat maketh we both;
Rich soil’s own waste.
Woke us to its breath
To breed it and eat.
The furnance is bold
To have and to Gold,
Mere crucible to hold
Silver crusts it fold.
Stallion run over care,
Strife lil’ earthen mare.
What stages we share
Sow values not fair.
In starting such covert ventures, having an accomplice is helpful. But at times the accomplices can jeopardize the whole thing if not selected rightly or protected from their own naivety. It is imperative that the selected partner doesn’t revert from being beneficial to being detrimental to the entire scheme of things. As such, a full disclosure of the plans to a willing partner would be best only when deemed absolutely necessary, even if they prove to be the staunchest allies ever.
If timed well enough, this delayed exposure just could expunge all the apparent worries that loom over the issue, before they even start to surface. Doubtlessly so, finding out what Labara’s plan is about is ever imminent, in any case. The tacky thorny bit is apparently when Laraba chooses to entirely expose her plans to her chosen accomplices. Early disclosures would naturally breed some reluctance in some of them and this needless hesitation will eventually sire remote contempt.
This would mean a pointlessly diversion of scarce resources to convince them and her being sidetracked. This could jeopardize the entire operation before it even starts. It would then be advisable to merely keep the accomplices sort of appraised, living them somewhat blameless but sweetened by the deception of the empty shallow knowledge of the plan, but not the details of it. In such cases, the devil is not always in the details but in revealing all the details. It is really a small deal, much like getting them to assist in digging up the small grave but not letting them know if it is for the difficult dog of a neighbour or a six year old male sibling.
The accomplices should be allowed the disillusioned luxury of plausible deniability at the earliest stages. This ties up and strait-jackets the setting, such that their choices remain with the whim of the real owner and harbinger of the full secret. For the safety of the secret and its future revelation, the prevailing reason for keeping them in the dark never fully diminishes until at the very end, when the swinging hammer hit the nail on the head, with the already aptly prepped up accomplices set to hold the nail and assist before being brushed aside again.
In such an atmosphere that cheapens the necessity of prompt urgency and contradicts the veracity in the essential reason for the measures sought after, disputes would hold things back and finally bring disrepute to the whole enterprise. Hence only the sudden bold intrusion of the final deed, without considering the ever present alternative views of all the others, would be appropriate. Varied views are too conflicting to be instantly practicable. They guide trustworthy ventures into set pitfalls of incompletion. The winds of sudden change are so turbulent that they make dazed people fall bottom first on their own familiar rain slicked home streets.
The ever changing facet of truths has always taken on a vague shade that proves to be too relative to the circumstances leading to its revelation. Thus it is the one demerit of all kinds of human counsel that it tends to confuse more than it really truly assists with it generous overstressed tilt of opinions. The repressible clarity of advice is largely inscrutable in its nature. Investing so much time into it is most time an act tainted with the grossly comical attempt to respond to other peoples’ personalized overtures. Their suggestions would more than often not give the initial direction needed. They would make more pronouncements on trivialities as they hamper on issues that were originally being disregarded at the onset. The advisers’ own personal desires would make them exercise the choice of either being proponents of the views proposed or not.
In the crackling bonfire of subjective emotions and coy disguises of logic, the objectivity that truly comes from the reason that originates the entire issue’s derogatory sounding aspersions, are more acceptable to its aspirations. The remodeled views suddenly appears more traditional than previously proposed or already in use. Just grasping the truth will thus become the main interest under the circumstances and not the urgent need of implementing an unpopular action.
The very disagreeable venture of sampling advice before implementing very passionate ventures is, to use an abrasive phrase, coldheartedly irresponsible. It most times literally makes its ill-advised partakers resort to a sort of hasty crafted solution. In this context, evil is best served early not late, when it is expected.
Myth tales of great Bayajidda
The stories’ author of all Hausa
He trophied a serpent in Daura
Which made thirst of their well
And married their crown bearer
Prince of mighty Baghdad
City of the most sacred race
Fleeing his so furious father
Across the vast dry expanse
Like a worm he left a trace
Bastards ever begat bastards
This prince did have fourteen
With the crown he had seven
And with loose maids another
All formed lands legitimate or not
With a faith embraced in force
The tale sought to erase history
Legitimizing its apt ascention
Without due regards to facts
Either traditional or customary
Tales the child tells his peers
After he has compared origins
That pride and great honour
Like Ishmael’s became a nation
And the swords crossed palms
Driven on downwards earlier
Off northern homes by Berbers
In flight also they meet Tuaregs
Brought together in their fear
Two races like fated and destined
Much time of harmonious peace
The races naturally yoked here
As they settled to live and bred
Their half-castes knew ease
And such a mere life they led
Traditional in past and faith
Makeri of so great a repute
Islam’s sword left its sheath
And a mere life was made mute
So became the land and its
Ashamed of all its culture
That the sacred didn’t nurture
Hiding from all the nights
And clinging on rootless future
Denied are all that is right
Sons of the soil, Bamaguje
You breathe this land and its
Homeless children, Bahaushe
The stench of you is too real
But Bamaguje is the Bahaushe
The poet in the poem
It is more than a shade easier for a girl to be corrupted sexually, than it is for a boy. A girl is naturally more endowed with the implements to lean back on and conveniently make a living off in the dark, more than her male counterpart. Besides, her clients are naturally conditioned to pour in, in droves. Most times, the girls are culturally pressured to play along when economically tasked. It is a merry go round legacy they inherit and grow up to bequeath to their successors. When they are hounded out by circumstances, covered and wrapped up in uncertainty’s mist, they avert the gaze of morality and succumb, expectantly. The spurious infallible laws of most customs appear to be in one long corroboration mode with nature to shortchange the woman.
While the woman cannot fathom the unending impertinence to the legality of her fight, she recognizes them easily. To some degree, this dependency of hers is harnessed for her, such that she perceives them as right. She feels as virtuous as compelled. On the other hand, the man’s indignant antecedents are never realigning their reliability. Even when the woman excels and is allowed to glut, she endlessly feels more of a consultant than a senior employee in this living enterprise. It isn’t an issue of semantics or shades, it is purely double standards by nature. It is as simplistic as that. It never ceases, even when possibilities are marginally upped or proclaimed. Even when the possibilities that abound for her are marginally upped or proclaimed and redeemed, they continually humiliate her painstaking efforts still. But the woman is nevertheless passionate in her continuous efforts, never abandoning her tedious trials.
Yet at the peak of her fiercely gotten triumphs, her rich tapestry would still feel like her man’s discarded rags. It feels destined that men will manage to mount the wild cow of the woman’s fears and boldly grab her swaying horns into submission. The irony of it all is, at the right time for her to make a decision to split open his dominance, she never actually does. Instead, obsessed by her peculiarity, she omits to be steadfast, prune her potentials, squint naturally, not wink pretentiously. His sun shines on her eclipsed moon and leaves no traces again. As far as life is concerned, the sole weapon nature endowed her with is submerged within her and confined to her thoughts only. The very core of her difficulty is a theorem nature had solved long ago, which time and man hadn’t yet changed, though they never stop trying.
The man cannot ever emotionally harm himself with pictures of the woman he conjures up in his mind. It is only this folly he might choose to try to cringe from, he is either hooked up or not. His broken heart is misinterpreted to atone nothing and to wrestle away from his dominance, the undercut tactics the woman can resort to and rely on; tends to neglect the fact that it can’t quench the thirst it slakes. The woman remains the smelling monstrous carcass in the man’s dreams. He only needs to wake up every morning and go on with his life. She is only an eye witness to his dreams and cannot step into his living world, unless he decides to enroll her. The turbulence that is her apprehension for some control gathers momentum to be slighted.
The key central delight the woman enjoys the most for all time is her procreation grant, and only because the natural trepidation of time uses her with it. Even then the consternation involved in bringing forth a physical marvel someone else had sired inside her, is apathetic. It is like a badly crippled spider delighting on the spoils provided by another spider’s cobwebs. She endlessly baffles at how easily her active role is truncated. The passive contribution of the man hinders the glory of her pain. Unclouded by the impersonation of her man, in the flurried act of birth, the fierce heat of subtle neglect by tradition always insults her ultimately.
The man ever lives on, strutting along in accepted honour for just being a cameo of sorts. While the woman can merely dramatize her emotions, still only skeptical whether she is honoured or not, abhorred or exalted. She never really knows and can tell quite little.
The diatribe lingers, intruding incessantly on her real position as the harbinger of life and love. She has to rely on this bias acceptance which she is infinitely chastised and castigated for. It is perplexing how the eccentricity of the situation belittles her, when it should celebrate her. But there is an eternal good in all this, granted that this portrayal seduced her. It understandably ought to make her deficient of undying love. It would make anyone else inescapably furious. Being so indulged in this solitary abstraction is quite punitively irritable. Dot on the spot, it scotches logic with tentative and doubtless ease. Still well acquainted with not just insinuated, outrageous accusation of it being a mere tool and not the worker, she remains doggedly devoted.
She exhibits an earnest and distilled shine of love and extraordinary dedication. Trembling with genuine affection she actually reinforces her floundering faith in her man, lavish him with some more of her branded selfless love. The spontaneity of which is not tarnished with any misplaced aggression on her part. The calculated belittling of her is conspicuous. But the conviction of all this natural, as well as artificially crafted cruelty notwithstanding, it triggers of what become a bloom of mild beautiful eruption. Regardless of whether the woman is treasured and receives a big bequest, she is fascinated by her masculine distractor. Her dedication may stumble and still it deepens into an overall vital part of the man’s wellbeing. She delved into living this way fully, only hesitating to sparingly investigate a partner.
Whether she unearths a chunk of coal or a gold nugget, is inconsequential to her. She gives the man his ratcheting room, to make up his mind if he would mug or protect her and her interests. Rather than dawdle about, wondering which kind of person he will be, she decides which kind of person she is.
The priest’s wife knocked on Kengua’s spare room door with his late lunch. Her baby wasn’t on her back this time and she was a lot more relaxed. She returned his salutation with a very slight hint of a smile, balancing the flat tray holding a covered plate of food and cutleries. She left behind the tray on a reading table. Kengua had expected the Revered to look in on him with the food himself because Kengua had heard the very heated exchanges between husband and wife earlier. He feared that might have made his situation more difficult with the wife.
It would appear they fought over everything, they looked like that sort of couple. The priest appears like the type that queries even the side of the table she places his plates of food on. That incidently was the cue this time around. As an ardent lover of the tradition heavy African dishes of succulent molded solids and thickly well spiced vegetable soups, the priest treated his meals at home with such ceremonial panache. As it is traditional, he uses his bare right hand only when he ate and with the full compliments of two deep plates; one for the solid and the other for the rich soup. It is strictly forbidden for anyone to use their left hand to eat, which it is the same hand that wipes excrement. The process of eating requires him to cut an average mouthful size of the solid, dip it in the soup plate to caress some of the richly cooked assortment of ingredients onto the lump before carrying it into his open mouth in a smooth continuous flow. Hence the process usually would be more comfortable if it commences from his right side, move easily to his left and then ends up at his mouth. In this sense he prefers the plate of solids are placed on his right and the soup plate to his left. This means he wouldn’t have to go across his body when he lifts the soup garnished solid to his mouth and risk soiling his clothes in the process.
Somehow the priest’s wife tends to repeatedly mix up his left to hers, when she is facing him and this complication again causes her to confuse the side she places each plate. The priest mumbled complaint had reached Kengua clearly across the thin walls. His wife had ignored his initials angry words at first. The baby had started to cry so she had walked away to soothe the child. The baby was hardly quiet when Kengua heard the priest choke on his food. He must have gobble down the hot food while talking and then noticed she forgot to set aside some drinking water for him. Without any water to calm down the burning pain and agony of the wrongly channeled food, the Revered coughed profusely. The priest’s situation came across clearly to Kengua but his wife didn’t respond, even to the priest’s angrily calls.
The Revered father accused his wife of deliberately doing this, of plotting to kill him. She answered him with equal venom and like two rival cockerel they were soon at it.
“Do you think I am one of your silly alter boys who loaf all around you at mass?”
“What is difficult in just getting me a glass of water while I eat? Don’t you know you could kill me?” They went on like this, asking each other question after question and not answering any but asking more questions instead. They didn’t use any real abusive word, but they were always at the brink of doing so with each statement like question they spat at each other.
The priest said she was lazy and inconsiderate. She said he was snobbish and ungrateful. Given the chance, Kengua thought he would have exchanged the descriptions. So it came to him as a mild surprise that she was more pleasant when she served him his lunch. Maybe being able to vent at her intended original target had eased up the pressure on him somewhat. Instead, it was the priest who looked tensed when he peeped in to remind Kengua of their departure time.
The priest gave Kengua a Christian clergyman’s shirt and the white collar band he was to wear in disguise, as they headed out for their eight hours night long drive to the Niger border. An hour later Kengua had finished eaten, cleaned up and dressed up in his borrowed clergyman’s short-sleeve top-shirt, with the white plastic collar fitted into the flapless collar.
Kengua stepped into the sitting room to meet yet another round of argument between the couple. The priest was dressed like Kengua and the woman was heavily dressed in very thick textured textile material, which she wore in the conventional blouse and wrapper style unique to West African women. Her head-gear was of a completely different leathery fabric and she had it flamboyantly tied on her small head like a loose-fitting turban. There were assortment of shinny bangles on each of her arms and a very thick string of corral beads circled twice around her neck.
“You look like a Christmas tree,” the priest threw at her.
“Thank you.” She replied, indifferently.
“What?” He asked, not sure she had actually agreed.
“I said thank you, sir.”
“It wasn’t a complement.” The Revered giggled and looked at Kengua, hopefully checking to see if he shared the joke too. Kengua made sure he angled his face away from the lady, so she didn’t see the polite smile of agreement he offered the priest. But she sensed he had smiled and had seen the flesh around his jaw twitch as he did. She didn’t say anything but her eyes misted up with sudden rage. She made sure Kengua saw her face and heard her loud hiss of contempt. Kengua cringed from the sound and immediately thought of Laraba.
The priest wouldn’t let it rest at that, he never ever does.
“Why are these our Nigerian women always so overdressed?” He asked no one in particular.
“This is a married woman with a baby, about to go on an eight hours long drive to one of the hottest places on earth and she chooses to dress up like a circus clown on opening night.” He looked at Kengua as he spoke, then decide to addressed his wife directly next.
“With all these many bangles, trinkets and rings you are labouriously adorned with, all these different facial colourings and inches long artificial eyelashes, plastic finger and toe nails set in long curved fang like settings, all brightly painted and matching your bright clothes and wide head-tie, make you look like a masquerade. You look worse than a clown.
“Actually, you look like one of those European weird hippy sorts of old, with their thickly styled starched and braided hair, deliberately disarrayed and in four contrasting loud shades, their belted high heeled boots, leather mini-skirts and matching scanty jackets all well strapped up in some kind of personal harnesses with tens of buckles, all in shining well polished silver. Believe me you look no different right now. You are so coloured up right now in bright and dull like a cross between a badly made up Christmas tree and Santa’s reindeer pulled sledge cart.”
Kengua wasn’t quite successful in fully suppressing his laugher at that last bit about Santa Claus as he watched her pick up the baby and walk out. She walked accompanied with the varied jingling sounds of her bangles and neck beads. Kengua enjoyed the joke and secretly thought of what a hilarious clincher it would have been if the priest had started to sing out loud the words ‘Jiggle bell, jiggle bell, jiggle all the way.’
The priest’s wife’s dressing reminded Kengua of their cleaning lady back at the Lara ken Inc. offices. She is fat old lady with a reddish skin that made her look like a coloured albino, but she was just a normal black woman with a skin colouring impairment. She was overdressed most times and loved it, whatever the occasion. She didn’t care for all the jokes made of her.
With her reddish glow, she looked like an overdressed open injury, a wide bruise over an over laying multiple fold of fattened flesh. Some days the obese lady would be wrapped up in clothes that she would appear to be a wound, still bleeding like an unstitched bleeding slash set in much bandaging that has yet failed to clot and hold back the seeping flow of flesh and blood.
Two birds perch on a tree;
One a he, the other a she.
Like any such human couple,
They couple into love’s trouble.
They take off into the sky,
Together dancing as they fly.
Like the early romance,
So full of sweet substance.
Returning to a common nest
Gives stability, if not rest.
Like marriage does at a stage,
With emotions and with age.
When they’re off in the sky,
In opposite singles they fly.
Like your everyday spouses;
Submerged in life’s sauces,
Then one bird perches alone,
Anyone of the birds on its own.
Like any spouse takes its turn
To wait the other’s solo run.
When the other bird is back,
With a petal tuck in its beak;
Like its partner it will find
Its affection swallows its kind.
Justice isn’t always what it seems. Justice isn’t always meted or aborted in human terms as local authorities are of the wrongly guided opinion that justice is best served on individuals based on communal terms and not general human ones. But it is reassuring that justice tends to resurrect subsequently and put everything correct again. Justice is enduring and it places destiny in both the hands of the particular individual and still puts fate in the unclear whirl and thrill of luck.
It is thus proper to let certain persons impose and administer their particular version of justice; oriented in a principle reasonable to them in their limited perspective. True justice is within the single individual’s intangible faculties, in their oriented conscience. It is what is said to the mind in the secrecy of the inner self. Once it is equally imperative for everyone to respect it, justice thrives. Justice is not misplaced when ignored, but still quite tenable. Justice can be ignored but its influence is always still very evident, even when it appears to be absent. Justice has an all encompassing grip over a person’s conscience, which can never be missed.
The recent international phobia and fear for justice; where a quick spade of peace is sought without having a thorough redress of the injustices already done, is the main reason why renewed cases of injustice are increasingly repeated. When leaders keep the peace by failing to seek out erring parties and force retribution on them, then they endlessly need to make temporal peace in an increasingly violent, lawless environment, authorizing common folks to take the law into their hands.
The genuine disciple of the law is required to sustain every remote morsel of justice. But because of the sensitivity of good justice, in a society that wants to attract credibility in its leadership by bringing in more pretenders than blunt realists, these best laws are denied the ideal national acknowledgement, respect and recognition they deserve. The society is heavily dependent on a failed system of justice and its civility lives on in a sort of peaceful anarchy as a result of this.
Civility endures the pains of justice when it is denied. It suffers the roughness of its course on a terrain it has no exact control over and must still live in. It is unfair but just, because it appropriately states its case by the kind of prosperity it finally attains. Whatever definition people might choose to accept for civility, it reflects a reference that would do it the justice it requires if different stands give and their perspectives don’t agree in the same society. If the same people remain bias to their oriented principles, principles will always be personalized.
Without compromise, bad laws get repeated over again, most times shuffled at unreasonable discretion, without pity or fairness or justice, with inscrutable considerations. Life would then indulges itself with ill timed prognostications that would remain unwarranted and righteously cruel by any logical standard.