Crissy Ridin'

By the time you realize the world is a great spinning blue ball of hypocrisy you are already a hypocrite or very dead. Either ways, by the time you realise it, it is too late.

But not for everyone though. For some, that realisation comes a little before death or “the great conversion”. Your Eureka moment is pointless anyway. This blue ball does not become any less hypocritical. In fact, as soon as the realisation hits you, provided you do not drop dead from the sheer horror of it, you notice covert and not so covert attempts at converting you. How long? perhaps, all your life.

You cannot be against the world; this blue mass will chew you up and spit you out. No, you have to be for it and what other way can you be for the world than by being a big, multi-faced, scheming hypocrite? (Two-faced is for amateurs, you should go pro as soon as you can.)

Take it easy now, what is one to do? Would you rather be dead? What about your kids and or spouse? The questions pile up. Death is out of the question; you must live. Selfish, yes, but that is entirely beside the point. The point IS, on what terms do you accept life?

“The presidency and country was theirs. Not yours or mine, or even the neighbour’s across the street with whom we frequently disagreed on things political. Only theirs. The rest of us somehow neither relevant nor competent and the coffers of ideological purity kept full so the impure were blitzkrieged by money and buried at the starting gates of political contests. “

Robert Ludlum, writing under the pseudonym; Jonathan Ryder, in the introduction to his excellent work, Trevayne.

And if it occurred to anyone what great hypocrisy the whole goddamned planet is and that one said;

 ‘a great abomination indeed, I see the world for what it is but that does not make me so’.

 What then? Well, to quote that good man from Walden; 

“How can a man be satisfied to entertain an opinion merely, and enjoy it? Is there any enjoyment in it, if his opinion is that he is aggrieved? If you are cheated out of a single dollar by your neighbour, you do not rest satisfied with knowing that you are cheated, or with saying that you are cheated, or even with petitioning him to pay you your due; but you take effectual steps at once to obtain the full amount, and see that you are never cheated again.”

puppylove

She lives down the end of my street. I see her every time I walk past the big imposing house she lives in. I don’t like the house much. It is the biggest on my street and in the neighborhood. There are large dogs in it and her father lives there also. I do not like the house, the dogs and her father.

When I was younger, she invited me over one weekend so we could do homework together. By some stroke of ill-luck that I suspect I am born with, someone had let the dogs out and I walked in unsuspecting. I knocked at the main door for a while and after getting no reply, I decided to walk into the courtyard through a passage by the side of the main door- big mistake. A large growling dog-one of those foreign breeds vicious enough to swallow a man whole, blocks my path halfway through. I check myself and try to go back-pointless. Another great beast is coming up my rear, this one even larger. I suppose that I do not pass out as mercifully as some would because of the same rotten luck. Whatever fate has bequeathed it to me is determined not to allow me any reprieve. I am fated to witness my own doom it would seem.

She had probably heard the dogs making a fuss and rushed over because somehow she is by my side and that quietens the advancing dogs. We were little kids then, either dog bigger than us both but she walks over to the biggest one, the one she calls Rex and, smacks him playfully across his snout and he lays prostrate before her. She looks at me then, recognising the fixed fright on my face, smiles and says;

‘Walk with me, they won’t bite you now.’

I hate the house. I hate the dogs. I love her. 

We were both nine years old and she had just saved my life.

I do not say anything as we walk to the west wing of the house. It is hard to say anything when you have almost lost your dear life. I hold her hand, tightly, and try to force down some air. That does not happen easily because of my asthma. I can sense an attack coming and I try to fight it back. She notices something is wrong but I cannot talk. I just focus on breathing...

At the door, I sit down, wheezing hard. She is beginning to panic.

She uses my copy of Samuel Selvon’s Lonely Londoners-the assignment material, as a hand held device to fan some breeze at me. No luck! I am still wheezing. She holds me close, maybe because she does not know what else to do. I smell her-funny what one does in these moments, she smells of Malizia’s Vanilla bonbon-such a pleasing Ajebo smell. I must have closed my eyes as my olfactory senses do their thing because, (well, she is to tell me later; I thought you had fainted. I wanted to give you CPR...) I do not notice when she locks lips on mine.

Startled as I was, I do not open my eyes for fear that I ruin the pleasant surprise. Here I was; a shy quiet fellar practically kissing or being kissed by the prettiest girl in class. The long suffering admirer intimated of hidden but strongly shared desires. Well, maybe nothing so deliberate but think instead; Negro Alfalfa and his Darla with extra fries.

My eyes are blissfully closed for what feels like eternity until a loud ‘roar’ interrupts. It’s her parents and they’ve seen us from the balcony. She lets go and rushes inside the house. My eyes are open now, best to see what direction the danger is coming from perhaps. She runs to them and I can hear her explaining frantically;

‘He needs help; the dogs have frightened him terribly’

She starts off in English, breaks into Yoruba then some English again. I don’t see them anymore but I hear them clearly. Her father is having none of it. He roars, because I cannot believe that he’d ever condescend to mere speech; 

‘Young lady shut your mouth! I am disappointed...’

‘But daddy...’

‘Shut up I say!!’ 

 *Roars*

Her mum intervenes now; she is a kind pretty lady and cooks excellent fish stew. I should know, her daughter shares her lunch with me and my friends.
 

‘Dear, don’t you think you should check on the boy? He could be in trouble. ‘

‘He IS trouble! And I will have none of it! ‘

‘But dearie...’

‘Ko gbodo wo nu ile mi se! Look at what that street boy was attempting to do with my daughter, God forbid! What nonsense is going on here woman? I shall give him a good lashing and kick him out myself!’

I swear I heard him charging down the stairs, I had heard enough, I was not going to wait there for him to come finish me off. I got up and ran the way I came like a man in a daze, through the courtyard passage, towards the main gate. Then I stopped in my tracks or was forced to stop in my tracks. The gate ahead was open; just how I had come through. But before the gate are the two dogs from earlier. They also have three more friends. 

Five massive dogs now, all aware of me and, angrily so.

My cruel fate.

At that tender age, I understand what it really means to be between the devil and the deep blue sea. It is pointless to run because my small legs won’t get me anywhere before the dogs devour me. I can’t wait either. Also, an enraged father is coming for me, most likely with a battle axe clutched firmly.

Now, there is warm fluid flowing down my legs, probably urine. There is also a crushing weight down my chest, grinding hard-Asthma.  I am transfixed, unable to move backwards or forwards.

It was a realisation so intense that I passed out.