Child, I love you so
and mean you well.
But from me you go,
running away you fell.
This freedom you know,
it hurts you will tell.
The spouse is the chosen partner;
either by craft, design or choice.
Becoming indeed a legal partner,
regardless of thought or noise.
No other legal relative is such,
not even the adopted children.
For they never share that much,
not in bodily or geno brethren.
Spouses come to a disadvantage,
one that timelessly edges it on.
Success makes it an advantage,
failure casts it good in rusty iron.
Spouse is a lengthy subscription,
one that needs constant renewal.
Spouse is one true legal relation,
in danger of instant withdrawal.
Every bit of knowledge is new,
at the instant it came into light.
The boldest fact as we all knew,
is time at hand is truest might.
The captain that has his crew,
has his craft in steady flight.
Time spent well is never few,
when it’s gains speaks right.
Time is a precious commodity,
one we cannot create but waste.
How we use every opportunity,
determines our enduring taste.
The fabric of every community,
makes up it’s content and state.
When a people lose their sanity,
old men rule like boys in haste.
Can’t wait to be felt and noticed. Can’t wait to be seen and heard;
To be right here acknowledged.
When not if, a certain constant,
As I stand out in this moment.
For what is now is my current.
Picture from @oj_deji
In days old and long gone by,
A young Goat, still with speech,
Asked humans as he went by
Their old time wasting pitch.
“Have you seen my wives go by?”
“Wives?” They jeer and returned.
Enquires to, the grown kid comply.
“Wives,” he so proudly confirmed.
“No laddie,” their answer did fly.
“We only saw your full mothers
And your many sisters walk by.”
“But they’re my wives, my brothers.”
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ. ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀғʀᴀɪᴅ ᴏғ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ʀᴇsᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛs. ɴᴏᴡ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇsᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴇᴀsʏ ʙᴜᴛ ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴅɪғғɪᴄᴜʟᴛ. ɴᴏᴡᴀᴅᴀʏs ɪᴛ ɪs ᴅɪғғɪᴄᴜʟᴛ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ʙᴜᴛ ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ ɪs sᴏ ᴇᴀsʏ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴡᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇɪɢʜʙᴏʀs. ɴᴏᴡ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀs ᴛᴏ ᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇɪɢʜʙᴏʀs.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴠɪʟʟᴀɢᴇʀs ᴡᴇʀᴇ ғʟᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ғɪɴᴅ ᴊᴏʙs. ɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴡɴ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ғʟᴇᴇɪɴɢ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ CITY ᴛᴏ ғɪɴᴅ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ғᴀᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ. ɴᴏᴡᴀᴅᴀʏs ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴅɪᴇᴛs ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ʀɪᴄʜ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴘᴏᴏʀ. ɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴀʀᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʀɪᴄʜ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ. ɴᴏᴡ ᴀʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴛᴏ sᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ.
40 ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴏ
ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴜᴅʏ & ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʙᴏᴏᴋs. ɴᴏᴡ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ғᴀᴄᴇʙᴏᴏᴋ & ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛsᴀᴘᴘ ᴍᴇssᴀɢᴇs.
40 YEARS AGO WAS 1980,
WHICH SEEMS LIKE YESTERDAY!
Hard ғᴀᴄᴛs of ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ’s ʟɪғᴇ.
The logical conception behind the pleasure in proper sex is to encourage procreation. It is not the act, it is the motivation. The pro-gay ideology misses that point entirely because it makes motivation a reason for the act.
Typically, child bearing would have been quite something else if it was painful and fatal. Both extreme ends of the debate hold this view. Someone had once argued that if people had to make life-ending sacrifices for sexual gratification, their views wouldn’t be the same as it has luxuriously evolved to be.
If like certain insects, people had to eat up their sexual partners or end their own existence as soon as their sequence of procreation has been put in its early paces, they will see less of the need to experiment as much as they do.
No doubt conventional sexual intercourse was designed to be quite pleasurable because it both preludes the excruciating physical experience of the act of procreation and also the emotionally tasking responsibility of parenthood and guardianship.
That initial gratification is merely a sort of enticement meted out with the intention to lure in willing candidates. It draws them into a set trap and woos them into the duties of procreation.
Then it bribes them with this unconscious knowledge that has to be tasted to be sweet. Humans are primarily built as sexual beings foremost. As such their behavioural patterns suit this very nature of theirs principally.
Female homo sapiens exhibits this trait more than their male counterparts. In all her troubles, the woman predominantly stresses herself to appeal to her man, while the man not only respond as he is styled mainly, and actually reacts accordingly to foster the living enterprise.
The thought is not about rekindling a debate they has not yet ended, or ever will, about Gay individuals being simply put, unfortunately abnormal and not of normal creations. Neither is it grand standing on the issue to make a case for or against LGBT states, when laboriously explained.
Many sorts argue that LGBT persons are ill-formed and ought to be managed or treated if they so desire and not enabled into thinking they are normal or a sort of branded 3rd or 4th or 5th sex.
Maintaining that they shouldn’t be treated like outcasts but more like psychological retards, needing guidance and treatment, like addicts that are attached to a sexual drug or freaks of nature.
Load of others say Gay persons across the board are clearly not normal and screaming that they are, will not make them any normal. They may have developed a sexual preference over time, but that is their prerogative, no different from that of every other person with a conventional or unconventional sexual preference he/she chooses to express in a ‘kinky’ manner.
Protection of the law will not make them less different either, it only further enslaves them as they try to justify their state, choice or personalities as persons who want legal protection for how they choose to have sex or to whom.
Others would differ slightly in opinion and insist that a unique physical ‘abnormal’ nature is the basis for this ‘difference’. Though agreed it is appears rather abnormal for anyone to be Gay, the Gay individual’s sexual preference is developed, it is instead an original natural psychological adjustment to a physiological state, not a flaw.
It is a debate not to be concluded and settled with a holistic consensus either way.
It is at best agreed that these are sexual preferences and there is nothing abnormal about how it is physically or biologically or psychologically reflected.
Then obviously there can only be one conclusion that can be arrived at. It is a just a physical, biological and psychological expression, not a deformity or an ailment that must be diagnosed, managed, treated and remedied as such.
Deal with it. I have!!
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
By Taiwo Sanni
Tell my mother I was unarmed.
Tell my father I had the flag in my hands when I was shot.
Tell the unborn Generation that I died singing the national anthem.
Tell the cowards who shot me that my spirit lives on in the life of every good Nigerian youth.
Tell the government that they shot my body but not my spirit.
Tell the world I died for freedom like many good people before me.
I regret nothing, for I have done what my father’s, mother’s, uncle’s and aunt’s couldn’t do out of fear. Let God judge me, I am only sorry for the pain of leaving you this early.
My prints will forever remain in the sands of history for I have done my time based on the path I chose freely & willingly.
Now that my torment in Nigeria is over, please lay me to rest on mother earth where you all will join me in due time, take my voice and hand it over to the next good youth whom I hope by Gods Almighty grace will benefit a better Nation.
For I know that freedom is coming, yes freedom will come tomorrow.
1. Put your kids in schools you can afford because expensive schools don’t guarantee good
results. Just ensure they attend a good affordable school.
2. Rent apartments you can pay for conveniently. Don’t live in a house you struggle to pay yearly. If your 2 – 4 months salary or business profit can’t pay for your
accommodation, then that accommodation is not for
your level of income.
3. A man whose wife is pregnant has good 9 months to prepare, same as the pregnant woman in question. They should even plan for the worse and only seek help when they can’t meet up.
4. Some problems in our lives don’t just pop up. If we don’t own a home, we know we would pay rents. So its not an emergency.
5. Let’s plan our lives and live within our means. Save more and spend less and invest wisely. Never invest in something that will make you rich overnight. No seed grows to a tree overnight and provide fruits, not even
6. Some women buy food for their children every morning before going to school or even for the whole family. Do you know it’s cheaper to cook at home?
7. Some people don’t earn much, but have cable TV at home and have get expensive upgrade bundles when they don’t have income upgrades. Besides, most people pay for cable subscription they don’t have light or time to
8. Eat healthy meals and protect your family from mosquitoes to avoid going to the hospital always. Sleep under mosquito treated net, saves you cost of
treatment on malaria.
9. Take advantage of food and fruits in season, its cheaper and you can be creative to create
amazing meals. Every fruit in each season is meant to
help your body fight sickness or health challenges in that season.
10. Don’t copy your neighbor’s lifestyle. She earns well and her
husband is a ‘big
11. Don’t follow trends, wear clean well-ironed clothes and
keep your hair neat. You would still look good.
12. Keep your circle small, keep only friends that are reasonable!
13. Above all things, be reasonable and prudent. If you’re religious or not have
integrity, don’t be lazy.
14. Planning is the key, if you fail to plan, you plan to FAIL.
15. Don’t do more than your budget this year, there is no award given to best family that wore an expensive cloth for
16. Don’t be in competition with
anyone. The purpose of shoes
and clothes are to cover our nakedness, make us smart and
Always avoid living fake life & pretence.
IQ , EQ , SQ , AQ
…..According to psychologists, there are four types of intelligence:
1) Intelligence Quotient 0(IQ)
2) Emotional Quotient (EQ)
3) Social Quotient (SQ)
4) Adversity Quotient (AQ)
1. Intelligence Quotient (IQ): This is the measure of your comprehension ability”, solve maths; memorize things and recall subject matters.
2. Emotional Quotient (EQ): This is the measure of your ability to maintain peace with others; keep to time; be responsible; be honest; respect boundaries; be humble, genuine and considerate.
3. Social Quotient (SQ):
This is the measure of your ability to build a network of friends and maintain it over a long period of time.
People that have higher EQ and SQ tend to go farther in life than those with high IQ but low EQ and SQ. Most schools capitalize in improving IQ level while EQ and SQ are played down.
A man of high IQ can end up being employed by a man of high EQ and SQ even though he has an average IQ.
Your EQ represents your character; your SQ represents your charisma. Give in to habits that will improve these three Qs but more especially your EQ and SQ.
EQ and SQ make one manage better than the other.
Pls don’t teach children only to have higher IQ , but also to have higher EQ and SQ.
Now there is a 4th one:
A new paradigm
4. The Adversity Quotient (AQ):
The measure of your ability to go through a rough patch in life and come out without losing your mind. AQ determines who will give up in face of troubles and may abandon their families.
Expose children to other areas of life than academic. They should adore manual work (never use work as a form of punishment), sport and art .
Develop their EQ, SQ and AQ. They should become multifaceted human beings able to do things independently of the parents.
Finally, do not prepare the road for the children. Prepare the children for the road.
ELEVEN POWERFUL LESSONS TO LEARN FROM THE HEN
- She first lays enough eggs before sitting on them.
- When she starts sitting on her eggs, she minimizes movements. DISCIPLINE.
- She physically loses weight while sitting on her eggs due to decreased feeding. SACRIFICE AND SELF DENIAL.
- She can sit on eggs for another hen. INDISCRIMINATION AND GENEROSITY.
- She sits on her eggs for twenty one (21) days, patiently waiting, even if they do not hatch, she will lay eggs again. FAITH, HOPE AND NOT DISCOURAGED.
- She detects unfertilized eggs and rolls them out.
SENSITIVE AND DISCERNING.
- She abandons the rotten eggs and starts caring for the hatched chicks even if it is only one. WISDOM, CONSCIOUSNESS, AND REALISTIC.
- No one touches her chicks. PROTECTIVE AND LOVE.
- She gathers all her chicks together. UNITY OF PURPOSE.
- She cannot abandon her chicks before they mature.
- She always be at the front of her chicks.
“Acquire the principles of the hen, and your success is sure”
Why Chickens Walk
“Life is drawing without an eraser.” – James Gardner.
One of my favorite quotes.
I like to think that even the worst drawings take on a brighter cheerful look when we color them up.
I make my grand kids show me every drawing they make & enjoy making them color them up afterwards, sometimes so long later. It’s always a whole new painting after they’re done with it.
Morale here is what ever mistakes or bad decisions we made in like, we always have the opportunity to change it, alter it, or make it better afterwards.
It could be just a change it attitude or behavior, or simply a sorry.
I respect personal opinions or misgivings over old painful experience because I don’t know what particular personal experiences people draw
But if you get being optimistic in our dreams & aspirations then you ought to see that being optimistic in our acceptance of what directions our past had put us on is quite similar.
If you ever wondered why Africans beat their children, then read up on this repost.
Children nowadays don’t even know that in our days you could be beaten for any of the following reasons:
1. Crying after being beaten.
2. Not crying after being beaten.
3. Crying without being beaten.
4. Standing while the elders are seated.
5. Sitting while the elders are standing.
6. Walking around aimlessly where the elders are seated.
7. Replying back to an elder.
8. Not replying back to an elder.
9. Spending too much time without being beaten.
10. Singing after being admonished.
11. Not greeting visitors.
12. Eating food prepared for the visitors.
13. Crying to go with the visitors when the visitors are leaving.
14. Refusing to eat.
15. Coming back home after sunset.
16. Eating at the neighbour’s home.
17. Generally being moody.
18. Generally being too excited.
19. Fighting with your age mate and losing.
20. Fighting with your age mate and winning.
21. Eating too slowly.
22. Eating too quickly.
23. Eating too much.
24. Not finishing your food.
25. Scraping your plate
26. Eating and talking
27. Talking and chewing
28. Sleeping while the elders had already woken up.
29. Looking at the visitors while they are eating.
30. Stumbling and falling when walking.
31. Looking at an elder eye ball to eye ball.
32. When an elder is talking to you and you blink your eye.
33. When an elder is talking to you and you stared without blinking.
34. When you look at an elder with a corner eye.
When an elder points at you.
35. When your mates were playing Street football and you joined them to play.
36. When your mates were playing and you were not playing with them.
37. When you don’t wash your dish
38. When you don’t wash your dish properly
39. When you break your dish
40. When you bite your nails.
41. When you fail your exams. That was a serious crime.
42. When you get canned in school or any kind of offense committed in school. That fetched you more canning at home.
43. When you go to the local stream to frolic.
44. When you steal fruits from trees. This always attracted canning. But it was always worth the troubles for most kids. Can believe now kids have to be tricked & coaxed into eating fruit when we actually risked death by arrows, catapulted stones, flying cutlasses & being eaten by wild domesticated dogs, just to eat fruits.😀😀😀
Some of these reasons for beating a child may seem farfetched to children now, but they sure did give us some solid values, Some not effective but we learnt to be better parents now. 😀
Caught living in a frozen dream north wind spinning,
Women can not but accept that they make a marriage work. The nature of the man is too proud, independent and selfish to make all the compromises a marriage needs to work. In the most traditional setting the onus is on the woman to do all the work for a marriage. She would think that she couldn’t do much of it without the male’s maintained cooperation, but really most men never had actually cooperated from the onset.
It is clear that the more independent the woman seeks to be and the more independence she attains over time and exercises in her personalized wishes in a marriage and in life in general, the more the marital proverbially boat rocks, hit the rocks and sinks. Then only the woman really loses out because the marriage institution best personifies her. The man would only instantly lose the joys of the woman’s attributes, all those many attachments that were always only really beneficial to him. The woman loses the marriage she was wooed into. It will hurt the man’s pride, take away the brightness in the pleasures he enjoys for the while. Then his face would beam, his eyes gleam with delight and his lips blossom into the fresh smile of yet another blissful union. Women mostly seek face value like their much belittled gender, racial and regional orientation expects of them.
Truly black women are practically more racists in their preferences. Though they are very hospitable and more selfless, they are collectively personal and quite tribal, and trivial in their general choices; preferring outward values above all others. The twisting effect of religion doesn’t change this trend as much as culture has affected it over time, it actually worsens it. Civilization merely inserted a dent in the trend but not altered in fully. A whooping resounding domineering majority of religious people aren’t adult converts but are actually circumstantially religious by some original orientation. Thus it has never been the quest of religious people to seek the rightfulness of another faith ahead of theirs. They are always schooled in the desires of their immediate needs and desire to put other faith’s principle on a logical pedestal. To remotely glorify different teachings is not even entertained.
They would ordinarily consider all others faiths quite inferior to theirs and oddly that poorly or wrongly conceives subjective ideologies but not guide any sacred insight like theirs would. In this line of thought they linger in, their need of it engulfs their bias reasoning, which is to belong firmly and remain so in their tight fitting world of faithful make-belief. Their near misses are actually searches and they are never real losers in the end, but endless winners that out number their victories. It is in these all too familiar marriages that the lingering incompatibility of each separate union comes true and freedom from that inner human loneliness couples look for is ever elusive, endlessly so. Freedom from humanly imposed regulations is the spelled out thought that holds them captive with its one tracked biasness. Then as the birds of marital prey are spotted and stopped from perching over human heads, they stay out of reach and fly over head with their very own intensions in mind and never that of another. The presence of freedom has the propensity to be quite harmful eventually too, just as does the absence of it. The case in favour of true freedom is that it allows choice, and choice makes the man. It is the main difference in humanity’s tangible essence over its adopted civility.
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.
Strenght of a woman
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.
(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
It is a fact that children love to hear a ‘WHY STORY’ most of all. I learned this by complete chance and this revelation had set me on my greatest literary adventure yet.
A ‘WHY STORY’ is a very believable fictional story about why animals exhibit certain biological and behavioral characteristics. For ages adults told these sort of stories to their children and used them to thrill, entertain and educate them.
YOU & YOUR CHILDREN WILL BE HOOKED.
When my grandson was a couple of months away from his fourth birthday, he thought sleeping was some sort of punishment. He dreaded going to bed and we could only put him to bed after he nods off to sleep in a chair or on the floor, while playing with his toys. When he rarely gets into bed awake, only imaginary reptiles and small animals lurking on the floor, would keep him in bed until he sleeps off. He was terrified of small animals but regards squashing tiny insects his birthright.
The boy loves stories and adores hearing them, like most children do. He also likes telling stories himself, in his childish nonsensical style. The first time I told him a ‘WHY STORY’, he loved it so much that he told everybody else. Going to bed became much easier, with a promise to tell him a ‘WHY STORY’. He always has questions and these gave birth to another and yet another ‘WHY STORY’. He got into bed with little prompting and sleep time became a lot easier for all of us.
A ‘WHY STORY’ thrills and entertains children, it also educates them on the simplest things and builds their imagination. Read the words creatively, at the level of the child. Add a bit of something here or there, to make it more fun as the words paint pictures in the child’s mind. Few children stay awake after a ‘WHY STORY’ ends and they always want to hear it again and others like it, over again.
This Valentine and always afterwards, read your child a ‘WHY STORY’.
HERE ARE TWO GREAT STORIES TO START WITH-
WHY LIZARDS CRAWL:
Lizards were lazy creatures and got their name for their laziness. They walk slowly on two legs and were not as fast as dogs, who had always walked on their four legs. The Lizards have sharp crafty tongues and can talk themselves out of any trouble, but are not quite smart. That was long before they had to scurry about in secret places, crawling in sneaky fashion, hiding away from everybody else.
WHY CHICKENS WALK:
There is a simple tale behind why chickens do not fly like most other birds do and it is the story of a young boy who wanted to have more fun than it is safe to have. Chickens were wise brave birds and once had long thick feathers in their wings, when they flew as high as eagles. Chickens were the oldest flying birds in the world back then because it took them long to grow thick feathers in their wings.
The bold prints and simple words in these books makes it easy for children to read themselves, in due course. The captivating tale encourages children to improve their reading skills.
Adults and children alike, enjoy reading, telling and hearing a ‘WHY STORY’.
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
“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)
The tiny fetus that had been robbed of its life shouldn’t know regret for not ever living it, but certainly its murderers should know of it for its sake and their conscience.
One of the most treasured ingredients of the earliest part of life is in the lack of the full knowledge of it. It is an ingredient that feels like mist over the head of a blind man, who senses its thick moist presence but doesn’t determine it by sight.
When I felt it happen too;
Like I heard and saw it too.
I died that day that I knew;
I was just me and not new.
Then alive I sprout out again;
Living as all do, after their first pain.
The child learns to be his own person as he ages and develops his own ability to endure life at first and its worries next. But when he gets accustomed to enduring life and learns to numb out most of the sorrow he feels in it, he then acknowledges that living thrives out of form, if it discards its ordered laws and professes its rebelling need for rules. Otherwise that early instant knowledge of life and its subtleties would render a child hapless to a situation it hasn’t as yet mastered and make life appear pointless from a very early age. Just like a shooting star sighted from earth appears to hit no target, life will appear to serve no purpose but only serve a steadily distressing experience by all logical human estimation.
You are only young once,
Blossomed to take your chance;
To scent the world’s spring
With the fruit kinds you bring
The poet in the poem
Twenty years today we lost our father and we suddenly aged beyond our ages.
Baba, mutuwa na da wuya?
Mun amince duniyar ka da wuya.
Father, is it hard to die?
We acknowledge the hassles of your world.
With life’s wards always roams a lie;
We all are reproductions of its mould.
Choking in the presence of its grip,
The inscrutable crux not familiarized.
Do we sit out the stages of its trip,
Like your peaceful love that wasn’t recognized?
From the weep the baby wails
To the whip’s lashes life hails,
These tastes we own and inherit.
Say oh father, is there better to merit?
Rest in peace Baba. We miss you so much, more now than ever.
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.
“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.
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
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.
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.
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.
(excerpts from The Old woman’s maid)
If comparing the seasons with the butterfly’s famous serendipitous life stages is clever, then certainly to liken it to the life of my landlady is more appropriate. From a young age, she was the type to identify her blessings as they came and not scale them with measurements, or glut at how better off she is or isn’t or such. If she had bothered like most others around did sickeningly so often, it would have stunned her to see the scale floored on the plate of blessings gone. She had loads of reasons to complain about how life treated her, but she never did. In the neediness of her struggles she wasn’t lucky to be perched high up in the safety of height, to prey on time with that sort of impossible patience not real enough to be innocent.
She simply detached herself from all the cruel remarks and lived on. Over the years, she didn’t copy those who only humbled themselves because they were powerless. With the increase in her age, she had proven that what matters most is the destination of the being, surely and certainly burning itself out with time.
The stakes are always too high to falter and bother over inconsequential trivialities of daily living. She stuttered on the way here, but never strayed. If she couldn’t fairly satisfy people, then she most certainly cannot satisfy God, who is poised everywhere as time and patience; all in one sameness and form.
She embraced humanity like a mother does when saving her only child from drowning. Struggling along, she identified the invincible arms of inner peace from the deceptive entangling ropy sea weeds of wrongly labeled evil. She kept away from the many harbingers of this negativity and thrived into a good person.
My landlady has six children; three boys and three girls, all from her first marriage. She gave everything to her first husband but their marriage became the predicament it wasn’t meant to be. It demanded and got her best always and at the end, it was all worth it. She entrusted what little faith she had on the limitless hope she covered herself in. Her life was fair, it is hard to apportion any blame.
Her late husband was a good man, if there ever was one. It had nothing to do with him but with what he had done. He ran away into the lifeless embrace of another entity, when it was obvious that he was financially ruined and going to be socially discredited. My landlady found herself widowed still relatively young, with six children after just ten years of marriage. She struggled on after the finality of her spouse’s rude escape, her coldest season ever. It was harsh and as concrete hard as winter at the Poles. Her senses repelled this tough monster. She pegged her faith in hope and the future, in her children and the roving power of change and it paid off ultimately. With time she actually won, outlived yesterday’s difficulties and found herself poised for a successful today. Change made sure of that, but like all sweet fruit surely go stale, her bed of roses had its share of thorns.
Her children grew into an attitude that wasn’t of her own making. In a subtle manner they claimed they weren’t indebted to her or to their father’s memory. If she knew their minds as beings she had some help conceiving, if only she knew where they were then and could reach them? She wonder if a pact would have been reached with them. As it turned out, she couldn’t tell if they wanted to live, to want and wish and need. She only knew what she and her husband wanted when they conceived to have children. Like every conscious parent, they knew what they wanted and planned for it in a broad sense, if not in every detail. They had their wish and it was satisfying their personal need to have children. They got this with the birth of child after child, six times over. With every new child they appear to achieve extended immotarlity. They unconsciously kept making one relationship after another take shape like taking small baby steps on a continuous staircase of a lifelong ascension, that will most certainly end with one final fatal drop.
As parents they had thus unconsciously stepped on their individual off-springs to get to the next level of their aspirations. They fed onto an old idea and refused to nourish a healthier new one instead. They fear that when too many new ideas are being mooted out to replace the older ones in use, they are being changed merely for being old and not for being obsolete and utterly harmful and unhelpful.
As my landlady’s six children aged, each child revealed their own unique personality. Each child’s wants, all their separate wishes as well as their needs, were all made clear with time, in its slowly piling essence. These same things that the couple didn’t know about each of their six off-springs, before the children became their true selves, were clearly revealed. No one could tell their hopeful aspiration before they took form in them and were stated in their words and deeds. They are lost now as then and ever, as is the vagueness of their knowledge.
My landlady’s late husband had been incensed by the traditional logic behind being successful in the amassed might of being remembered long after he was gone. He queried people’s endless pride in the living assets children had become, she didn’t. When they argue, she averts her eyes respectfully in the traditional fashion. He considered that as rude by his enlightened European standards.
He was out of sorts in most other ways, his mental gaze followed the local crowd but he walked alone in his logic, like a harmless funny madman in a crowded market at dusk. The market people will look on amused, but still stay at a safe distance away, remaining only for the entertainment and not hurrying home.
Her children went to good schools at her expense, slaving humiliation and her selfless sacrifices. Now that they are all established, with spouses and reasonably comfortable, they all turned away from her over powering love with a diplomatic apathy that always seems to uniquely speak for younger people when it involves their much older kin. She continues to live alone with none of her children offering to her take in and savour the ever present love she yearns to drown them all in.
‘The old woman’s maid’ available at the following links:
This is a tribute to the over two hundred girls abducted by Boko Haram from the north eastern Nigeria a year ago. You might find the following excerpt rather unsettling, but be advised that though the deductions are based on actual facts, what you are about to read is a work of fiction. #BringBackOurGirls #ChibokGirls
“But what message do you have for the Nigerian people and the rest of the world who were hopeful that they were rid of Boko Haram?”
“This is the calm before the storm. The long dormant seed of Boko Haram has germinated and grown into a massive oak tree that can not be uprooted with mere hands of the Nigerian Armed forces. The Western world must recognize this fact.”
“Boko Haram abducted more than two hundred Nigerian school girls that have not been heard of as a whole again. Do you know what has become of them?”
“That is a very funny incident for me personally.” “Funny?” The black reporter asked in amazement. The Sheik was sweating profusely as the reporter gasped.
“Yes funny, because it wasn’t made an issue that these girls had actually been gathered together by elements in the Nigerian Western Educational system; with the approval and sponsorship of their parents and guardians. They hid them away from the Nigerian authorities so they can secretly carry out their acts of gross examination practices. This is a very common practice in Nigeria. While the Nigerian authorities claim they weren’t aware of this, Boko Haram didn’t and took the initiative to put and end to it. They took away the girls and gave them more meaningful lives to live.” The reporter had no idea his mouth had stayed open.
“Incredible! So the innocent school girls were saved by their abduction?”
“Yes and like I told you earlier, the concept of ‘Innocent Victims’ it too vague. In this case will you call these girls, their parents or their school management or educational authorities innocent victims? They were all complacent and actually exposed in the act of defrauding their very own sick Western educational system.”
“But are the girls all alive and living somewhere else presently?”
“No, many of them are not. Some got the most glorious martyr death of suicide bombers. Some escaped, some were killed by the bombing of the Nigerian Armed forces over the Boko Haram positions. Some are with their good Muslim husbands around the world, enjoying their lives as good faithful obedient Muslim wives.”
“They were sold as slave wives?” the reporter asked and the Sheik laughed.
“If you like. In your view all dowries are payments for female slaves then?” The reporter didn’t recognize the ingenuity in the first and only joke they shared.
“I also found this so called abduction of the school girls funny for another reason,” the Sheik continued. “For centuries disgruntle militant fighters have abducted massive numbers of young innocent school boys as their main source of recruits and over hundreds of years forcibly turned them into ruthless fighters who terrorized local communities with relative ease. But there has never been such a worldwide out roar or a whole scale international effort to rescue them.
“Maybe if the militants had instead been taking young school girls in such huge numbers, there would have been genuine efforts to end it all. The abduction of young boys by militants actually pose more danger than the abduction of young girls because the boys instantly get directly involved with the fighting, becoming future militants themselves. Western values has lots of misplaced priorities, some of them out-rightly illogical. I remember reading about how decades ago the Jewish inventors of suicide bombing had bombed and killed lots of Germans. This was about a decade after the holocaust. But the Germans just wouldn’t retaliate.
“”Because we are Germans and they are Jews.” That is the reason a German federal minister gave when asked why they weren’t retaliating. That is stupid! The elimination of millions of Jews in the holocaust is the single most laudable act of the Western world and it should have been continued with equal zeal and craft.”
“Don’t you feel there are consequences for all actions, especially killing men?”
“It is because we will eventually face the consequences of all our actions that every one of our action must be as Allah wills it, for we exist for His pleasure. Gladly this concept is acceptable to all Abrahamic religions, only Muslims act on it.” The reporter succumbed to the urge to say something in defense of liberality.
“Still you must admit that the common truth about your kind of people is they are predominantly Muslims. What is it about your brand of Islam that makes you think it is justified to use deadly force and kill people, to make a point? One will think there is a distinct teaching in all Islam that encourages this sort of it?”
I am very old fashioned when it comes to a few things. I am the first to admit it. Most folks will think that is a bad thing, but soon everyone learns that being old fashioned is the most likely the proper, the decent and the safe option.
Of the few things I am old fashioned in, how sex is presented to young children in glowing language stands out. I find that improper, not decent and most certainly not safe.
In the most sweetish manner sex is literally preach to our little Angels, by certain persons, the unseasoned goats among us.
Singing whispers talk to the Angels,
The embers of dying souls yet float.
Smell and eat the matrimony of singles,
The adulterous flesh of the human Goat.
Beautiful, sweet, soft words speak to the good,
Firing up the hapless situation with much wood.
Enjoying fully ungodly coupling of un-wedded hope,
Grown up, unethical nature of the animistic dope.
Being single is likened to being married in modern times. There is no rule to coupling any longer in these days of civil rights and civilities. All of a sudden we are all grown up, unethical and no different from animistic Goats.
Have you had some difficulty in explaining a complex term to a child before? A simple thing like sex, birth, love or death could prove more complex than it normally is when you try to explain it to children.
Stories in any simple form get you there.
It has worked for ages, ancient folks had tapped at the unlimited resources of story telling when it comes to educating the young.
Singing the tales in cute rhymes makes them easy to remember and children always love to sing. Sneak in a lesson or two, you are done and dusted. It stays with them all their lives and gets passed on for all time, if it is good.
For centuries kids have ‘Row, rowed their boats,’ beneath ‘Twinkle twinkle little stars’ and ‘life is but a dream’ for these ‘Diamonds in the sky.’
You hope and pray that you can keep them safe.
In their warm beds and for every story end,
You hope for the best for each of them.
You hope they hear you and the messages, use them and just be normal.
Sim played ‘a lil’ house’
On the Muddy’s bank.
Then came a lil’ mouse
And Sim’s skin shrank.
Sim slipped and fell,
Splash into the Muddy.
Soon lil’ Sim could tell
To swim is so hardy.
Lil’ Sim so drank
The bad muddy water.
As her tiny head sank
No one saw Sim later.
Where lil’ Sim will be
Clothes are not clean,
Eyes dark as night be,
They eat no lil’ bean.
O lil’ Sim’s friends
Don’t you wish her here?
Warm beds and story ends,
Like all here who hear.
Only those true friends,
Because they know you
Would dare tickle you.
All friendships do end
As time will all change;
For time is itself change.
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Breasts of Doom (QC92B)
Expires at midnight (GMT) 19th Aug, 2013
BREASTS OF DOOM
This is probably the saddest story ever, with a somewhat touching folded ending. It tells of a nameless newly married village girl, coerced into coming to the city with her husband to do menial work during the dry season. In a quick successive sequence of unending cruel happenings, she literally lives the life of her country.
This is a sad story, with a somewhat touching folded ending. It tells of a nameless newly married village girl, coerced into coming to the city with her husband to do menial work during the dry season. In a quick successive sequence of unending cruel happenings, she is starved by her husband and tricked into being raped by a night watchman. Her husband finds out and beats her, before he mysteriously disappears amidst a bloody civil unrest. Then the watchman is accidentally killed.
She is lost in the huge city, begs for alms to feed, sleeps everywhere in the open and became friends with a madman. She discovers she is pregnant and couldn’t return to her village, without her lost husband and visibly pregnant for someone else. Still, she hopes she could return someday. She learns her father disowned her and her mother killed herself rather than live with the shame she had caused.
She painfully lost a helpful couple in an accident and had to live in a whore house because no one else would rent her a room. She got robbed of everything she owns and raped yet again, late into her pregnancy. Right then, she gave birth to a son on her own and had no choice but return to the selfless care of the madman.
The madman got beaten to death and she is also beaten up by the same vigilante group. She almost lost her son in a fire that burnt down everything she owns, again. She got badly burnt in the fire and was horribly disfigured. Her son’s first friend was a donkey and it mysteriously vanishes like it appeared.
Amidst such suffering and cruel mockery, she sold wood and her sole objective was caring for her son. He excelled in schooling and moved to a bigger school, staying far away from her love for too long. She went after him and discovered he had fitted into his new prestigious surrounding so well that she embarrasses him.
The tale gradually unfolds with chapter opening quotes and apt poetry. It reveals to be more than just the story of a suffering deformed maiden that suffers a lot of ill-fortune, or about how her gifted son grows into being ashamed of her, despite all her travails for him. The tale actually draws parallels with an ailed federation.
It handles a flawed state of nationhood. It highlights the nation’s relationship with its people, and their disdain for what made them anything special. It hints of their never ending and never ever accomplished ulterior desire to be something else, other than what they really are; mainly a country still forging statehood for itself.
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Breasts of Doom (QC92B)
Expires at midnight (GMT) 19th Aug, 2013
Timya’s mother left her matrimonial village when Timya was only six. That is the much Timya knows and she wasn’t the type to make a fuss about things. Timya’s mother never told her why she left or why she couldn’t take the sting of her hurting pride any more, she had to run away from her husband’s house.
She fought with only her expression and bold appearances but deep down in her heart, she didn’t even try. The hate that escorts the earliest feeling of betrayal in its onset, made her irrational. So without giving it enough thought, she took Timya out one moonlit night and left the village with the little girl.
When Timya grew into a much ridiculed twelve year old in a distant village, she gave her a curt excuse. She told Timya that her father took a second wife and betrayed them both. As a simple and short explanation, it appeared indeed the briefest honest truth. She had seen all the insinuating eyebrows flick and twitch, as she went by and she decided she should be pampered with attention to placate her betrayed and hurt feelings or else?
When the community took its accustomed wicked sympathetic stance, letting her wallow in the glare and blare of abject comprehensive humour, she had rebelled. And when Timya had asked to be reunited with her father, her mother accepted without a single blink in protest, revealing the real strain of so many long years of yearning for this reunion.
Her eagerness was even more pronounced by the swiftness of her response and before the next evening, a visibly excited Timya was welcomed into her father’s large empty compound by only a very cheerful seventeen year old lad, her mother introduced as her elder brother, Ponjul.
“His smile carried the sun rays’ sparkle, I can see honesty in his eyes. His moist lips made up words that said nothing, yet my heart understood them, for it nodded vigorously within me.”
Ponjul’s gaily character contrasted his childhood in that reason defying manner that moulds goodness out of visible meanness. His step-mother had completely governed their lives in the most dictatorial way that ensured she was the cat in their discreet rodent lives. His gentled, subdued father was the famous Tiger she tamed completely, in the most bizarre manner possible. It was simply explained with traditionally relied quick resignation; as some mystically induced, diabolically administered mind controlling magic. That conveniently became the logical theory.
In the two lack luster years she reigned in their lives, the beautiful love shared between father and son, was the one thing she couldn’t truly destroy. It paused when she appeared, looked away when she passed and hid if she tarried, but it was always there. It glowed in their eyes, lit up the inside of the outwards misery she had made their lives. She accepted there was nothing she could do about their real love for each other, it drove her mad with even more hate. So she kept picking at the hapless lad.
Like she did to all her previous husbands, she left the boy’s father for the very next man that caught her fancy. And just two years after his second marriage, Ponjul’s step mother had left again. Ponjul rejoiced, but her leaving was killing his father, the disappointment of it was, at least. If ego had indeed kept Napoleon’s dreams alive, then pride ‘waterlooed’ him.
Ponjul’s father’s pride wouldn’t let him admit his error. His ego ate him up. For those two years he was married to his second wife, he ‘zombied’ about to her every whim. In the four years that followed her departure he was mostly bed ridden, drunk with sorrow. Ponjul nursed him and painstakingly fend for them both.
“Take the full meaning of love; with a complete comprehension of its truest good essence, you’ll find that love at first sight is one of the world’s greatest ever contradictions. Love grows; it’s not found. She must have another hold on me surely.”
It was planned to be a very brief visit but Timya and her mother just stayed on. It was like an out of season rainfall that fell down unannounced. The seasoned flora does not refuse it. They embraced its relief to the fullest and joined the malnourished ground to feed on its wet and refreshing goodness.
Their generously shared effortless smiles and laughter radiated ceaselessly, very loud joy and a highly mobile good health returned to their small family. Who doubts the healing power of happiness? Their parents were back together and the world was so friendly and playful for Ponjul and Timya, respectively.
They siblings paired in this new world of their own making and they waltzed together inside its unique magnetic field, to the proud glory of their parents and admiration of the whole village community. The same community which had its archaic age old advice ignored and rendered obnoxious, shamelessly came out with a gaily merriment to join in the family’s new found revelry.
Entirely mindless of the harm it had done and the timeless pain it had caused the innocence of the family, the same community now wants all the good credit as the family flourished. Timya and Ponjul became very close and as the years spoke their piling time. Then the people piffled as it became increasingly evident that Timya and Ponjul lived for only each other first.
Their parents shrugged it off but it was too obvious that their affection for one another was not like other siblings’. No young man got Timya’s attention, nor a single young girl get that of Ponjul. All those years of being apart from this kind of cozy, all surrendering trust and union, had made their minds a convenient receptacle for the overflow of the instant affection that had been indefinitely kept in their respective hearts’ vast reservoirs.
“The captivating truth of the honesty in a fully grown affection is that it is devoid of any real form of tangible attraction and I wonder if this is the only flaw in my desire for his affection”
When marriage had, with its characteristic charlatanry, sang its song in all other homes in their village year after year, Ponjul and Timya’s parents finally saw the need to do something about their children’s lack of interest in other relationships other than the only one they tenaciously shared in its solely emotional personification. The decision came seven years after the family reunited. It was evidently seven years late, it was to soon appear.
Without consulting Ponjul and Timya, marriages were arranged for each one of them separately and secretly. From the very next village a husband was gotten for Timya and from their own village, a wife for Ponjul. It was announced publicly the night before their erstwhile secretly organized wedding feast; which they had been misled to think was for an unmarried close cousin.
They were only told when their family’s compound was densely full with well wishers and both of them were well secured and restrained from whatever reaction they might have thought up or planned. Still they remained calm in their outward behaviour, though definitely as shocked as subdued. Ponjul listened to his peers banter all through the evening as they kept watch over him in his quarters, like they had been well instructed to.
Timya knitted and hummed softly under her breath as she watched the women prepare their joint wedding feast’s local unfermented drinks. The fear everyone had earlier entertained of their verbal rejection, accompanied by a physically stressed resistance was allayed hesitantly. But there aroused the worry that the mute acceptance they where communicating reeked of a very dishonest resignation that will culminate in a similar case of matrimonial displeasure for both their imposed spouses.
“The persistence of any sincere feeling to surface in a blatantly hostile and unrelentingly badly accommodative environment, should clearly speak for its subsequent intent and projected motives that aren’t obviously ulterior. How can I say this to all those I love and not hurt their love for me?”
Silent as the night, they stole away as everyone else slept. They made for the hills with their small wraps of traveling essentials and vanished into stories told for years afterwards. Round fires and when lovers meet, their story is retold over and over again.
The story of Ponjul and Timya is yet to end as it is told. They were eaten in the wild? They ran away to a far off land, beyond the very long search that followed? Still the mystery continues in the mind of everyone who hears this story. Had they jumped into the wild rivers of the region rather than be emotionally as physically separated for life? Their fear of marriage to others and their eternal love for one another is still fondly proposed.
All these local stories are teachers and are moulded 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 little comprehension.
Everything is attractive to their naïve and simple curiosity. Now with old culture altered to fit faith, round fires and from a preacher’s pulpit, this story should get the ending it desires and still be seen to have the respect for faith it deserves and the victory that is its sure truth and destiny.
Ponjul and Timya loved each other so much that they ran off and settled in a distant land as husband and wife, rather than live like the mere siblings they can not choose. They had children and lived happily, such that today their descendants still do the same elaborately and blamelessly too. Surely, if no other was made after the first created couple, then God Himself sanctified this to fit the rarity of the situation it grows in.
“The only thing we can boast of is our love for an equal, not a superior or an inferior being. Its freedom from reverence and responsibility makes it rare. We might not be capable this.”
I wonder who you are;
Some lost line or verse?
Lost somehow so far;
We can’t now transverse?
You are there in view,
Yet we chose the dark.
And rendered the new
Old, like a lot we lack.
Our acceptance of you
Is not sincere at least,
To admit what we knew
Had outlived its wreath.
Shrouded in some mist
Of age old, yet new norm;
That captured life’s feat
And figured its only form.
We spouse a ghost
And live in cemeteries.
Like a true coffined host,
Scared for our souls’ stories.
Your place true as cast,
Even if subtle and lost.
History’ll gain from; at last,
Those Cain’s wives, almost.
He just sailed away with his sad thoughts, with the immediacy of his worries that will not abate any recently. His traveling thoughts had never detoxified his situation but he had somehow made it a pleasant habit. Like many times before, his mind recoiled, leaving his body still sitting there like a very lost malnourished puppy; scared, uncertain and alone.
The sandy banks of the seasonal river receded and repeatedly lost ground as the fast running water they channel eroded their loose soil right before his sad eyes, but he does not notice all this. The snobbery of his state of mind wasn’t meant to be insulting. It was only prompted by its rich abundance of worries.
His eyes see everything as they flicker their lashes in continued sight, but his sailing mind does not notice the spectacle the heavy rains had created of everything around his open choice of secluded refuge. The birds barely up in the low fruitless trees shading the water, sang cantatas in quick short bursts. Without rhythms they sang, in a sequence so irregular.
They fill the domesticated wild with their songs. He hears but does not share the pleasantness of the soothing but seemingly haphazard tunes. Their apparent mutual superlative discourse was saying much more than time could ever reveal. They were literally slandering the parallel dominion that belittles them.
He just sat there on the ridged out long stretch of sandy hill, bordering the trees and water, beside the overflowed bank, watching the dirty water race away with that contentious submissiveness it incredibly has such an expounded embellished mastery over everything else with. Water’s frailty is its strength. Its functionality makes its simplicity nature’s own most conventional dictum. He sat there in the lusterless present yet with the past that will never reply to his invitations, no matter how he might put it. He just sat there alone from the world, with his thick flood of so many unpleasant thoughts.
The first person he remembers is always his mother. She was singularly the most dominant being in his short life, so far. She had never said a thing about his father and he never asked because he trusted the fact that she will tell him when she felt she should. But he knew he should have a father, every other child in the village cruelly reminded him of it.
He loved his mother too much to worry her and he pretended he was stupid like a child should, respectfully. He let her control all their conversations. When she talked, she puts bits of platitudes in his mouth and made it sound like it was his idea. She managed their discourse with these silly bits like she would have done a well trained donkey without the slightest qualms.
When she told him he would not see her ever again, he had simply laughed. The mere thought of it was too stupid and shocking to be credible. Her indefatigable attitude of ridiculing his perception of reality and fiction had been a continuous source of humorous entertainment for both of them in the past, so he made the appropriate mockery of this statement too.
She was ill in bed when she finally thought he should know about his father. Then realized she probably didn’t know who his father really is. She was thin and couldn’t eat anymore, so he and his cat ate all her meals. Though he was so young when she later died with her noxious knowledge of what the city’s fun filled freedom does to naive adventurous village girls, he also painfully knew. And this trail of thought led him to his cat next.
He pictured its black flurried coat as it always appeared to prefer it; moist and shaggy. It spends the whole day working on its state with it tiny pink tongue. It was the smallest kitten of five, when it was given to him, painfully thin and barely able to carry its weight on its frail limbs. It took to him like it would a second mother and he gave it a quarter of everything he eats. Though the cat ate everything he gave it in those long two months he had it, it didn’t survive. His cat also died.
It is uniquely strange how days always seemed to have appeared much longer when the perceiver was younger. The swifter passage of time always seems to come with the rational assessment of the usage of time. The restful utilization of time at various ages is given so many varied conceptions to illustrate this point even more. An inactive day that is leisurely spent by an adult is perceived to be wasted by an early teenager.
As he supposedly wasted that quiet wet afternoon idly by the dirty running water, his reappraised assertion of his present situation weren’t ill conceived, but the haplessly penned up anger they reflected within him was just ill mannered. Then next on his mind was his grandfather. He remembers him easy enough because he had such a very distinguishing character that wasn’t unnecessarily nice when he didn’t feel like it.
The old man didn’t pretend. He was a scoffer that continually showed his discontent with the dishonorable circumstances that made the boy his grandson. With the most solemn rude words, he always reminded the boy that he was his mother’s father. The fact that the old man could easily break the egocentricity of his spontaneous dislike for the boy’s origin and still show him considerable favoritism, spoke volumes for the aged man’s fair personality. The boy warmed the old man’s heart and he loved the boy so much, but he always had a strange kind of difficulty in showing it when they had visitors.
The boy was scared of the old man at such times because he shouted at him and never used his pet name for him then. It almost appeared like where the boy was concerned, the old man had to rashly claim to be ready to accept the boy as a demeaning relative, when he wasn’t ready to face all the appending less prestigious societal circumstances. The impassioned plea of the honest affection he had for his wayward returning daughter had made him accept her when she suddenly returned home from the city, helplessly ill like a bad fruit and with a fatherless son.
The boy had slept with the old man because the bigger children always bullied him at night, after trampling on him physically and emotionally to their hearts’ desire all day long. The upheavals the boy experienced daily where too lopsidedly unfair to be addressed easily, as they perverted societal justice by ironically buttressing fake-ness in their cultural correctness.
The hypocrisy that kind of treatment encouraged was intensely debauchery, so much that it accordingly interposed the fabric of sincerity in the people’s tailored prejudice. Even as the old man had thunder in his throat, the boy only heard the throaty roars when the old man slept. But before the old man suddenly dozes off, like he always seems to do because he never goes to bed until he naps off while sitting, the old man always speaks of the peace that awaited him somewhere else. He always spoke his thought provoking paradoxical sentiments like he was talking to someone else and not his grandson that barely understood him.
He gave the impression he was still struggling with a problem he had since effortlessly solved. He was never uttering any improper vulgarities, even when he was not being particularly friendly. He was a freak for probity and sincerity, tradition and fairness, standard in quality; not minding contradictions woven into his principles by the time induce revolutionized thinking modernity ushers in. Then he died peacefully, like he should.
When the boy came out here, to the new city’s extensive, far from modern suburbs, the first thing that struck him was its emptiness. They had arrived around noon and there were very few people moving around at that time of day. He had a small tin box, a small rolled up mat, an old blanket and a small plastic kettle balanced up on his small head. His mother’s cantankerous brother’s friend’s cousin had brought him along. They had taken a long dusty lorry ride, which he had initially enjoyed. The rough and bumpy ride, he had found pleasurable to his young excitable mind, but it didn’t help him ignore his hunger.
He hadn’t eaten before they set off early in the gray hours of the morning, on the long their trip over a terribly bad road with its weathered remains of decades old tar top still defiantly lingering in utter disrepair. Through the bumpy journey, he had followed every eating passenger’s mouth activity with a pained salivated interest. His childish enjoyment of the rough ride didn’t help his physical state as the dominantly bolted wooden lorry structure dipped, hopped and swayed its creaking frame in and out of crater sized potholes as old as the old man noisily maneuvering the big vehicle along the pathetic apology for a federal highway.
The shrubby landscape plains they crawled pass beside the bad road, appeared more of a drivable prospect than the torture of these hard landed waves they had paid for with their fares, to be ferried on. The head and body aches the entire passengers alighted with wasn’t bearable, by any regard. It was nauseating and a physical ailment. But the excited impact of seeing the city for the first time had initially hit the young lad with its dreamy wonderment, which is so commonly reserved for all first timer sorts that endlessly wade into the city with their concoctions of plain assortments of inabilities and expectations.
That is before the many unsettling abhorrent characteristics the new visitor is unaccustomed to, descends on the whole fantastic setting with its empty recess of intangible importunity, soils it and floored him, bringing him down to dust his troubles. This ideally brought his thoughts to when he first got here and met the callous old man who is his teacher, an insatiable old man so full of calumnies. Few knew that his endless clatters of words aren’t the doctrines he made them out to be but silly platitudes.
His lack of complete knowledge of the sacred reading art had been successfully disguised by his remarkable memory of a life time endless repetitions and ceaseless renditions of the sacred text, which fooled everyone. This was the first person he had ever hated. The old teacher actually beats them for exercise.
The teacher’s whip cuts their backs again and again. The harsh memories of begging for food with a battered dirty pan, which they carry for that purpose, flashed through his mind as he watched the dirty water race pass. He remembered the cooked solid mashed dry grains doled out harden cold, painted with the traceable remain of the cheap red colored oil, but without any remote serving of soup because the supposedly generous givers had licked it up before doling it out to the singing beggar boys.
The food is always rudely given to them not out of sympathy but as a means of discarding wastage. Their hunger forces them to eat the food, as they helplessly join an age old excess food disposal system. He remembers the frustration of shouting pleas and getting nothing but insults from disrespectful over-fed children, barely his age. He remembers the chasing dogs barking at them, biting them and certainly, the ever lingering presence of hunger and then the memories of the cold.
The harsh cold harmattan weeks that stretched his misery came along like those of the wicked lashes of his much older fellow students. He relived all of the students parked into the single densely crowded room, on the cold bare floor their sparsely covered skinny bodies warmed up. They display their hardly juicy bare fleshy body parts to feed the endless living smoke of mosquitoes that noisily buzzed over the fatigued sleeping boys. And those weekly only baths in the terribly cold and dirty stream. He remembered the utter frustration and pain of it all.
His pains is constant; with his sores that never dry up and heal, with cuts on his heel and under his feet, with rashes in his full unkempt hair, with constant headaches from falls or a deliberate cruel knock, with belly aches from hunger or bad food and with steady beatings the bigger boys gave. He felt the lightness of his body, painful coughs year round. His sleepless fear of death all around still doesn’t keep him awake no matter how hard he tries to stay awake and not sleep off, and die like many of his mates.
In the like nature of the espoused human temperamental recess of every age and gender, he lost control of all his reasonable thoughts. Only death has power over reason because it defies the divided realm of unconsciousness and sanity. In the tapestry that is the turmoil of reason and emotion, his memories increasingly came in floods. Try as hard as he could to steer his thoughts aright, it defied his attempts and strayed away still.
The widely emotional feebleness of all his efforts didn’t heed the helm of reason and most certainly finally headed for the crushing finality of the rocky coast line of dejected despair. He had apparently set the course for a potentially permanent destructive doom as he repeatedly secluded himself and his thoughts, remained strayed with self pitying worry and sorrow.
His grandfather and mother came around again, vengefully. His cat and dead mates appeared as if to stake a claim. All the dead showed up together again defiantly, as if waiting for him; but not in his empty old village certainly. His village came to mind and all the other village children that still played with him, even though they said they wouldn’t. He remembered the childish meaningless games they played and all the fun they had, away from the huts, in the wild, away far from the big bullying boys. Then returned the pain he had felt since he left them to come and learn to be holy in the ungodliness of a hybrid civilization that does not recognize itself for what it had become.
It still calls itself a virgin when it is clearly an old religious whore on her wedding day. The city tastes of blood, smelt of corpses, sounded like a drowning crowd and yet looks like a prayer field on a holy day. Surely with all this hypocrisy, prayers must have a difficult time to state their pleas at the sacred courts of the Almighty. The worldly arbiters are humanly inclined to value sentiments and honorable intents but not assessable deeds. The motives are always ever portrayed in very fair light and can not be ‘unbiasedly’ accepted. And every single judge has to handle his very own case and sentence himself.
He cringed from his loneliness amidst so many others like him, in this expanse of uncivilized caricature of civility, that the abridged abstract of modernity had made this city as all others with its similar history. He tasted his hatred for this way of life and all the people who he recognizes represented it. He moans from the hunger that kept returning to stay for days after every meal. He loathe all the frustration of being unable to change a thing in the physical and emotional cocoon of pain he exists in.
He couldn’t out race his fear of the past that had vomited him and the future which promises to be akin to the permanent present, all patiently waiting for his return to their living quarters. Everything was waiting for him across the termites eaten rotten wooden bridge he had come over a moment earlier, waiting for him to take a break from his real world of abject misery and lounge in fantasies he couldn’t create. He looks at the bridge and cringed from what it suddenly signified at that instant. It represented the route to a past he dislikes but still wants him again, to consume him like it does every body else.
He pulled his thought away from where it strayed and tried to focus on something pleasant. But it lingered on nothing as it searched still, found nothing pleasant because it chose not to. So he returned to his grandfather again and the peace that the old man had said waited for him before he died. He returned to his mother again and what she said about him not seeing her again until after he dies. He returned to his cat and quite suddenly convinced himself that it is with his grandfather and his mother.
Somehow they are somewhere together in peace, waiting for him. The coward seeks to recognize danger and run away. He didn’t feel like a coward because it is the brave who ventures into the unknown and what is more unknown than death. The uncertainties that hold the void beyond death in a firm grip, is really unknown. So when one seeks it consciously and willingly, then one is indeed brave. Suicide is the bravest act of stupidity.
Killing ones self is a grossly imprudent act of desperation that is perceived to be an escape to anything rather than to something, which generally should be regarded as worse and not better. But there is something better in every summation of a situation; and indeed worse. A state of nothingness does not exist, even if it can be perceived and acknowledged by some intangible myth or by some talented concept. In man’s continuously blind search for emotionally spiritual comfort, his conscious choice of death is still a lingering choice in his limited repertoire. But as suicide is thankfully an option and as long as it is, it will be sought.
He is scared but he knows he must be brave. There were only two clear alternatives visible to physical and emotional mind, handicapped perspectives. The routes are either across the rotten wooden bridge or inside the running dirty water. It is not a capricious act, he thought it through. He stood up and jumped into the deep looking, fast running sand colored water, though he couldn’t swim. He didn’t bother to say his prayers. It would have been his last and a good thing to do, but he didn’t bother because in his hurried thoughts he forgot to remember to bother.
Their wicked greedy teacher, in his near perfect religious stern scholarly act, had told them long ago to always pray first before embarking on anything or else their wishes will not come true. Maybe this once if he didn’t say the short prayer that states in whose name he ventures, his wishes may come true. He didn’t say the short oath-like prayer and his wish didn’t come true, yet again. The deep looking water stopped at his knees. His prayers weren’t ever answered before, so it can’t be because he forgot to pray. He would have asked to live on fairly. Maybe his teacher is right after all; their prayers already forgot them here.
I live to die,
To all knots I tie;
So much I try,
I will still say bye.
Child, I love you so
And mean you well.
But from me you go,
Running away you fell.
This freedom you know,
It hurts you will tell.
THE EVOLUTION OF EARTH
Each day we groom little rapists
Another fuel for those arsonists
Ruling the realm of all realists
Trading in the gluttony of egoists
Housing all those unconscious theists
At birth the bloom will say
What piece in the pair stay
A plus for lives’ coupled play
In structure all living may
Grow, roam and breed away
As only possible since day
Alas, I fear the body did sway
Hearts and minds too stray
To please nothing else they gay