Tumblers cascading into cacophony,
Disjointed tunes affording seamless melody.
Chords and notes clashing as one,
Mindless rhythm, music of the mind.
Ink staining white sheets;
Thoughts flowing from mind to nib.
A complete jumble of incoherence,
My thoughts, my mind, isolated words.
Rivers of the Soul, parted in two,
Decisions, decisions, which to make.
What once was one, now made into few,
The roads spread out, which to take.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Nigerians and the Diasporan trail
Originally, the concept of the diaspora started with the Jews, and as with everything related to that band of individuals, it involved massive takeover of the world. The diaspora, tells of a period whereby the Jews migrated from their nation into other nations to live and to work. Nowadays, this title entails and includes the movement of people of any nation or group, into any other nation or group to get away from theirs. The concept of diaspora is now forgotten, the long ago practice of world domination and pursuit of excellence for the good of the entire peoples has been sacrificed on the altar of self-aggrandizement.
One of the issues lamented the most in the country we live in is the problem of the diasporan spill and the movement of Nigerians, especially Nigerian professionals to other countries where their talents and skills are utilised to the absolute bereft of their motherland. Originally perhaps, the Nigerian goes abroad to study, but the obvious lure of the milk and honey and grapes of the developed world gradually erodes all ties which bound him to his nation, and that cement so often occasioned to the promise of wealth and power ensures that he stays in that country, becoming in essence a Diasporan, like many before him.
It would do well to advise that, I do not seek to attack the idea of the human person leaving the country of which he was born to seek a life of success somewhere else, the reader would do well to read on and understand the objectives of this piece.
A person in diaspora, as has been seen a thousand plus times, while in his quest for financial excellence and self-satisfaction, endeavours to send some of the spoils of his riches back home to those he left behind, all the while assuring them that he would soon return or, better still, that they would soon be moved to join him. This is commendable and brings to mind an image of the mother bird fetching worms from the dangerous outside world for her fledglings. But my article is not just about the diasporans, enough has been exhausted on them, this is also about those who have been left behind, those who remain in Nigeria.
In an idealistic poll carried out in any state or geopolity in this nation, using whatever demographies, the greatest percentage (about 65%) of Nigerians are desperate in one form or the other, to reach for greatness and travel abroad (in diaspora) to recover the golden fleece. Of the remaining 35%, most are content in some form with the world or nation they live in, (in this category fall our leaders and godfathers), and the rest just don't care.
In visa offices, immigration offices and embassies in Nigeria, we see thronging crowds of such people as the 65%, and the fever is palpable and the desire visible and at one glance, one can tell that once gone, these people would not fly over the airspace, not to talk of return to the shores of this country. But it is not them we are concerned about, not anymore. Volumes of pages have been written on this diasporan syndrome and I am not ready for mine to be classified in that degree. Rather, right now, I am concerned with the remaining 35%.
Like I intimated earlier, ogf this 35%, a certain degree does not care, (of this lot, abject poverty has beaten them to a level of submission where they are just about ignorant of the dates and time in which they even live), but some do so. Of those that are concerned about the diasporan movement, but do not want to relocate abroad, a number of factors come into play. What such factors are is constantly an issue for debate, but I will try to elucidate a few.
Some of these people, do not have the financial wherewithal to travel out of the country. It is the absence of these funds that makes them complacent to their ordeal and thus take up the mantle of self-righteousness and patriotism and claim a desire to remain in the country. But there exist a few, certain people who despite their ability to relocate if they will, choose to stay behind. And then we wonder, why do these Nigerians reject the diasporan trail?
Some would say it is patriotism and a desire to stay within their country, these are the liars. Another school of thought, one which I subscribe to, say they stay because of a sense of belonging and a sense of ownership. A sense of belonging to the a country and a constituent of the whole, and a sense of ownership of the country in that you constitute what without you will not be an existent whole.
And now again, we remember diaspora and the original concept behind it, and we ask ourselves, in a contemplation of the Diasporan trail and the Nigerian citizen, what is wrong and which is right; to travel or not to?
Still trying to analyse the connection between the Nigerian and the diaspora, we take a look at the Igbo people of the South-Eastern Nigeria. If I may digress a bit, years ago, the people of the East, like the Jews whom they claim as ancestors, moved also from their homelands to the outside. Now in present day Nigeria, it is typical to find an Igbo person in any geopolity, whether North or West. Within this very country, Igbo people, so long ago denied a country of theirs, Biafra, live in diaspora.
One might wonder, and I do so for I am a scientist, whether the longing or trend for the Igbo people to travel in search of greener pastures is due to the Jewish blood flowing in their veins; a macabre testament of their true ancestory or perhaps, it is the situation in which they have found themselves in this country that prompts them to move out.
A few weeks ago, before issues such as the SNC and 'derivation' started to clog ,our headlines, the menacing scourge of the Boko Haram and its prevalent effect on the Igbos was of maximum interest. And we wonder why it is that within their own nation, the Igbo people are so often threatened and oppressed? Is it that they have no land of their own? And what must be done to alleviate this fear and insecurity?
Still on the diasporan trail, a lesson should be taken from the old Jews and, closer to home, the Igbos. It is a common trend, and we have seen it often, that Igbos do not consider each other as haven 'arrived' until a house has been built in the village they come from. Whilst ignoring this as another 'proof' of Jewish ancestory, we recall that the old Jews took to the diaspora in search for milk and honey which they may transfer back to their people. Here in is the lesson, and it is a lesson to the 65% who have trudged up the diasporan trail and opted to remain there; Bring the resources and the milk and the honey back home. Do not consider yourself arrived until there is a 'house' in the Nation.
Arguably, the conditions in the country are relatively unfavourable, and indeed that is what prompted the diasporan spill in the first place. Nevertheless, reawaken the spirit of belonging and the spirit of ownership, and realise therefore the essence of the diasporan trail, and so find your way home.
A seasoned critic would read this article and poke a lot of holes saying; I write this because I am stuck in this nation and from a heart boiling over with jealousy, I have decided to slander. Maybe so, and I do not claim scientific viability of any of my theories, but in it all is truth. There is a purpose to the diasporan movement, and by now, I would have reminded you.
One of the issues lamented the most in the country we live in is the problem of the diasporan spill and the movement of Nigerians, especially Nigerian professionals to other countries where their talents and skills are utilised to the absolute bereft of their motherland. Originally perhaps, the Nigerian goes abroad to study, but the obvious lure of the milk and honey and grapes of the developed world gradually erodes all ties which bound him to his nation, and that cement so often occasioned to the promise of wealth and power ensures that he stays in that country, becoming in essence a Diasporan, like many before him.
It would do well to advise that, I do not seek to attack the idea of the human person leaving the country of which he was born to seek a life of success somewhere else, the reader would do well to read on and understand the objectives of this piece.
A person in diaspora, as has been seen a thousand plus times, while in his quest for financial excellence and self-satisfaction, endeavours to send some of the spoils of his riches back home to those he left behind, all the while assuring them that he would soon return or, better still, that they would soon be moved to join him. This is commendable and brings to mind an image of the mother bird fetching worms from the dangerous outside world for her fledglings. But my article is not just about the diasporans, enough has been exhausted on them, this is also about those who have been left behind, those who remain in Nigeria.
In an idealistic poll carried out in any state or geopolity in this nation, using whatever demographies, the greatest percentage (about 65%) of Nigerians are desperate in one form or the other, to reach for greatness and travel abroad (in diaspora) to recover the golden fleece. Of the remaining 35%, most are content in some form with the world or nation they live in, (in this category fall our leaders and godfathers), and the rest just don't care.
In visa offices, immigration offices and embassies in Nigeria, we see thronging crowds of such people as the 65%, and the fever is palpable and the desire visible and at one glance, one can tell that once gone, these people would not fly over the airspace, not to talk of return to the shores of this country. But it is not them we are concerned about, not anymore. Volumes of pages have been written on this diasporan syndrome and I am not ready for mine to be classified in that degree. Rather, right now, I am concerned with the remaining 35%.
Like I intimated earlier, ogf this 35%, a certain degree does not care, (of this lot, abject poverty has beaten them to a level of submission where they are just about ignorant of the dates and time in which they even live), but some do so. Of those that are concerned about the diasporan movement, but do not want to relocate abroad, a number of factors come into play. What such factors are is constantly an issue for debate, but I will try to elucidate a few.
Some of these people, do not have the financial wherewithal to travel out of the country. It is the absence of these funds that makes them complacent to their ordeal and thus take up the mantle of self-righteousness and patriotism and claim a desire to remain in the country. But there exist a few, certain people who despite their ability to relocate if they will, choose to stay behind. And then we wonder, why do these Nigerians reject the diasporan trail?
Some would say it is patriotism and a desire to stay within their country, these are the liars. Another school of thought, one which I subscribe to, say they stay because of a sense of belonging and a sense of ownership. A sense of belonging to the a country and a constituent of the whole, and a sense of ownership of the country in that you constitute what without you will not be an existent whole.
And now again, we remember diaspora and the original concept behind it, and we ask ourselves, in a contemplation of the Diasporan trail and the Nigerian citizen, what is wrong and which is right; to travel or not to?
Still trying to analyse the connection between the Nigerian and the diaspora, we take a look at the Igbo people of the South-Eastern Nigeria. If I may digress a bit, years ago, the people of the East, like the Jews whom they claim as ancestors, moved also from their homelands to the outside. Now in present day Nigeria, it is typical to find an Igbo person in any geopolity, whether North or West. Within this very country, Igbo people, so long ago denied a country of theirs, Biafra, live in diaspora.
One might wonder, and I do so for I am a scientist, whether the longing or trend for the Igbo people to travel in search of greener pastures is due to the Jewish blood flowing in their veins; a macabre testament of their true ancestory or perhaps, it is the situation in which they have found themselves in this country that prompts them to move out.
A few weeks ago, before issues such as the SNC and 'derivation' started to clog ,our headlines, the menacing scourge of the Boko Haram and its prevalent effect on the Igbos was of maximum interest. And we wonder why it is that within their own nation, the Igbo people are so often threatened and oppressed? Is it that they have no land of their own? And what must be done to alleviate this fear and insecurity?
Still on the diasporan trail, a lesson should be taken from the old Jews and, closer to home, the Igbos. It is a common trend, and we have seen it often, that Igbos do not consider each other as haven 'arrived' until a house has been built in the village they come from. Whilst ignoring this as another 'proof' of Jewish ancestory, we recall that the old Jews took to the diaspora in search for milk and honey which they may transfer back to their people. Here in is the lesson, and it is a lesson to the 65% who have trudged up the diasporan trail and opted to remain there; Bring the resources and the milk and the honey back home. Do not consider yourself arrived until there is a 'house' in the Nation.
Arguably, the conditions in the country are relatively unfavourable, and indeed that is what prompted the diasporan spill in the first place. Nevertheless, reawaken the spirit of belonging and the spirit of ownership, and realise therefore the essence of the diasporan trail, and so find your way home.
A seasoned critic would read this article and poke a lot of holes saying; I write this because I am stuck in this nation and from a heart boiling over with jealousy, I have decided to slander. Maybe so, and I do not claim scientific viability of any of my theories, but in it all is truth. There is a purpose to the diasporan movement, and by now, I would have reminded you.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
A Critical Review..
Ah! you will say, the clock has spun round and the time has come again, another opportunity for this foolish writer to complain and lambast on paper. But not today. For today i have seen the light, today i am here to say d truth. The irrefutable, it-pains-me-to-utter-this kind of truth. I would say the truth of my writing and i would not mince words. I challenge you to counter me, and I am secure that you will not. For if you do, you praise me. Though if you do not, you do also. But that is my bonus.
As an independent observer reading one of my pieces one day, I realised the inadequacies hidden behind every line I write. I play up my words with tunes of high pitches, gross embellishments and exaggerations, searching for deeper meaning where sometimes there is none. It is annoying to the seasoned reader when he takes up a piece of my work. What he views is a truckload of horsedung whose creator has merely clothed with finery. And as one idiotic fool said, that is the true definition of a writer. Ha! What does he know?
Never before have i been so disgusted as when i took up one of my works to read during one of my boring hours and all i saw was a pseudo-litany with sexual underlining. I shook my head and laughed at myself. What i was exhibiting was a shameless salesman technique where you give the people what it is that they want at the expense of literary morality. And that is just the tip of the iceberg.
Going further, on extremely boring days, i notice a trend which has begun to dog my work. The trend of addressing myself to the reader as though on a personal basis. What does that mean? Since when did that become artistic writing? As far as I am concerned that is a mere trick to grab the readers attention and keep him with you all through the article and that is just bullshit isn't it? Honestly, as far as i am concerned it takes a high level of intelligence to read anything I write, I may kid myself that it is because some of the offhanded phrases and lines I throw in along the way require past your basic intelligence, but I know better. And you do too. The reason why those who discard my articles claiming its unreadability do so is simply due to the length! I write for too long, using big words. And a piece is essentially supposed to be short and to the point. To justify myself I claim it is because, I get ideas more than the average man and hence have more material to work with, but you know better don't you? Or I could claim that the topics upon which I write are just too intelligent or even bourgeois for the common man to interprete. What insolence!
On most occasions I can be downright insulting and that I know. I end up coating my words in vernacular and slang to take the brunt of the insult but only after the damage is done. Some people call that brilliant journalism or a sort of diplomacy. I simply call it pretence. Why do I couch my words in hidden terms and double entrendres? Is that not more of an act of cowardice than a supreme style of writing? The writer should say what he wants to say, for he is the Fourth Estate, not a snivelling man hiding behind a curtain! Right?
When the subject matter shifts to girls, in a totally and quite typical male chauvinistic pig attitude I am highly critical and quite dirty. Even Oscar Wilde I fear will have a thing or two to say about me. I console myself saying, it will merely be jealousy which shall trouble his heart. But who knows such things?
The other day i took it upon myself to write a poem. Who send me? Who asked me to? I had not even recieved a wide acclaim for my articles. At the very most, about 500 people in the whole wide world knew I could spell out the words of an article. And I wanted to try on the highly exalted chair of the poet? Why? Because of a couple of romantic pieces I had written once or twice which earned me some two-bit fame? Hmmph! I amuse even myself.
There exist a lot of people in this world and of this number, a very few of them are storytellers. Into this small circle is where I sought to throw myself. The annoying, and by that I mean, really annoying part is, I am no good at it! If i was, then i wouldn't have needed to try convincing my editor of the worthiness of my novel, (he should have simply caught on right away). I would have more subscribers following my blog (maybe like 50, 000 ) and even in the days when we were young and we sat on the bunks and told stories, I would have a listening group of 90 people, rather than a loose collection of friends who obviously were waiting for me to round up (out of courtesy) so they could go do something more interesting like solve further mathematics.
This is the truth and I say it plainly, I cannot claim to be a master of magic and spin webs of words around your heads and keep you so enthralled you'll gladly lie at my feet just to feel the words pour out for a thousand years. No! I simply write and apparently, somewhere deep within your crazy souls (you have to be crazy to read from me), there is a need to hear something no one else can give you. I will always provide for that need. I cannot but do so.
I have criticized myself. You have been duly warned. You read on at your peril.
Nevertheless, do!
As an independent observer reading one of my pieces one day, I realised the inadequacies hidden behind every line I write. I play up my words with tunes of high pitches, gross embellishments and exaggerations, searching for deeper meaning where sometimes there is none. It is annoying to the seasoned reader when he takes up a piece of my work. What he views is a truckload of horsedung whose creator has merely clothed with finery. And as one idiotic fool said, that is the true definition of a writer. Ha! What does he know?
Never before have i been so disgusted as when i took up one of my works to read during one of my boring hours and all i saw was a pseudo-litany with sexual underlining. I shook my head and laughed at myself. What i was exhibiting was a shameless salesman technique where you give the people what it is that they want at the expense of literary morality. And that is just the tip of the iceberg.
Going further, on extremely boring days, i notice a trend which has begun to dog my work. The trend of addressing myself to the reader as though on a personal basis. What does that mean? Since when did that become artistic writing? As far as I am concerned that is a mere trick to grab the readers attention and keep him with you all through the article and that is just bullshit isn't it? Honestly, as far as i am concerned it takes a high level of intelligence to read anything I write, I may kid myself that it is because some of the offhanded phrases and lines I throw in along the way require past your basic intelligence, but I know better. And you do too. The reason why those who discard my articles claiming its unreadability do so is simply due to the length! I write for too long, using big words. And a piece is essentially supposed to be short and to the point. To justify myself I claim it is because, I get ideas more than the average man and hence have more material to work with, but you know better don't you? Or I could claim that the topics upon which I write are just too intelligent or even bourgeois for the common man to interprete. What insolence!
On most occasions I can be downright insulting and that I know. I end up coating my words in vernacular and slang to take the brunt of the insult but only after the damage is done. Some people call that brilliant journalism or a sort of diplomacy. I simply call it pretence. Why do I couch my words in hidden terms and double entrendres? Is that not more of an act of cowardice than a supreme style of writing? The writer should say what he wants to say, for he is the Fourth Estate, not a snivelling man hiding behind a curtain! Right?
When the subject matter shifts to girls, in a totally and quite typical male chauvinistic pig attitude I am highly critical and quite dirty. Even Oscar Wilde I fear will have a thing or two to say about me. I console myself saying, it will merely be jealousy which shall trouble his heart. But who knows such things?
The other day i took it upon myself to write a poem. Who send me? Who asked me to? I had not even recieved a wide acclaim for my articles. At the very most, about 500 people in the whole wide world knew I could spell out the words of an article. And I wanted to try on the highly exalted chair of the poet? Why? Because of a couple of romantic pieces I had written once or twice which earned me some two-bit fame? Hmmph! I amuse even myself.
There exist a lot of people in this world and of this number, a very few of them are storytellers. Into this small circle is where I sought to throw myself. The annoying, and by that I mean, really annoying part is, I am no good at it! If i was, then i wouldn't have needed to try convincing my editor of the worthiness of my novel, (he should have simply caught on right away). I would have more subscribers following my blog (maybe like 50, 000 ) and even in the days when we were young and we sat on the bunks and told stories, I would have a listening group of 90 people, rather than a loose collection of friends who obviously were waiting for me to round up (out of courtesy) so they could go do something more interesting like solve further mathematics.
This is the truth and I say it plainly, I cannot claim to be a master of magic and spin webs of words around your heads and keep you so enthralled you'll gladly lie at my feet just to feel the words pour out for a thousand years. No! I simply write and apparently, somewhere deep within your crazy souls (you have to be crazy to read from me), there is a need to hear something no one else can give you. I will always provide for that need. I cannot but do so.
I have criticized myself. You have been duly warned. You read on at your peril.
Nevertheless, do!
A night's dream..
Like a streak of silver, the shimmering ephemeral substance shoots through the clouds heading higher and higher past the gravity barrier, and into space. Moving with the force of a thousand kilotons and at the speed of light, the light whisper of a breeze zooms past the sun moving faster and faster through the seemingly endless vista of space, crossing completely the time-space continuum, till it reaches golden gates...
"Welcome," says the guard, steel helmeted with the red and purple crest of royalty, a golden breastplate across his frame, a blade of fire and light and wind in his hands, and wrapped in place of a cape on his back, wide pearly-white wings. The gates swing back open, and floating through, lighter than a feather, the ephemeral form steps onto golden streets.
There is a soft music upon the air, the meshing of various instruments and voices in constant crescendo, all into harmonious melody with perfect symphony. Yet, it is a quiet sound; there, yet not there, and the music swells and falls, rises and rolls, an atmosphere of music that seems to rise into nothingness. And the ghostly form seems to resonate in time with the sound.
Gliding down narrow streets and wide alleys, roads all paved in gold and inlaid in precious stones and jewels, floating in the sound of the ethereal music, the shimmering substance comes upon a place more beautiful than all previously seen. From within seems to issue the music which so enthrals its entire being. Floating forward as though drawn by invisible cords, the ghost comes upon an incredible throne room. In here, the atmosphere of music is more pronounced, as tangible as a sweet scent upon the air. From the throne a white light so bright, pulsating with so much quality and brilliance, the essence of all that is, all that would be..
And suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, the ephemeral substance, light as a cloud, is yanked back with a force greater than anything conceivable. Tossed back, through the halls, and out into the golden streets, falling, falling out the gates and through the sun, back to the clouds and into my bed.
And so I woke.
"Welcome," says the guard, steel helmeted with the red and purple crest of royalty, a golden breastplate across his frame, a blade of fire and light and wind in his hands, and wrapped in place of a cape on his back, wide pearly-white wings. The gates swing back open, and floating through, lighter than a feather, the ephemeral form steps onto golden streets.
There is a soft music upon the air, the meshing of various instruments and voices in constant crescendo, all into harmonious melody with perfect symphony. Yet, it is a quiet sound; there, yet not there, and the music swells and falls, rises and rolls, an atmosphere of music that seems to rise into nothingness. And the ghostly form seems to resonate in time with the sound.
Gliding down narrow streets and wide alleys, roads all paved in gold and inlaid in precious stones and jewels, floating in the sound of the ethereal music, the shimmering substance comes upon a place more beautiful than all previously seen. From within seems to issue the music which so enthrals its entire being. Floating forward as though drawn by invisible cords, the ghost comes upon an incredible throne room. In here, the atmosphere of music is more pronounced, as tangible as a sweet scent upon the air. From the throne a white light so bright, pulsating with so much quality and brilliance, the essence of all that is, all that would be..
And suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, the ephemeral substance, light as a cloud, is yanked back with a force greater than anything conceivable. Tossed back, through the halls, and out into the golden streets, falling, falling out the gates and through the sun, back to the clouds and into my bed.
And so I woke.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Adieu Papa..
It's been a while now. It's twelve years since you left us, twelve years since they said you translated to glory. I miss you now like I always have. I never really knew you. I was a kid when u left. My memories of you are pale pictures of your wide grin, the grin they say I took. Time has gone, yet like that fateful day, my eyes well up and my voice cracks. I miss you old man, I wish I could have known you. The things we would have done together. My first story award, my first driving lesson, my first matriculation, my first degree, my first convocation. All the times when your advice would have been critical.
I still see your smile in my head, I see it in the mirror each time I smile. I miss you Dad.
Dedicated to John O. Anenih
I still see your smile in my head, I see it in the mirror each time I smile. I miss you Dad.
Dedicated to John O. Anenih
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The Love of a god..
It's amazing when I think about it, think about the feelings I have for you; their depth, their inconsistence. Left alone, I would hold unto you, tightly, grasping with the whole of me, holding tight to you, as tight as I can. Left to me...
Deep though my thoughts towards you; fated though our paths may be - for I have seen you in my head, imagined you as you are far before I saw you; beautiful though we may seem together; sometimes I cannot but wonder if it isn't too good to be true.
I've been alone for a very long time, quiet and hidden in the stars that have become my home. Up above the realm of mortals, clothed in the clouds, my vision the fire and colour that only the immortals can see. Right there, hidden and surrounded in my loneliness and comforted in the solace of cynicism, cold to love and romance and open only to logic and pragmatism, that was when I saw you.
Looking down from the stars, in the heavens I had made my lonely home, I saw you. Beautiful maiden, my light in the darkness the world had become. And so I came down, replesendent in all my glory, clothed in all the finery of the gods, winged and beautiful. And you worshipped me. I showered love and you fell and adored me in return. It was a wonderful time I spent with you, a few months by your time, an eternity for me. But the longer I stayed on Earth with you, the more my finery eroded and my wings disappeared, soon, I was no more than a man in your eyes. And you would never love a man.
How could you love me then? Now that I am a mere man..
I knew what I risked when I dared to love you, I knew what the consequences would be. I would gladly give all of my eternity for you, sacrificing immortality, giving up my seat with the gods, abandoning my goddess.
My splendour is gone now. You, my love, is gone too. I know the gods would take me back, but how to go, when to go, IF to go is the question.
There is only one more avenue left to me. As I stare at the dagger in my hand everything is clear. On the hilt I have engraved 'LoVe', when the blade pierces my heart that is all that would be left. It is over for me now, a mortal's end.
Deep though my thoughts towards you; fated though our paths may be - for I have seen you in my head, imagined you as you are far before I saw you; beautiful though we may seem together; sometimes I cannot but wonder if it isn't too good to be true.
I've been alone for a very long time, quiet and hidden in the stars that have become my home. Up above the realm of mortals, clothed in the clouds, my vision the fire and colour that only the immortals can see. Right there, hidden and surrounded in my loneliness and comforted in the solace of cynicism, cold to love and romance and open only to logic and pragmatism, that was when I saw you.
Looking down from the stars, in the heavens I had made my lonely home, I saw you. Beautiful maiden, my light in the darkness the world had become. And so I came down, replesendent in all my glory, clothed in all the finery of the gods, winged and beautiful. And you worshipped me. I showered love and you fell and adored me in return. It was a wonderful time I spent with you, a few months by your time, an eternity for me. But the longer I stayed on Earth with you, the more my finery eroded and my wings disappeared, soon, I was no more than a man in your eyes. And you would never love a man.
How could you love me then? Now that I am a mere man..
I knew what I risked when I dared to love you, I knew what the consequences would be. I would gladly give all of my eternity for you, sacrificing immortality, giving up my seat with the gods, abandoning my goddess.
My splendour is gone now. You, my love, is gone too. I know the gods would take me back, but how to go, when to go, IF to go is the question.
There is only one more avenue left to me. As I stare at the dagger in my hand everything is clear. On the hilt I have engraved 'LoVe', when the blade pierces my heart that is all that would be left. It is over for me now, a mortal's end.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
All in a day's job!
And so it happened that this morning, I set upon to do some hard labour, yes, me. I had not planned to, but yesterday as I entered into my mother's compound, there were several mounds of sand, each constituting a trip, standing forlornly in a scattered row. The matter was simple; the sand was not going to stay there forever, it had to be spread. And naturally, mother was happy to have me home.
For the benefit of the 'uneducated', a trip of sand is essentially a big tipper lorry-load of sand/dirt/soil. In this case, the sand was of the laterite variety, the kind used to fill low/marshy lands and that which is found naturally in Edo state.
Long ago, as the myths read, the cause of the reddish nature of the (laterite) soil found in the Benin kingdom was due to the blood of several giants who had been slain by the ancient Obas when the land was claimed by the Bini people. Blood of giants or not, this morning as I stared at the mounds of sand and the shovels sticking out of them, I knew they had to be spread. The method was simple, (shovel up the dirt, spread it anywhere you see), the task however would not be.
One of my older cousins was around(bless his soul!) and the man is built like an ox's elder brother. Already, before I had even stood from bed, he had demolished a mound and was bent over, powerfully attacking another. Grabbing a shovel, I stepped forward like some Roman general about to attack Carthage and dived on the closest mound. It took only fifteen minutes.
Now, I want to explain something here. Broad-shouldered, quite handsome and (ehm..) 'not short' I may be, I'm not exactly of the Ox variety. So one cannot expect me to demolish a mound all by myself! So fifteen minutes after I started, I stopped. Don't judge! I had blisters for pete's sake!
Now, my fingers and palm are built for writing and drawing with steel-nibbed pens, typing on keypads and caressing the finer lines of beautiful women (another days story!), not for holding shovels!!! All in all, I had to then get some bandage and wrap my hands before continuing work. Yes, I did!
The work continued beautifully, then, one of the tenants who owns an electronic repairs store came over with a couple of his guys. Maybe they thought it was easy work, the way they saw me shoveling heap after heap of sand in perfect see-saw motion, all muscle-rippling and all that(yezzbozz!). In their minds, they were like, "See beans!"(Mscheeew..)Ok, I'm just being ungrateful. At any rate they joined in, and work moved faster. Then one other guy came over and stood by us and began pouring wisdom.
At first no one listened while the guy gave us the latest in Edo politics, it was when he started giving advice on how a combination of coconut sap and lime juice can cure HIV/AIDS and how years ago, he once used just white sand with no cement to build a skyscraper! that we really started laughing. In the end, the work finished on time and we ordered for five more trips.
As I sat on the sand later on, typing this and wondering if I'll ever lose these callouses and blisters, I marvelled to myself; this is what men even younger than me do as half a days job. A feat, or ordeal (lol), that had nearly killed me, was food to another man's table. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, I thanked my stars and counted my blessings.
Now I'm rested, and there's a mound of..eba! before me, All in a day's job!
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