Last Strands of Hope

I had zoned out. These notes were unbelievably dirty yet so pure. I sat on that park bench with my earphones nodding in agreement to every vibration that staggered off the saxophone, drums, keyboard and the bass with a well pronounced grimace that expressed how much of my mind had involuntarily and unconsciously gamboled to every note. I usually come out here for the cool breeze, the serenity and to watch people play table tennis… and to judge them mockingly in my mind; have you ever seen the priceless looks on their faces when the ball is mid-air and they are just about hitting it? That Friday evening just wasn’t one of those evenings. My eyes wandered over to my wristwatch, “7:44pm”, wait, what? I needed to get dinner and head home so I got up and shoved my phone and earphones in my pocket, adjusted my jacket and raised my head up only to see this lovely elderly woman staring and smiling at me. I smiled back but just when I was on the verge of losing eye contact, she beckoned.

“Good evening ma”

“My son, how are you?”

“Very well. You called?” I asked with my raised left brow signature.

“Eh yes. You’re a very handsome young man. Are you into music?” her smile had not dropped a notch.

Okay, this was interesting coming from such an elderly woman. “Sorry ma but why do you ask?” I was looking ready to indulge in a conversation…a conversation about music with an elderly woman. It is a big deal.

“You know”, she replied while gesturing towards her face, “these beards you have on just suggested you should be into music”.

My emotions flickered between indifference and disappointment. Is it that she didn’t see me drenched in my musical trance or she just wanted to narrow down who I should be to my beards just to spite me? “Madam, these are natural facial hairs that grow on an average male’s face when puberty hits. It should not be, and is not, a determining factor of his career or interest. Liberate yourself from this sort of thinking because I consider it naïve, the world has moved on way beyond this.” These were the words I didn’t say. “Yes ma, I’m into music”. This was what I said while fronting a smile.

Just the other day, probably because I forgot my earphones, my tummy thought to tune me into that realm. Quite a misconception, it sent me into an entirely different disco hall. I hadn’t had any meal all day and it was 3:41pm. I definitely would have noticed this if I had indulged in some sort of conscious fasting. I sauntered into a restaurant like I possessed the Certificate of Ownership for the building. I was just about placing an order when I opened my wallet. My eyes opened to match its width as I heard echoes of my beating heart from what was left of that battered leather container of a wallet.

“Please hold my order, I need to use the ATM” I said after heaving a sigh of relief when my fingers traced the familiar contour of my debit card.

I walked up to the man who was about my father’s age and was standing at the end of the ATM queue.

“Good afternoon sir, are you the last person on the queue?”

“Yes” he replied abruptly, then turned to see this six feet two inches tall creature addressing him then slowly and reluctantly added, “Yes, I am”.

“Okay sir, I’m behind you” I pretended not to read his emotional flinch as I peered right into the ATM console, patiently waiting my turn. It then got to his turn and since we were the only people left on the queue, he begged me like his life depended on it.

“My brother, please I beg you in the name of God, can you please help me with my ATM card? I don’t know how to operate the machine. I want to withdraw the last small money I have so I can pay my wife’s hospital bills because the doctor said he’ll not attend to her even if she’s at the point of death. I can’t lose her, she is all I have. My only son is in the village taking care of my wife’s mother, please my son will you help me?”

I sympathetically said yes even if I knew that he didn’t need all that information to get a yes from me. I reached out for his card and walked him through the steps. He thanked me with an emotion sprinkled with fear and relief when he was done withdrawing the money.

“I wish your wife quick recovery sir”

“Thank you my son”

“But sir, why did you have to narrate all that to me first? I would have helped you either ways”

“Hmm, you see, I even prayed in my heart that you would help me oh”

“Prayers too? Hahaha, you should have just asked, but it is okay sir. I’m glad I could help”

“Well, you can’t be too careful, especially with young men like you with all these beards. Thank you again, God bless you.”

I felt a very deep sting just above my right eye as I watched him hop into an SUV and drove off. I reached in deep to find a smile to flash back at him in response to his wave, it wasn’t just forth-coming. I retrieved my money from the machine and shoved it into my wallet, all my appetite, gone.

The Sunday was far spent and I still felt the urge to go out for ice-cream…one addiction I was willing to walk back to temporarily…again. You can imagine the joy on my face when my friend asked me if I wanted to join him play pool, no not gambling, really guys? It’s snooker. I knew this was an opportunity to satisfy the crave I had caved so deeply in. I threw on my dark blue sweatshirt and my blue ripped jeans and a pair of sandals. Ice-cream, here I come!!! I got the ice-cream quite all right, but it was after being whopped mercilessly in the game of snooker. I wasn’t even allowed by my excitement of my expectation to feel bad, it was time to head home, and to get my precious creamy bundle of ice. I spent all my money, yes, even my transport fare…our transport fare on the ice-cream. Before you judge me, you should know I’m not proud of it. But the ice-cream though, still gets me drooling. How do we get home? It was almost 10pm and we were stranded, not until my friend suggested we hire an auto rickshaw (keke napep) and pay him when we get home. Works for me.

“Keke, abeg you go reach Plaza?”

“Two of una?”

“Yes, how much?”

The look on his face was something to write a book on. He stared at us like he knew I spent all my money on ice-cream but we went on to exercise our bargaining prowess till we agreed on an amount. We sat behind and got so engrossed with our discussion that we barely noticed that the driver paid rapt attention to us.

On getting home, he asked, “Please don’t be angry oh, are you both from here?”

“Hahaha, is it because of the way we talk? Our accent?” my friend asked.

“Eh yes and you see these your beards, not many people from here keep them. To be honest, I didn’t even want to carry you but then I heard the way you talk and I felt you were good people”

If only he had heard the words from my eyes at that moment, I’m sure it would have been this intense.

“Oga, why do you choose to live in such mental bondage? I am a writer, a poet, I sing, I play the bass guitar, I have a Bachelor’s degree from a prestigious institution. My parents are very proud of me and they boast about me to their peers. Someday, I’ll get married to the woman I love and have the most beautiful kids ever. I have very big plans for my future, very big plans, none of which involve any form of negativity. So please tell me oga, how do these beards, the same ones you shave, make me a bad person?”

But how could I tell him all of this? I wish I had found the strength to let him know how I felt. I looked at him and felt pity for him.

All I could say was, “Here’s your money oga, thank you very much, good night” the smile on my face was as fake as the confidence exhibited by a goat marching through the den of hungry lions.

It was time for me to vent, I had had it. But who needed to be addressed? Who was responsible for all these blows? To think that these are a few of the experiences from complete strangers. Oh words don’t fail me now…

Dear Society,

I’m writing this letter with hopes that each word slashes you like whip made out of razors as it would still be nothing compared to the hurt you have caused me. So relatively, we can agree that I’m even being nice to you. You’ve inflicted emotional and mental pain to me from people I know and people I don’t, just because you have laid down rules out of your own jurisdiction that were, and are not up for debate.

Who do you think you are to rule over us? To dictate who and what we turn out to be? To put us in a strait jacket and feed us with stereotypical ways of thinking? To narrow down all our potentials just to please you? To lower our standards just to accommodate you? To force us to dance whenever we hear the tunes played by you? No, I refuse to be subject to you anymore. Call me a rebel, I would wear it proudly. You need humans to survive, not the other way round. Without us, there would be no you so quit flaunting your cheap colors of tyranny in our faces, we own you. It’s sad that you have succeeded in subtly seeping your self-proclaimed sovereignty in the minds and hearts of unguarded humans that most people no longer exert their full potential just to avoid stepping on your toes. 

You have robbed us of our freedom that we seem to believe that not listening to you means we’re headed towards irrationality, lunacy and delinquency? Why can’t I dance to the music blaring from my earphones along the pedestrian walkway and not be looked at like an insane person? Why can’t I take pictures along the road without being slashed by quizzical stares from passersby? Why can’t I grow and keep well-groomed beards without being compared to the negativity you have branded it with? Why can’t I be examined based on what I carry upstairs and not by mere paper qualification? Why can’t I make a choice and seek pieces of advice with regards to it and not be judged by what you expect from me? You have erased the thin line between complete loss of the mind and complete freedom just to satisfy your greed. Because I keep beards, you have stripped me off my cloak of responsibility and have forced people to judge me negatively before giving me a chance to speak, talk less of showing them who I am. What gave you the idea that a bearded man is less of a person? Why did you feed us the idea that a bearded man is most likely a menace to the society? Do these beards help him store weapons or do they influence his line of thought? Yet you place corrupt pot-bellied politicians as human representations of you to be worshipped and kissed on the feet, you create runways for naked ladies to be applauded by the world, you sink us knee-deep into technology, yet wipe us out by the cancer that emanates from it.

You seem to be oblivious of the fact that the need to fit into your path is the exact reason for what stabs you in the back. Quiet and so-called well-mannered people grow up with bottled up emotions and turn out to be psychopaths, or in modern day terms, world terrorists. Those deprived of their freedom of expression take the slightest opportunity to do so with all forms of weapons. Greedy illiterates forge the papers you require just to sit at top positions and starve those who deserve it. Those living by all your principles get one hard hit to the head and grow up to become your worst nightmare. Those acting based on what you expect from them grow up hating themselves due to egotistical clashes.

You should know though, that I am older and wiser and I refuse to let your insecurities place me in a box. I speak for the twenty percent who have broken free from your zombification spell, those who have decided to live and not to be lived, those who have snatched the pen and script of their lives from your hands, those who have snapped off the strings and wires binding them as puppets in your hands, those who have ripped off the bars of the cage and marched out of your circus, those who have taken the steering wheel from you, those who have gotten off your farms and taken your whips and guns from you, those who have shattered the shackles around their feet. With one voice, we say it’s over. For one moment in our lives, we choose to live, we choose to be free and we choose to be happy. We are not asking, we are subjecting you to our will.

Signed,

A free human.

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Being Me

I don’t know how he did it; did he go down on one knee? Pensively, I think he’s ironically, too old-fashioned for such chivalry. I’ve seen his old pictures though, he also rocked the 60s look, you know, the well combed afro, bell-bottomed pants, high wedge-heel shoes and, of course, the stalwart bicycle. Considering this, he may have used the one-knee skill because at his age, he may have wanted to keep it hippie and groovy, anything to get a yes right? The young and successful entrepreneur from the Eastern part of the country had been on his stubborn girlfriend’s case for quite a while and she just kept stalling probably because she wanted to gain stronger roots in her academic profession which, by the way, was making her tour the country. She delved into civil service at a young age so much that her independence was already touching the hem of her future persona’s garment. This was probably the reason she felt she had for stalling this young man. If only she knew that it was all part of the perfect plan, especially for me.

He probably got her a gold ring, maybe diamond, maybe silver, I have no clue. Knowing his kind of person, he probably didn’t use any jewelry at all in professing his love and proposing marriage to her. Oh wait, I know he wrote a love note in a card. This man was unique in his way of showing romance; when he wants to, he goes all out. She, on the other hand, seemed to have adjusted to it. Did he take her on dates? Did he shower her with gifts? Did he send her melting chocolaty messages or letters? These are questions I’ll one day ask him. He will read this anyway. All I know though, is that one day, she said yes!

Their wedding pictures portray happiness, I see smiles on every face, there are bright colors and laughter radiating off each pixel. His black tuxedo looked like it finally heaved a sigh of relief and from her white gown, you could tell that one other reason to add to her archive of excuses for stalling him initially, was that she needed to fit perfectly into this gown. True to that, the pictures did not betray their efforts, they looked beautiful but something, someone was missing – ME! This was the grudge I had with them when I was younger. I saw some other kid in a black tuxedo crowned with a black bow tie standing between the couple, they say he was the ring bearer. I really didn’t care whatever the excuse was. Where was I? I thought they loved me like they say. And I’m their first child!

Enough about my parents, this story is supposed to be about me.

There’s a cliché belief that healthy babies cry when born, yeah I said it, cliché. Sorry to override that hackneyed idea as I, irrespective of what I was told and what I will be told, have a perfect picture of my birth in my head. Call it illogical and mere imagination seasoned with ignorance, all I know is, on the 17th day of July, that awesome weekend, I made my birth colorful as I probably had preplanned in the womb. I came out, wiped the fluid off my eyes, smiled and flashed the peace sign at my mum. Yes, let me wallow in my obliviousness, thank you. I could go on and on to fascinate you with my colorful and glorious birth story but for the sake of my humble personality and to avoid shades of jealousy, let me acknowledge a hiatus.

As a first child, I had it all. I admit that my parents showered me with all the love they could afford since I was the first child (more like, I was the first specimen of their love and care experiment). Amidst the luxury of all the love, I still didn’t pass for a spoilt child as my folks knew where to pinch to restore me to my default settings. I took my first steps when I was just over a year old and I could read a whole book at five. Before you fall into the temptation of judging me and casting the first stone, can we all just take some time to appreciate our species and how far we’ve come?

Raised in a Christian home, I had no excuse to turn out to be a rascal influenced by the neighborhood. Yes, I grew up in a neighborhood that I would call ‘a mild excuse for a ghetto’. My folks were bent on shielding the negativities of the world from me and my siblings who started coming two years after me just to share in my inherited loot. Fun fact: My dad played the bass guitar in his days; yes, I’m the son of a rock star. His love for music was genetic as he passed it on to me, including his angelic voice. He got me a keyboard as a child, or was it for my brother? I am the oldest and the tallest so it was for me even though he got it on my brother’s birthday. My mum, who was well marinated in the academic coast, made sure we all established deep and firm roots in education. Due to this, I sped through my nursery and primary school and I was done at the age of eight. Oh, and by the way, I learned, just five days ago, that the “O” in BODMAS meant Order and not Of like I was taught in school and I really don’t know how I feel about this. It seems mild but I feel like I’ve been lied to all my life. 

My two brothers made my childhood beautiful because they seemed like what I’ll call, loyal retainers who would bow in obeisance and accomplish my every bidding. In English, minions. I may have exaggerated a little, a lot rather. They were more of my partners in crime but I was always the sacrificial lamb whenever we were caught. The perks of being the first right? I had this one friend that grew up in the cloak of being my brother, he was so close that he could pass for one; actually, we’re still that close but he has become a nerd since he is now a doctor. He had his own fair share of the chastisement because he’s just six months younger than I am. My two beautiful sisters came later so I have an archive of antique throwbacks to tease them with. I grew up as a very social and interactive child that even the northern cobblers that passed by my street always called out to me by name and we would exchange some sort of pleasantry. I was very popular in my neighborhood especially among my parent’s friends and church members due my witty racket. Meanwhile, puberty was lurking around the corner with a very mischievous smirk waiting for me to come around.

All my boldness, my happy energy, my charisma, my childhood glow succumbed to the raging wind of the dreaded puberty. It probably was just a phase as I can clearly recall that there was no traumatic experience or atom of depression that could give rise to a twist in my behavioral pattern. I retreated from most of the world, my neighbors, friends, even cousins. It was not healthy for me I could tell. I had gotten to high school and to my teen age. I think you all can relate that these two, when mixed, can bring about, very unprecedented results. It’s either that or I’m just weird. I can mention over twenty people that will choose option ‘B’… it’s not funny. All my emotions and my thoughts were turned into some sort of twisted poetry on paper, so twisted that no one could decipher. I could write a very colorful and cheerful poem borne out of deep and intense sadness. They would all just end up reading it to appreciate the poetry which was rather ironic because I majored in sciences. But all of this gloominess gradually came to a halt once I stepped into college. Leaving high school at fifteen was part of the dream but I think it wasn’t well looked into as some felt it was too young an age to be ready for college, societal stereotype right? This didn’t slow me down though as I ran into college with the zeal of a prospective gold medalist in the Olympics.

College was not just a school for the shaping of academic intelligence for me, it also immensely contributed to my moral contouring and personal equipping of survival skills. In simpler terms, college helped me become a man. I had it very rough at the beginning because I was trying to find solid grounds and carve out a niche for myself. I made some very amazing friends, some okay ones and some “let this cup pass over me” ones. That’s the beauty of variety though. My roommate had succeeded in teaching me how to pluck a few strings of the bass guitar, you know, that instrument with the deep voice, not the one used in winning girls over. I had become a lunatic when it came to music. I would sing out loud and annoy my roommate and the neighbors or I would play my guitar so late into the night that they would have thought I was possessed. College was quite an amazing world that fed me with countless experiences that even included pinches of violence. Yeah, I rep the human race. I found myself coming off as confident and bold - two endangered traits I thought would follow the tide of extinction. I spent the required five years to bag a Chemical Engineering degree and by this time, I could tell from my mum’s face that she was suppressing her expectation of grand-children. Even after reading this, she still won’t admit it, want to bet? My dad was just…is just proud of me because his smile is evergreen when he sees me.

Now life hasn’t ended there as I’m currently six feet and two inches tall, raising my shoulders high in the streets of the state where I’m obeying my clarion call. My story could have been a lot different if I had meddled with the wrong items in the gift basket of life.

“By all of this, I’m not insinuating that I’m my parent’s favorite, but come on…” Picture me saying that with an arrogant smug. Why wouldn’t I? I’m a year older today!!!

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Monday Blues (Ajuwaya Remix)

My goal has always been to go to school, get a sound education, get a job, get rich, get married, get rich, have kids and get rich. It’s a very simple laid out plan, no complications and no complexities, very straight forward. I’m writing this and even my emotion is writhing in the pain because nobody told me the truth about that one year pause or hitch to my plan.

My life timetable had been mentally drawn out at a young age and thankfully, the forces have been in allegiance to my bidding. With respect to all who had attained the same educational level as I had, I was relatively very young and proud. I had it sail smoothly for me especially because I have very amazing parents who intertwine my needs with what is best for me and also, very amazing friends who are either in need of me and mine or are needed by me. While in college, we would sit and talk extensively about what we would venture in post-graduation. We never missed mouth-watering topics like the sort of enterprises we would establish, the type of women we would marry, the type of cars we would own and the kind of life we would give our children. Some, we laughed hard about; others, we took very seriously and yes, the “woman” aspect fell under the serious category.

A year to graduation, the voices of the National Youth Service Corps became familiar and its tentacles began crawling into our acquaintanceship circle. I had read so many blogs and articles about the pros and cons of this scheme, I had included it in our world domination discussions and we slowly adjusted our calendars to accommodate it- the beginning of a great mistake. In my head, I had figured out the various ways to make this count in making a valuable mark in my life and still harnessing the fun out of it so I was looking forward to the youth service scheme.

Less than twenty four hours to leave for my state of deployment, I was feeling ecstatic but fully aware of my nostalgia. My bags were packed, my very clean whites were neatly folded and my shoe (which I later found out was undersized) was still carrying its “Straight Outta Market” fragrance. Now it is seven months into my service and I’m still trying to remember exactly what elated my sense of happiness. The hustle no be small, who e epp? It’s been six months but I’m sure I’ve been serving this nation for three years.

I had a very long, cold and rainy day that left me annoyed and aroused the writing nerves in my fingers making me conclude I was going to pour out my mind against NYSC. You know how, as an Engineering student, you see an exam question with over four lines of just sentences and no numbers that by the time you get to the options, you’ve forgotten the question?

Exactly… I’ve forgotten the reason I started writing this in the first place.

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Dark Light (Part 2)

Continued from bit.ly/DarkLight1

I watched her walk through the rest of her life like she had rented it; honestly, I felt pity for her because of the hard knocks she took on every corner of her life. Since after her uncle, her dreams became horror movies, her diary was The Boogey man’s to-do list; she was indeed painstakingly convoluted. She had grown into a young woman with the illusion of having total control over her life, which, by the way, was set on a path of revenge.

She still managed to excel in her high school finals and college entry examinations because she was bent on getting well educated. The university seemed like a haven for her. I remember when she came into the premises for the first time, she stood at the gate of her newly self-proclaimed home, a warm smile that spelt ‘freedom’ by every letter drowned her face, her watery eyes darted to and fro her new home. This was all she wanted, she was free!!! Or so she thought…

Scaling through school was not an issue to her until her third year. She had excelled marvelously through her first two years of college without any single hitch. This was shocking, even for me, as she rode on a smooth milky way for two years without exciting the taste buds in the eyes of the badmashes and voracious predators lurking around almost every facet of her educational edifice. She had kept her encounter with her uncle a secret from her parents as she was sure they would spit back at her. The rapist, in turn, had just told her parents how much of a nymphomaniac she is and how she thought she could take advantage of the fact that he and his wife were having recurring sessions of squabbles, within and outside the walls of their marriage, or whatever is left of it. Financially, she had totally crumbled; emotionally, a moment of silence please; educationally, she was slowly losing touch. Vulnerability overwhelmed her entire being like huge waves at Hawaii in November. And then, as expected, the wolves crawled out of their caves and followed the sweet smell of a young, very beautiful and intelligent prey. She needed money, she needed shelter, she needed food, she needed comfort, her guard was down in a split second; she was emotionally and physically weak.

Now here she was, a school dropout, standing under the rain, leaving the apartment of a huge and hairy man who, she made sure, had taken a fatal OD of hard drugs the previous night. She opened her bag to make sure the bloody syringe was still there, it was. She sighed heavily as she sat in the taxi. She knew she had won but she was slowly absorbing it. Is this the fulfillment she had since longed for? I watched her through my window blinds as she came down from the taxi. Now that she had taken revenge on her uncle, what next?

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Dark Light (Part 1)

It was 04:47am, the wall clock just confirmed that her wrist watch was correct. She had had a jolt off the bed because she detested stay-overs, she hated the drama of sneaking out. Grudgingly, she lifted his hairy arm off her chest, slowly shoved his huge body aside and crawled her way out of the blanket. She picked up her sleeveless top from the table, her miniskirt from the top of the lamp stand, her heels which lay squalidly on the floor. She dressed up almost like she was in a timed contest, her heels in her hand, she tiptoed towards the front door of the one room apartment. The room was so small that I would think the huge hairy Bigfoot of a man wouldn’t fit at all. His small wooden table was littered with books which looked like they had barely been touched except when being thrown around. One section of the table had a bag of spilled syringes, some rolled-up papers and what looked like cocaine. His room looked like all the objects were in complete chaos. She latched onto the door handle and turned to give him one last look, a cloud of extreme disgust covered her face as she whisked away from the room.

Her extreme hangover was at the verge of blurring her vision that she almost stumbled on the staircase. She knew she had to get to her apartment before even a ray of sunlight caresses the new day. The thought of the man she just left behind once again, sent chills down her spine because he was extremely hooked on drugs. This made her waltz to the section of her thoughts which she really had avoided exploring- she had no idea of what had happened last night, and that’s how she wanted it to remain. Looking at her eyes, I would say it didn’t bother her that much because when she opted for the game, she gave her all. But I guess I was wrong because as she stood under the rain waiting for a taxi, she couldn’t care about hiding the tears which rolled down in quick successions as they would be mistaken for rain.

But this was not where it all began, no, she wasn’t always like this. She once was a young girl who loved fishing out dramas, films, pictures, from the cold black and white pages of every book. She devoured every piece of scribbled words that stumbled her way so much that she would almost always be seen at the library. Her voracious reading eventually turned her family against her. Her father, who was a poor pot-bellied and chronic drunk, felt that her addiction was a curse placed on her by his enemies. He believed this so much that he would scream at her at the top of his voice each time he sees her bend over a small piece of literature saying that reading would not make her rich and would make her undesirable to any man. Her mum, who was less superficial, would beat her mercilessly every time she gets caught at the library saying that this addiction was replacing her duties as a young woman. To think that she was just a ten year old suffering the beatings and punishments of an armed robber was just too disheartening, even for me. Her dearly beloved hobby slowly came to a halt when she was twelve, when her father, at the peak of his drunkenness, slammed the door on her and ordered her not to sleep in the house that night. She begged and begged that she had nowhere to go, banging on the door, crying and wailing, hoping it would at least, soften her mother’s heart. It all proved futile. The best her mother could do was to shout at her the more to quit making such a racket, the irony though. The night was caving deep so fast, she had to find shelter. She remembered her father’s brother who lived about thirty minutes away so she hurriedly began her journey. He listened to her pathetic story, comforted her, fed her and gave her a nice bed to sleep in. She was woken up by the sound of shouting from her uncle’s bedroom. She closed her eyes shut as she endured the whimpering of his wife, she could tell that he had beaten her to pulp. Suddenly, the war was over just after the slamming on a couple of doors. She still lay there, wrapped up in the blanket, comforting herself to get some sleep. Five minutes later, her door swung violently open, her uncle’s frail figure walked down to her with a huge and mischievous grin spread across his face.

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My Last Camp Night Hours

"Words are a mystery. How they're thought of, how they're made, how they're pronounced, how they make up a sentence or a story. One part of me feels that if someone didn't discover words, we'd probably have noises we make to communicate. Or wait, what if these words are the noises? Who's the genius now?!"

Those were the first words I digitally scribbled as I sat in involuntary solitude embraced by the cold night. It's 9:32pm and I'm biting the nerves in my brain that convinced me to come for this camping trip. It's the third and penultimate day here and I should, at least, be drowned in the moment. But yes, I've had my moments, laughed at awesome jokes told by passersby, people sleeping in the worst positions in the world, people tripping and falling on the damp grass.

The darkness has completely enveloped the sky leaving only few peek holes for stars. People just keep darting in all directions like they've got some very important business. My face had found its perfect spot in the terrains of my palm as my eyeballs did all the roaming. I can't say I'm bored, no, because these people aren't doing anything fun. I classify their actions as an unwanted spillage of potential energy propelled by unproductive youthful benevolence.

I felt a vacuum, a large void vacuum within my bowels from which I periodically heard very hostile growling, like a ten seconds audio clip of the world war two. My attention then drifted from the unnecessarily busy world and focused on how to tame my inner lions. I slid my hands in my pockets and let my fingers caress its every wall. The response my fingers sent to my brain was that a state of emergency had earlier been declared on the premises and an immediate evacuation was carried out. All I could think of was that very interesting fried rice and chicken I had earlier used in serenading my taste buds and adorning my stomach. Vanity!! Oh, had I known… I was so hungry and I was so broke - worst combination ever. I paced up and down, fake smiling to every salute I get. I had earlier refused to eat the free food they served here because I was fronting standard but now I begged manna to fall from heaven. Moral lesson: Never listen to a rich person talk, he’s only saying what his pocket thinks.

And then something struck me... I could feel a continuous jerk of excitement in my nasal nerves, a huge goose bump spread across my olfactory lobe; it was the cynosure of all eyes, the color in this monochromatic world, the music that spread across the mute horizon. Dinner is here!!!

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deMOLARized

Tik tok Tik tok... adrenaline rush... heart racing like asphalt... I've always detested hospitals; they all have that one familiar smell of drugs, needles, drips. The cold waiting room is filled with men, women, boys and girls of all shapes, colors, ages and sizes. The painful silence is slashed by periodic wails from patients upstairs. The room is drenched in shooting stares of anxious-to-be-healed patients, everyone waiting for his turn.

I'd avoided the dentist for two years but now, the pain has acted as a great reminder that I truly need help. The hole in my upper right last molar has caved so deep that it could bury an elephant. It's been 20mins since I got here and totally chameleoned into the atmosphere.

There he was, the first patient to have been called off the waiting room, supported down the stairs by two female nurses...cute though but that was so not the catch. We initially envisaged him to be a benchmark, a savior of our fears, a model to handling the pain... but there he was, smitten like a cake in the hands of a fat kid. I basically swallowed my heart, enduring the pain of the gulp because it's basically nothing compared to what my slave master would do to me.

09:51, my name thundered down the hall...

"Extraction right?", I nodded in approval to the nurse's question and she led me to the Indian dentist. Exchanging pleasantries was just a formality, he probably wouldn't care how much hurt he'd inflict. I laid down on the bed, shut my eyes as I felt my spirit leaving me. "Have you eaten?" the dentist asked. I shook my head, "No". After advising me on how it won't hurt but still need to eat before anything can be done, I felt my spirit rushing back at the anticipation of food. I got up, ran downstairs, got food and raced back up. I was directed to where I could eat. But voila, I was welcomed by the tears of a wailing patient. She cried so hard that I wondered if she extracted her entire mouth. The doctor told me it won't hurt but she...OMG...he lied!! I lost appetite, forced huge quantities of chicken pie straight down to my throat, gulped water, tried reciting the Lord's prayer but I gave up on the 5th line. I walked back into the dentist's office with my heart in my hands. Lying down, eyes shut, mouth wide open, I felt one needle...another needle...yet another. Talk about feeling, I stopped feeling my mouth. The dentist told me to open my eyes, I did.

Like a craftsman, he gathered tools of all types. My eyelids quickly glued my eyeballs. "Open them", he begged.. I did again, slowly, quizzical though. He smiled 5 seconds later as his nurse announced, "your tooth is out" then she dished out a truckload of instructions. It felt weird, all I could think of was the fact that my tooth is out totally painlessly.

I quickly drew out my phone... "what to expect after tooth extraction". Google truly has answers for everything. But at this point, my cowardly spirit left again. So here I am, sitting in the waiting room with drugs waiting for my prodigal spirit to come back and accept our fate...

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Loved Again

I see how you yell, curse and flog

And beat him like he’s a homeless dog

But the very next minute, even while he’s still in despair

I see how you draw him close and run your fingers through his hair

You mutter a few warm and soft words while locked in an embrace

And suddenly, a tender smile spreads across his face

Here I am, standing in the rain

“Sir, would you show me how to be loved again?”

Your wrapper, falling off your waist

You certainly seem like you’re in haste

Yet you subtly take it off to shield your two daughters from the cold

The very same ones who just made you scold

I see how they look up at you with tears in their eyes yet surprised

I ask myself what makes you so wise

That’s why I’m here, for my heart is in pain

“Madam, would you please show me how to be loved again?”

Like that was not all

Just across the street, I see you, about 6 years old, roughly 3 feet tall

I see how you weep for your dog that was bruised in the side

I wonder what you would do if it had died

I see how you gently rub its back and kiss its head

I look at myself, all my wounds and my torn clothes; also, I’m well underfed

So please don’t think I’m insane

But would you show me how to be loved again?

It is a few days to my birthday

But I’m the only one who remembers it, so I’ll celebrate it the same way

I only hope that this year I wouldn’t break down in tears

Because, for a while, I’ve been living amidst my own fears

Yet I see all of you, taking little acts of love showered on you for granted

If only I could sit under your table picking up the bread crumbs, oh, if only it was me instead

If only I could have a little taste, if only I shared in your gain

If only I could know what it feels like to be loved again

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