Thursday, September 18, 2014

History Makers and Wind Breakers

How would you feel when you are trying so hard to hold in a fart in a stuffed up bus then someone else decides to relieve themselves on you? I bet you will find your resolve weaken consistently until you yourself mix the air with a mess of your own making. That is exactly how corruption is in Nigeria. There are people that are trying so hard to avoid the temptation of looting public funds, so they can deliver quality public service. But along comes someone whose value system starts and ends in their stomach, that just lets out the ooze of their corruption and what do you think happens to the guy that is holding in his fart? The usual way of things is that the most honorable of them all usually lets out their gas slowly and hope that the intensity of the stench they offer stays a layer just beneath that of the guy that has spearheaded our collective suffering.

And therein lies the impact that fosters a breakdown of good intentions, the kind that pave the way to hell. The examples that we have been left to follow allow us to let out our less lethal farts in a place where the air is poisoned with the farts of our leaders past. 
I bet there are a bunch of guys that are running for office in 2015 thinking that well, I am going to make a difference. I will be accountable and transparent. I will be a revolutionary leader and Nigeria will remember me as a history maker. I believe that is possible, but you have to know what you are up against when you roll with that line of thought. You are going against a culture of corruption that has been established since 1960. And I realize that you imagine you will walk in there without even a fart up your ass. But know that the farts of the majority might just poison your stomach and if you choose to hold that fart in and be a history maker not a wind breaker, remember that the difference may not be clear if the whole air is poisoned. Clear the air and you can breath fresh air (not the one they sold us the last time), and ensure that you yourself are not poisoned by it. 

Monday, September 15, 2014

Freedom or writing, same thing...

I was going to start by asking how I got here. But I know very well how I got here, so there is no point bullshitting anyone. That's another thing, I swear a lot, most times in my head. I am very violent too, in my head that is. There a lot of things that go on in my head and that may shed some light as to how I got here, being a writer I mean. See, in my head I can easily travel the full spectrum of human and well maybe some immortal personalities, but how are you gonna fit all that into social interactions? No, conventional wisdom (that fucker) dictates that we be as consistent as we can be with such things that can be used to identify us as personality. It helps the observer (pretty much anyone with an opinion about you) to place us in the portion of the spectrum they are familiar with and perhaps predict the most salient and expected outcomes. See, it provides some sense of security (mostly emotional) for them. And you on the other hand want to be accepted, and people you threaten natural do not accept you. Seems like a bad bargain for me, but that's just me, I have no urgent need to be accepted. I am fine being the lonely exception, one more evidence that makes me look upon conventional wisdom with contempt. 
As usual, I start off like I've got a subject matter then I watch myself fly into every direction possible. Hey, try and change me! Cos this is what I called freedom. That I can fully dish out a thought and communicate crystals of intellect that my mind harbors. I'll stay on conventional wisdom for a bit so that I can find myself the much overrated closure. See conventional wisdom is some trick by immortals to suppress the rest of us (I have to identify with you guys yo!). They throw a net over us and suggest clearly that we can't venture past the boundaries. A few people go past the boundaries but only a handful get more than the foreplay. Those guys are facing the greatest oppression from those immortals they look better than. I'll like to drop this here and get back to my original thing cos my thoughts are starting to train on immortals.
That is another thing. How exactly is it that I can say some of these things I do with some measure of conviction, I know that my expressions may take away their essence (they are purer in my head). And I do not even have any reference or facts to back them up. I'll just wait for them to materialize in this reality or a parallel one. Maybe knowledge might just be a continuum. The bible clearly states that there is nothing new under the sun, so I guess we are all in a circle of knowledge. What seems newly discovered is simply a deeper search into something that was already there.
I will hold my pen here. But just so we are clear, I was just writing for writing sakes, you know, to get my writing juices flowing once again, freedom it is called, I believe!


I hear silence
I hear the streams of nothingness bounce off the walls of my mind
This stillness plays a familiar tone I have come to know
It beats the dud rhythms that I identify with more often than not
But I have to defy the articles of the law to do some justice to it
The true laws of grammar and the way of words
Permit me also to scale the walls of conventional literature
Do not be offended by my rebellion of everything conventional
I just don’t buy that shit
Now with words of a king I am here to proclaim silence my queen
She waits for me as I draw away from the world and mankind
She is always patient to make sure that we are both alone
I remember when I first met her
It was a long time ago, about my earliest memories
It was when I was first plagued by consciousness
When I first realized I had feet and teeth
Silence was my first love
Always there to embrace me when the world declared itself my enemy
She saved me when I was drowning in all the bullshit around me
She kissed me with the deepest passion when loneliness made mockery of me
Yes, silence is my first love
And we’ve both had a long thing going for a long time coming
One time, we had our unusual lovers’ spat and I turned to my brother for help
He rained my praises everywhere I went
And she got jealous, I couldn’t understand why
She was always jealous of people that posed no threat to her
So she made enemies with everyone and everything
My brother, my family, my friends, school, I mean everything that you can put together in words
I didn’t realize she had left me until one time when I needed her
When everyone around me seemed to fornicate with foolishness
And dwelt only on the surface of things
I have to admit that I floated to the surface too
Maybe that was why we had the problem
I took out my weight and just left her in the deep and went my way
Their way, the way of the world
Until I found that I couldn’t do without her
That my whole essence depended on her
That with her I could find the completeness that I sought
Then I started to seek her
I started to crave her voice
And all those conversations we had with no words
I remembered once again, all the peace she offered
And her selfless love, the kind I was counting on to help me find her now.
 And that memory did serve a good purpose
Slowly I started to ebb down that familiar road to her house
I closed up the books, turned off my friends
Made my way to the gate and boarded a cab home
I rushed through the door like I always did
The sound of automobiles receding behind me
I flung my bag to the floor, it’s usual place-anywhere on the floor that is
Slumping to my bed, I started to tune off the loudest noises
I made it down to the smaller details eventually
The distant voice of a radio from the next compound
The blue birds chirping away their time on the branches
The occasional tips and taps of random sounds
Could she be behind those drapes that seem to be hiding more than the view?
I didn’t wait for the answer to that question
I peeled back the curtains and made my way to her
I followed the sun, and everything beautiful it had to show me
And I got to the clearest of waters, so true I could only think of one thing
I dove in and went as deep as I could
So deep that not even the sound of my thoughts could venture
I made it to hers
And she stood as she opened the door, just before I knocked
Clearly she was waiting for me
The delight in her face paralyzed me when I realized I didn’t bring her anything
I was not only paralyzed, I was lost
I couldn’t find the words I had rehearsed in the mirror
Yet she figured me out and swallowed all my doubts in one embrace
Then came the release

The usual letting go of things that only the two of us were used to

But you couldn't rule out the awkwardness as we made an effort to adjust 

Afro Kungfu

[This is one day I wish I was so I can get those cool graphics on my blog...]
I don't even know why I picked that title, it makes me think of a Chinese man with an afro haircut. When did you ever see that in the Chinese movies you've seen in your days? This may be overstating it, but I think almost everyone has seen a Chinese movie. And maybe 3 out of 5 of those have seen the ones with terrible synchronization. I won't complain about those ones if I were you, because there are still the ones that had the terrible translation in subtitles only, and in the worst cases they transcribe the wrong movie which makes it equivalent to the base level of watching Chinese movies, the ones with no translation.
If you have filtered down that funnel of Chinese movies, congratulations, you are now a certified movie junkie. Now that I have found my kind, let me announce the one commonality in this group, we don't care about their dialog. We are just waiting to see the Kung Fu moves. If the fighting moves were good enough, the movie was good enough. The fluttering kicks and the dazzling twisting and turning stunts, oh boy, who needed to hear what they were saying? The good guy would always kick everyone's ass, sometimes up to a hundred guys at a time. I often wondered why they all wait around and take turns to make a move at him, but the second he throws one foot to meet a flying kick and mid air he does a roundhouse kick to swat another guy swinging his sword at him in the opposite direction, I give up scrutinizing the logic and on he goes. This keeps happening until he meets the bad guy toward the end of the movie and pulls the magic move on him to send everyone to a happy ending.
While that is the typical narrative of the average Chinese Kung Fu movie, not all Kung Fu stories go that way. In Afro Kung Fu, an angry mother or father would smack their kid at the speed of light, leaving the poor kid disoriented until he makes sense of the pain inflicted and he fills the air with the sound of his cry. There was always that awkward silence after the first round of beating when the child is trying to figure out the appropriate response to the situation-they were torn between utter admiration of the fluency of the moves and the accurate response that will ensure that a second round was not on its  way. Either that or  the children are slow like the bad guys in the Chinese movies, not knowing when the wrath of Afro Kung Fu was going to descend on them or even when it has descended on them. The pain is usually the element of reasoning when this has happened. And in Afro Kung Fu, you will find the dialog as intriguing as the fighting beating moves. The angry parent will always start with an impossible question, like what were you thinking when you lost the pen? I mean, how do you really answer that kind of question well enough to avoid a beating? Like seriously, let us attempt it. I lost my pen in school, should it not occur to you that if I was conscious of the situation, I wouldn't loose it in the first place? The only real answer to that question is 'I was thinking of loosing it, then I had to figure out how to answer this question all at the same time, and prepare my mind for your next move, then it happened'.
I have to give it to the parents though, in the event that it is not the anger talking, their real goal in the dialog is to ensure the annihilation of stupidity while the kid's goal is to make sure that dialog continues long enough for the parent's phone to ring or a neighbor to come knocking on the door, anything that could save the situation. And therein lies his weakness, the hope that the beating will not come. They all seem to have that type of hope. That hope is similar to the hope that once the pain settles in, the ridiculous tribal cry they give out will save them. I often wonder if the parents were pouring all their frustrations in that violent release as well. I think of how and when they learned all those moves. What I'll love to see is their moves against those in the real Kung Fu movies, it seems only fair.
I did not grow up on the receiving end of those moves. And I am doing okay, as far as I can tell. I wonder if African parents can find an alternative to the Afro Kung Fu. But I strongly recommend Afro Kung Fu as a sport, not to be tried at home! Somehow I thought to write this because of my neighbor, that's right, I am ratting her out! She is always angry every time she talks to her son. He is simply a defenseless opponent whose only move is to ensure that his words and actions align with his mom's mood. The second he goes off, she goes off like a loose canon. I think of confronting her mildly sometime at my own risk, just so I understand why she deems it necessary to give the young boy a beating all the time. I can hear her voice pierce through the wall, sometimes about the mundane things that are best hashed out with a gentle instruction. Until then, I do not know if parents still need this form of discipline and if they do, then I beg that we balance the equation with an alternative to the main bad guy the Kung Fu movie stars face at the end of the movie. That should seem fair.