"Once upon a time, there was a Prince and he lived in a castle. This Prince had long hair and his friends called him Rapunze. At least they would have, if he had any friends. However, this Prince, Prince Rapunze was a loner and stayed alone in his castle using his long hair to make objects to amuse him (hats, stockings, a doll..). And yeah, he used his hair to masturbate too. Not his fault really, he was alone in the castle with nothing else to do. One day he decided to do something different. He decided.."
Bleh!
I wonder how people who write such stories get an audience. In situations like that, you wonder whether it is the writer's fault or the fault of the reader, coping with that trash. Anyway, I don't write like that, and if you're reading this right now, you probably know that already.
http://bit.ly/IXy58s
Wait! Before you go clicking on that link,(nothing would happen anyway), hear me out a second. This is important. *dramatic pause* This may be the shortest post I've ever written on this blog, asides maybe 'Isolated Words'..but that was a poem. Anyway, I have a new blog. Yeah..*sigh* After, two years and over 60 posts (some have been deleted), since April of 2010, I have decided to leave ' All in a Life's journey..' and move on.*sniff* It has not been an easy choice, I naturally tend to stick to whatever I have, (except maybe women), but certain circumstances have persuaded the change in base.
Blogger.com which hosts this blog, like y'all know has a few, uhm, quirks especially concerning sharing and comments (NB: this is a free blog. I'm pretty certain the paid blogs do not have this problem). You've related to me a coupla times about how hard it is to share and comment on my posts, so to accomodate as usual, I decided to switch address. Not that wordpress.com is perfect, but then..
http://www.aljanusi.wordpress.com
Do not bother clicking again!
I really am going to miss 'All in a Life's journey..', I'm thinking maybe once in a while, I'll write up something special just for this blog. She's my first love anyway.
From me here, the Writer; Mr Janus, it's Asta la vista, and see you in ------> http://aljanusi.wordpress.com
Now, you can copy, paste, click..
PS: I hope bloggers.com don't sue me for this..#okbye
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Bessie...
It sounds like; "Help me..save me.." but it keeps getting fainter and fainter, the sounds disappearing as though vanishing into some unknown abyss. And then without warning, the deep voice echoes out of the darkness; "She's mine now.." Then the voice laughs, a cruel, hideous cackle that chills my bones and jolts me awake.
It was a dream. But it was reality.
Pushing away my blanket, I stretch my hand to the other side of the bed. It is cold. Cold and empty. She's gone. Gone right before my eyes. My heart grows sad and a deep pit forms in my stomach. Thus begins my day, as it has been for weeks now.
Breakfast is a blur. I eat the food, but I don't see it. Spoonful after spoonful of cereal entering my mouth in programmed motions. I am conscious of hunger, but I have no appetite. The simple joy of eating has fled me, and what I once loved is now mere activity. I keep remembering that day. I keep seeing her face. It was all my fault.
As she walked out the door that morning in March, I knew. I am not clairvoyant, but I swear I knew as she walked out that she wasn't coming back. She wasn't..not except I went after her. Except I ran after her. But I didn't. I am stubborn and now I see where that has gotten me. I remember that day.
Tears warm my cheeks as I drive to work. My concentration is split, but experience and instinct prevent accident. Not like I care. What do I work for? Who do I work for now that she's gone? Why bother? I smile a little. Those were my thoughts in those late days of March; Why bother? I drowned myself in alcohol then though, with a cluster of friends and a bevy of ladies to assist in drinking my booze and spending my money. Those were hazy days, the hours merging into one another. The stupor helped me forget, until morning and night were only differentiated by hangovers. Until I saw her.
A car is honking behind me. It seems I am driving too slow. I don't blame the driver, he never had and lost what I had. No one else did. No one else... When I saw her, I stopped. I was in one of my more lucid moments when I saw her. I saw her in a picture. A picture of me and my Bessie. My partner..
The memories come flooding in. I and Bessie had been together for so long. We understood each other, we spoke a language only us could understand. At first my friends didn't approve of her and our bond, but in time they too grew to like and love her. We went everywhere together. She protected me, I loved her; it was simple. Until that day.
The memory hurts so much I squeeze my eyes to hold back the tears. The job had been telling on me. I was working late hours and Bessie didn't like it. She let me know, but I wouldn't care. Then that morning, she just walked out. I called her, but she ignored me. I called out her name, but she just looked at me with those big brown, puppy eyes and kept moving. She wanted me to get up from my desk. To come after her. But I am stubborn. I stuck to my Microsoft Excel sheets and I waited for her, but she never came back. It's been four weeks now. She never came back.
My cheeks are wet again, the tears flow freely now as I drive into my office parking lot and remember our picture. We had taken it right there. The picture of me and my Bessie. Me and my dog. Bessie the dog...
Friday, April 13, 2012
The Last Friday
I never really believed in ghost stories. I had heard them since I was a little kid, but I knew the truth. Those tales were just a bunch of crap to scare children with. And I wasn't about to let myself get scared. So even when Mum died three hours after her twin sister, my friend Femi keeps waking up in places he couldn't have been able to enter, and Dad gets those phone calls from his dead best friend every New Year, I still wouldn't believe in ghosts.
That is, until today.
When I woke this morning, everything was normal. My alarm rang on time, the sun rose perfectly and the birds outside were chirping the usual song. My phone notification light was blinking, so I checked the messages: same old, Friday the 13th spoofs. As I swung my feet over the bed to the floor, I woke again. My alarm rang. As I looked out the window, the sun rose and the birds started chirping. Everything was the same. Picking up my phone, I read the messages. The same. Chalking it up as de-javu, I threw off my clothes and walked into the bathroom. Nothing was going to foul up my day. If only I knew how wrong I was.
Friday has my most lax timetable, so I took my time preparing for class. After an easy shower, I turned on the stereo; time to psych myself for the day ahead. It was while I brushed my teeth, the metal sounds from Linkin Park setting the theme for my day, that I felt the chill. In all the movies, when a ghost is about to appear, everywhere fogs up and the hero's breath curls out of his mouth in mists. Not in real life.
Without warning my lungs suddenly felt dry, like an icy hand was squeezing the life out of my chest. I would have screamed but I had no breath to. Stumbling out of the bathroom into my room in search of an inhaler, I heard a voice.
"Janus.."
"Ja..nus.."
The voice seemed to rise and fall in a sibilant whisper. All else was silent, the sounds of the birds and Linkin Park all muted to the background. All I could hear was that scary voice and the slow thumping of my beating heart. Then as quickly as it had started, it ended. The hand seemed to lose its grip on my heart, and I fell to the floor right in front of the speakers, as Linkin Park blasted out, "Easier to run". Heart pumping wildly, I picked myself from the floor and grabbed my inhaler. As I inhaled deeply, the cool air giving life to my lungs, I thought to myself: "It was just an attack, it was just an attack.." I had no idea how true those words would prove.
In the back of the shuttle bus on my way to class, I kept replaying the mornings events in my head. I could not help the feeling that I was being warned. But by whom, and for what? My phone beeped. It was another Friday the 13th broadcast. This one however had a most sinister twist to it. Apparently, every Friday the 13th, a 2nd son and 13th grandchild in any family was claimed by the Devil. Usually, broadcast messages are not specific, but it was not only the specificity of this message that got my attention. I am the 2nd son of my parents! Though, I am the 11th grandchild; my father's parents had only 12 grandchildren. Breathing a sigh of relief that somebody invented family planning, I deleted the message and relaxed for the first time since I stepped out of bed. At the most, Friday the 13th was a day of bad luck, and the worst was over, the day couldn't get any worse. I closed my eyes.
The sound of screeching tires snapped me out of my reverie. Throwing my eyes wide open, I stared out through the windscreen. Right in front of the shuttle, a truck carrying iron rods and building materials suddenly lost control. Brakes squealing, the vehicle smashed into a drain at the side of the road, spewing bricks, wood, nails and rods into the road. The driver of the shuttle, swerved to avoid the still skidding truck, but was too late to dodge the contents. The bus rode over a bed of nails and the tires exploded, dragging the vehicle into a spin before crashing into a signpost. The windscreens exploded, showering glass everywhere while the passengers screamed and struggled to get off the bus. And then suddenly, like before, all went quiet and my heart ceased to beat. In the window was a face. She was young, and pale green. Her hair seemed to wave in the breeze, thin tendrils that crossed her face and reached down to her neck. Her eyes were holes; lid-less sockets that seemed to beckon me into the darkness behind. As I stared in disbelief, blood rushing down the side of my head, the ghostly apparition disappeared and my heart started to beat again.
The whole Friday the 13th thing has got to be a joke. There is no way a trail of bad luck could just be following someone; could just be following me. It just had to be coincidence. Those were the thoughts in my mind as I walked out of the Emergency Room at the Health Centre, a gigantic bandage wrapped around my head. Nevertheless, I could still see the face of that girl, her hollow sockets which had stared and stared at me, the face contorted like she wanted to scream at me, but she had no tongue, no voice. I shivered.
It was raining outside. The dark clouds covered the sky, angry and foreboding, unleashing torrent upon torrent of angry rainfall. I stood beneath the porch, my hand resting on the wet wall, contemplating whether to brave the weather and try to get a taxi to take me home. Then a taxi drove up, releasing its passengers. Seeing my chance, I made to dash through the rain when suddenly, a large rat jumped out of the hedge in front of me. The shock caused me to reel back. The rat saved my life. With a flash of white light, lightening sizzled down from the skies, striking the very spot I would have been standing. The electricity crackled the air, the current rushing up the wall where I rested my hand, the force tossing me 3ft into the air. As I landed on the floor, there was a dull thud beside me, and right in front of my eyes were the charred remains of the rat that saved my life. I screamed. As I blacked out, I could hear the rumbling echoes of clashing thunder.
I woke up in my room.
My friend had brought me home in his Mum's car. The storm had subsided now and he had to return the vehicle. He put on the TV and promised to come back immediately. So I lay on the bed, covered in bruises and bandages, wondering how my day had deteriorated so badly. The morning had been perfect, how could everything have gone so wrong? As I sobbed softly, I decided to call my Dad. He always knew what to do. He picked almost immediately, and I told him everything that had happened since I woke.
"Why is this happening to me Dad? Why me? I'm not even the 13th grandchild!"
Even as I said those words, my mouth froze in mid-scream. For, right there on TV was the girl who I had seen, the one who had called to me. It was a 'Missing Persons' report. She had been missing since January; January 13, and there was a reward for whoever found her. But no one would ever find her, 'cause she was dead. And I knew how. I tried to stifle a sob. And then I heard my Dad's voice on the phone:
"..technically, you are the 13th grandchild, two of your cousins died before you could know them.."
I heard a loud crack, but I didn't look up. My eyes were fixed on the TV. I knew what had happened. The ceiling fan had loosened from its place and the blades were falling and spinning out of control, spinning in their deadly cycle, aiming for my head.
On the screen, the girl was smiling. Dead and smiling. Dead..
I woke again. The alarm rang, the sun rose, the birds chirped..
"Ja..nus.."
That is, until today.
When I woke this morning, everything was normal. My alarm rang on time, the sun rose perfectly and the birds outside were chirping the usual song. My phone notification light was blinking, so I checked the messages: same old, Friday the 13th spoofs. As I swung my feet over the bed to the floor, I woke again. My alarm rang. As I looked out the window, the sun rose and the birds started chirping. Everything was the same. Picking up my phone, I read the messages. The same. Chalking it up as de-javu, I threw off my clothes and walked into the bathroom. Nothing was going to foul up my day. If only I knew how wrong I was.
Friday has my most lax timetable, so I took my time preparing for class. After an easy shower, I turned on the stereo; time to psych myself for the day ahead. It was while I brushed my teeth, the metal sounds from Linkin Park setting the theme for my day, that I felt the chill. In all the movies, when a ghost is about to appear, everywhere fogs up and the hero's breath curls out of his mouth in mists. Not in real life.
Without warning my lungs suddenly felt dry, like an icy hand was squeezing the life out of my chest. I would have screamed but I had no breath to. Stumbling out of the bathroom into my room in search of an inhaler, I heard a voice.
"Janus.."
"Ja..nus.."
The voice seemed to rise and fall in a sibilant whisper. All else was silent, the sounds of the birds and Linkin Park all muted to the background. All I could hear was that scary voice and the slow thumping of my beating heart. Then as quickly as it had started, it ended. The hand seemed to lose its grip on my heart, and I fell to the floor right in front of the speakers, as Linkin Park blasted out, "Easier to run". Heart pumping wildly, I picked myself from the floor and grabbed my inhaler. As I inhaled deeply, the cool air giving life to my lungs, I thought to myself: "It was just an attack, it was just an attack.." I had no idea how true those words would prove.
In the back of the shuttle bus on my way to class, I kept replaying the mornings events in my head. I could not help the feeling that I was being warned. But by whom, and for what? My phone beeped. It was another Friday the 13th broadcast. This one however had a most sinister twist to it. Apparently, every Friday the 13th, a 2nd son and 13th grandchild in any family was claimed by the Devil. Usually, broadcast messages are not specific, but it was not only the specificity of this message that got my attention. I am the 2nd son of my parents! Though, I am the 11th grandchild; my father's parents had only 12 grandchildren. Breathing a sigh of relief that somebody invented family planning, I deleted the message and relaxed for the first time since I stepped out of bed. At the most, Friday the 13th was a day of bad luck, and the worst was over, the day couldn't get any worse. I closed my eyes.
The sound of screeching tires snapped me out of my reverie. Throwing my eyes wide open, I stared out through the windscreen. Right in front of the shuttle, a truck carrying iron rods and building materials suddenly lost control. Brakes squealing, the vehicle smashed into a drain at the side of the road, spewing bricks, wood, nails and rods into the road. The driver of the shuttle, swerved to avoid the still skidding truck, but was too late to dodge the contents. The bus rode over a bed of nails and the tires exploded, dragging the vehicle into a spin before crashing into a signpost. The windscreens exploded, showering glass everywhere while the passengers screamed and struggled to get off the bus. And then suddenly, like before, all went quiet and my heart ceased to beat. In the window was a face. She was young, and pale green. Her hair seemed to wave in the breeze, thin tendrils that crossed her face and reached down to her neck. Her eyes were holes; lid-less sockets that seemed to beckon me into the darkness behind. As I stared in disbelief, blood rushing down the side of my head, the ghostly apparition disappeared and my heart started to beat again.
The whole Friday the 13th thing has got to be a joke. There is no way a trail of bad luck could just be following someone; could just be following me. It just had to be coincidence. Those were the thoughts in my mind as I walked out of the Emergency Room at the Health Centre, a gigantic bandage wrapped around my head. Nevertheless, I could still see the face of that girl, her hollow sockets which had stared and stared at me, the face contorted like she wanted to scream at me, but she had no tongue, no voice. I shivered.
It was raining outside. The dark clouds covered the sky, angry and foreboding, unleashing torrent upon torrent of angry rainfall. I stood beneath the porch, my hand resting on the wet wall, contemplating whether to brave the weather and try to get a taxi to take me home. Then a taxi drove up, releasing its passengers. Seeing my chance, I made to dash through the rain when suddenly, a large rat jumped out of the hedge in front of me. The shock caused me to reel back. The rat saved my life. With a flash of white light, lightening sizzled down from the skies, striking the very spot I would have been standing. The electricity crackled the air, the current rushing up the wall where I rested my hand, the force tossing me 3ft into the air. As I landed on the floor, there was a dull thud beside me, and right in front of my eyes were the charred remains of the rat that saved my life. I screamed. As I blacked out, I could hear the rumbling echoes of clashing thunder.
I woke up in my room.
My friend had brought me home in his Mum's car. The storm had subsided now and he had to return the vehicle. He put on the TV and promised to come back immediately. So I lay on the bed, covered in bruises and bandages, wondering how my day had deteriorated so badly. The morning had been perfect, how could everything have gone so wrong? As I sobbed softly, I decided to call my Dad. He always knew what to do. He picked almost immediately, and I told him everything that had happened since I woke.
"Why is this happening to me Dad? Why me? I'm not even the 13th grandchild!"
Even as I said those words, my mouth froze in mid-scream. For, right there on TV was the girl who I had seen, the one who had called to me. It was a 'Missing Persons' report. She had been missing since January; January 13, and there was a reward for whoever found her. But no one would ever find her, 'cause she was dead. And I knew how. I tried to stifle a sob. And then I heard my Dad's voice on the phone:
"..technically, you are the 13th grandchild, two of your cousins died before you could know them.."
I heard a loud crack, but I didn't look up. My eyes were fixed on the TV. I knew what had happened. The ceiling fan had loosened from its place and the blades were falling and spinning out of control, spinning in their deadly cycle, aiming for my head.
On the screen, the girl was smiling. Dead and smiling. Dead..
I woke again. The alarm rang, the sun rose, the birds chirped..
"Ja..nus.."
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Isolated words..
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.
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.
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.
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