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Money, Muscle and Common Sense

I used to wonder about the civilized world. Wondering bemused into a virtual world and you wonder at the value system. Don’t get me wrong, I like a lot of what I have seen. You know there are times when you suspect that your uncomprehending look at some of the things could be the reason you wonder if you would ever get the hang of the civilized world.
They saved us from ourselves and showed us how to help each other yes? Okay, I could buy into that, but I am completely puzzled by our greed for the trivial, the mundane. It is like this, for quite a while I read and watched the hype to the fight of the century as it was dubbed between Floyd Mayweather and The Filipino congressman, Manny. Can’t get the spelling right, so I don’t want to disrespect him. Manny caught my interest because I saw him as a man using his fists to help his people. Floyd on the other hand leaves me worried.
There is hype about how Floyd uses his money to help his friends and I hope complete strangers. The world however seemed to have received two riddles at the same time. Like in those Greek times, humanity was asked a question and I am not sure we heard the question let alone if we took time to answer it well.
At about the same time, Nature struck and slapped an Earthquake on us via Nepal. I watched fairly numbed as the death toll escalated and then as some kind of comedy relief, the supposed fight of the century. Floyd made another hundred million dollars and would probably pick up another rolls Royce, or whatever other toy. Those in his magic circle would probably get something too. A four month old baby survived the earthquake but would take his chances with the health and living standards of Nepal, it is not really Floyd’s problem. Heck he earned his dollars trying to bash Manny’s common sense out of him. These two gentlemen were egged on by others who paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to watch the supposed gentlemen beat sense out of each other.
I have never understood the rationale for justified violence. I never did comprehend the sport of wrestling and boxing and have always wondered at its rationale. Okay, we have African wrestling but my confusion is still the same. Why don’t we have a sport that help a fellow human being? Sometimes in our dim past, we took interest in helping each other.
There is a saying by our elders in my corner of the world, and it states very simply, that for as long as there is a poor unfortunate person in your family, the rich man can never lay claim to being truly rich, for he is the sore finger in your hand. One sore finger is the discomfort that keeps you awake.
By the same token, for as long as there is a desperate country in the world, the rich countries and their economy stand threatened. Human beings exist on the understanding of the fundamental rights and would therefore not heed imaginary boundaries and seek haven anywhere they can find it. That is why Italy and Europe is swamped by boatloads of desperation on daily basis. They drown, get sick, get shot but the tiny sliver of hope that they may survive, keeps them trying.
Maybe it is time, the rich nations start looking at that, hope. Every human being was born screaming for his own share of oxygen to stay alive, his own space, his own sun, and is programmed to search for the rationale of his existence, pushed to fulfill his definition of himself. Failure is a smell he does not want around him. No man known in history has ever had life mission to fail. Not the four month old baby pulled from the rubble of Nepal. Interestingly, the 101 year old man who made it out of that rubble was glad to be alive. He would like to stay alive as long as he can.
What is my point in all this?, just hoping somewhere that Floyd might postpone another Rolls Royce, and give a thought to that four month old baby. The cost of one RR, could change several lives. Might give a rationale to the official fisticuffs he enjoys.
Money and muscle should be balanced by common sense and a common understanding that we all are connected one way or the other.

Priestess

Hunger is not a bed fellow you want to write love letters to or heavens forbid pray for, so he knew he had to do something. He had gone for the necessary bath and that is one thing he didn’t want to remember either. His skin still hung indifferently on his bones but his cheeks were beginning to fill out. He took a critical look at his rump and wondered when the eczema would fade off. He wondered if she had noticed the ugly patches when she had washed him and his face burned remembering with some shame that he had involuntarily been aroused.
For goodness sake she was the frigging priestess. He wanted to know if she felt anything or was disgusted by his skeletal frame. His mother had given him one keen look and said nothing. He was not going to tell her anything. But what would he tell her if she had asked? I had the bath and yes mother I was aroused by the frigging priestess and yes she acted like she didn’t know if I was human. He sighed and pulled on his shirt.
His new job was very tiring. He had to check on his junior staff who tended to take his instructions with a nonchalance that irritated him. He walked to the factory floor and met Modupe his secretary, who considered him with amusement.
“The machines are down this morning and the computer boys don’t seem to know what the problem is with the image transfer computer” she carried a flip chart close to her voluptuous breasts. He dragged his eyes away from those breasts, frowned as he concentrated on the problem.
“Where is Francis?” he asked looking around for the fellow.
Modupe shrugged and pointed in the general direction of the computer room and stated mildly that she was sure Francis would be somewhere in the inner room, moved close and thrust her flimsily covered breasts at him, she was chewing gum as usual.
Bode frowned at the breasts turned on his heel and headed back to his voice. He felt the sweat trickle down his anus and made for the toilet next to his office alarmed.
His picture of the priestess came again and he sighed in some despair, gradually wondering if she had placed a spell on him. He entered his office and opened a drawer taking a generous swig of brandy to calm his jumping nerves. Modupe stood by the door watching him.
“Now what”? He snarled at her
“You are in some temper this morning so what is the problem”? Modupe complained.
Bode imagined himself burying his head in those breasts and mumbling the truth and then swore violently asking his secretary to get the hell out of his office that instant.
His secretary fled.
He sat at his desk and held his head in his hands, rocking himself in some unnamed and unrecognized pain.
The office was silent and his thoughts were loud in his heart. He did not even dream, so when had the fascination with the body of the priestess taken over his thoughts he asked himself.
Last market day, he had visited his mother and watched the pleasure in her eyes when he gave her money and announced with pride that he would ensure she could expect that on a monthly basis.
He was happy until she gently asked him if he was going to be thinking of settling down now. He told her, he would do that when the time was right. The anxious look his mother wore came into her eyes and he knew in that instant ,the secret she had been hiding. Man, she thinks I can’t get it up. She thinks maybe that is why I have avoided girls and not mentioned a coming bride and shown interest in any of the village girls. He was horrified. He looked at his mother and their eyes met and Bode saw the fear, the anxiety and he was chagrined. They stared at the each other the knowledge like a naked bride stood silent between them untouched. Bode swallowed, muttered a goodbye and hurried away.
Two days later, the picture of the priestess when she washed him flashed into his mind, he had been aroused and had stayed that way ever since.
There was a knock on his door and he growled a permission for the person to enter. Seconds later he was gasping in shock, desperately trying to draw in breath to a constricted throat, because in resplendent white with white gloves stood the priestess.
She smiled and walked further into the office.

Random Musings

You know, there is always the question of asking yourself if you are ever going to be a best seller in your lifetime. These days, those are the questions that I find myself asking each time I start writing a story. The question started simply enough. A very young child came to my house and we started chatting. He wanted to know why I was hunched over my computer almost all the time he was in the living room. I blinked and tried to focus on the young man. He noted that most times he called to say hello to my  children, he invariably found me typing. I took a deep breath and wondered if I should do one of two things.

You know look down my nose at him and reply in a pitying voice on how he has missed the true calling of the writer and tell him he was not likely to understand what writing meant to me, yeah, I am still broke and I am not sure if I can claim that I have sold my book in thousands never mind millions. What? No, I am not about to discuss my despair either. Hey!, I mean my despair that I am never going to finish writing all I have to write. I never have enough time and the stranger thing is, I have had days that I sit by the computer and the stories just goes on in my head and the computer remains blank. That is really frightening when I wonder if all this is going to be worthwhile. I am not trying to change the world neither am I likely going to change my immediate community, unless I wish to be a liar.

That is another thing, my neice doesn’t think I work anyway. She came over to spend the holidays when I was part of a television series on teenage reproductive issues. She had liked me and was enthusiastic about the series, I NEED TO KNOW. She read the stories every night, staying up all night sometimes. I was preening and waiting for the commendations to flow in. She looked up and I saw real bewilderment on her face.

“seriously auntie, I have never met all these people you talk about in your story, you are just forming them up right?”

“You mean like I am making them up”? I asked her slowly puzzled at what she was implying. Here, let me insert a warning: We are writing Nigerian English and my friends across the pond may have to hold on for a translation later.

My niece nodded and I smiled, “Yes of course , that is what is called fiction, the situations are real though”.

“You mean Ikechukwu is not real?”

“No my dear, the young boy that acts the part is real but that is just his television name”.

“Hmmm, very easy job Auntie, just sit down, dream up stories about people and you get paid for having fun”.

I stared at her, opened my mouth to explain what enter- educate drama is all about and clammed shut as she stared askance at me. She commented that she envied my job and wondered why I had not become a millionaire at the very least. She said she might one day take up my job.

That was years ago, the juice train left and I stared into the hard glare of straining to make two tired ropes stay glued. Digital television, internet radio and programmes took me to hunger street and I needed to look at dim areas of my creative mind to quell the noise of my growling belly.

I have been writing since I can remember the meaning of pain, hunger, dreams and a compulsive need to talk to persons I have never met. My imagination wakes me up every dawn as the sun dips her fingers on my hopes and gives me a taste of its promise. I have like a thousand stories, impatiently jostling for attention. Men I know so well in my head, conversations that seem unending, situations crop up and I ponder on their solutions. An urgent need to tap a shoulder and start a conversation.

I am doing one right now right? Were you interested? Oh well, you got this far. That must count for something. But you see, a new fear is peeping at me. How much time do I have?

Will I ever write a best seller? Sometimes I picture a vast field, the sun is setting, the players are all gone, I am staring at the lonely abandoned ball in the field, the stands are silent and a lone figure walks onto the field, he touches the ball and hears in his soul the roar of his dreams and he makes a lob into the far end of the field. The sun yawns and calls me over.

I will see you soon my friend.

Do you really need a review?

Sounds funny just asking that question. However I am learning a few things these days. I have learnt that a review may not necessarily be the most important of all that I need right now.
I have received quite a lot of reviews but according to a friend,it is not the review of established reviewers.
When I tried to get that,it felt like I need to hand over money that I must make from sale of the book.
There are reviewers, who have no clue what I’m writing about. One friend was honest enough to admit he could not wrap his head round the book.
A professional from my side of the world gave a list that excluded Numen Yeye..
I think I might just listen to Gerry who advised that my book is special. There will be time enough to share with anyone,you know.
By the way,have you read Numen yeye. I would andwer your questions (more…)

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