Of Spaces.

We only know what is up or down because there is a limit

We know left from right because there is a centre

But in space

There is no limit; no centre

No boundaries and no point of reference

No ups; no downs

No right; no left

No ins, no outs

No nothing

But space

Space and space


There is nothing between spaces but space

within space but space

I am not near; you are not far

I am not there; you are not here

One yet we

Bound yet  free

In space;

Space and space.

The Discerning Loyalty Of A Journey Man.

    Often, we mistake a thought; an idea; a circumstance- a person’s circumstance, for the whole of it. We often do not see beyond what is before us especially when we think so highly of our evaluation methods. We never stop to think there could be more to a thing than the limitations of our methods allow us to perceive. An almost odious insistence creeps in; one that supposes any other dissenting opinion is wrong or contrived- especially, when our observations, are our only frame of reference, in respect, to our understanding of a matter, situation or person.

                  Do not forget your journey for a conversation.

You’d imagine the way people go about insisting on notions like loyalty, humility, transparency, arrogance or generosity even that they’d recognise such a thing if it became personified, walked up to them and said hello. Reality is a radical departure and we find that they do not. We are typically more concerned with the form in which a thing is presented than the substance of which it is made. We are obsessed with an insistence on sycophancy and will mask, perhaps unknowingly, this insistence behind any suitably sufficient excuse.

“You are rude”

“You are arrogant”

“You are....” ad nauseum

I do not suppose it is difficult to see why things such as “Godfatherism” persists around here, a revolting notion that a person should become subservient to another simply because that one has been instrumental to realising the goals of the other; effectively, subjecting one to the whims of the other. While it may not always start off this way, it most often ends this way. It is why it is perfectly fine that humans lay prostrate before another, grovelling as it were, as captured in that viral video clip- the one with a minister-the other time. If you don’t, you don’t have respect, as we say.

A bargain, any bargain, especially psychological, is no generosity.

And this is because there is no uniform definition to notions such as; loyalty, arrogance, humility, decency, generosity, etc. there may exist dictionary meanings; an attempt at a sort of objective normative standard that some philosophers argue for, but in practice, loyalty and any other such notions are far from any recognisable standard and are utterly subjective. They will always mean what people want them to mean-as it suits their purposes- and you’d waste an entire lifetime trying to satisfy them all.

“People that subject you to one arbitrary test too many, do not want you to pass, they want to see you fail at it once so they can say; aha! I knew it!”

In any event it is not as if there is any firm belief behind these accusations. You have watched them throw one misapplied notion after the other. Some you have addressed only to find that it is quickly replaced by another equally preposterous. You give up; the futile nature of this exchange is overwhelmingly apparent now. This kind of cyclical meaningless dance is not your forte.

“When people insist on finding a flaw in a thing by any means; get out of the way, wish them well, and get busy doing other things.”

“Ungrateful..”

“Disloyal..”

You’d be forgiven for thinking these folks made you immortal but you turned around and consumed more than your fair share of Ambrosia, peeing on what little that is left as you did so. Or perhaps they have been feeding and providing you shelter all your life. You look around you in disbelief, especially at the modesty of your surroundings and, cannot help but wonder, exasperatedly; what is wrong with these people? You have consciously not even made one demand for yourself and would not even know how to if you had wanted to.

“Be wary, very wary, of those that hide in the shadow to throw stones. “

Shadowly; those ones that hide behind the scenes, for what? To catch you at some horror? Maybe they think you worship the devil in your spare time, or fuck goats, or both. It certainly can’t be to catch you chasing skirts or rolling a joint. But who know what turns on Shadowly? At this point, the division blurs and they are mostly one and the same. No sides; they all hide in the shadows; to throw stones.

It has to be something and sometimes you wonder what it is. You have no one to talk to anymore, no one to trust. Even if you did, you would not dare, for fear that you may expose them to the discomfort you currently endure and possibly, danger even. It gets lonely but you try to stay upbeat. You try. But soon enough, the realisation that you need to force a sense of happiness further depresses you. Mood swings you thought were long past you begin to resurface. The dark threatens to overwhelm you and you now resort to higher doses of medication-self medication, to keep going. They obviously do not realise the damage they cause, or they do and, seek to break you down thereby.

You leave for Zaria, that delightful old, dry, dusty place where you can be alone yet in the company of your thoughts and books. But alas! They have a stooge there already, one that has probably been selected to match their idea of your psychological profile. He happens to drop little hints of what you are occupied by. You did not quickly realise it then, only much later. Why has this escaped you? Is it because he is likeable? You are sure you do not mind him, you just don’t appreciate the intrusions, you don’t even care to try to find who he reports to.

It is not much different elsewhere. You are hesitant to work. There is a lurker in your emails. Those devices logging in your box aren’t yours. You change passwords but they keep coming. What do they think you have in there, a million Dollar idea? Ideas mean nothing. They are cheap. They are everywhere. They are infinite. You’d expect that they know this. But clearly what do they know but a mindless insistence on control?

And social media - social medina, hah!- is even worse. Strange fellows come hinting at what is in your head. Are all these sailors’ kindred? You hope so. Mind, you have never shared any of this with them so you are cautious that they pop these things at you and expect that you lap it all up. Not fear just caution. Fear is not a thing you understand the way other people do. Never have. Anyway, why are they all so like-able? You remain cautious and hold back your charm. You never know who is watching, & you could be putting an innocent in danger without meaning to. In any event, all new friends should seek you in person but, they do not. They remain in the shadows, you remain wary, rightfully so.

“Friendship is a burden; I do not want to be burdened against my will nor do I wish to do same to another.”

Suddenly distant relatives are all up in your business. You can smell them from a mile off. You are bored now; quietly incensed at the length these shadowly go to establish their position of strength using those friends and those relatives. Why these utterly silly games? Why the thinly veiled uncouth insulting references to your social background?  The assumption being that you care for such things? Does that add any or remove anything from your humanity? Does it add or subtract from the validity of your thoughts? Of course it doesn’t, this is their way of establishing power dynamics. It is a strange thing but that is no longer your concern. Do we not find that every problem requires a hammer to the one whose only acquaintance with tools is limited to hammers?

You want to say to your relatives; “go away” as disgustedly as Soyinka told his jailers. But you don’t, of course these relatives no matter how distant, are likable too. They probably are doing this because they care deeply, albeit misguidedly.

Silly power games; games of control, they serve no purpose but to further pull you away. Even those you’d spur romance with must attempt such a display. You’d wish that they knew what such games meant and stopped but, we are creatures of pride and we must assert our status. I assert, therefore I am?  Just as well, perhaps this romance business is not meant for you. You are resolved to that realization now.

                           “He takes from whoever He pleases.”

                           “He gives to whoever He pleases.”

“He whose roof is heaven and over whom the stars continually rise and set in one and the same course makes the beginnings of his affairs and his knowledge of time depend upon them.”

                                       Al Biruni, quoted in MA Foster’s GamePlayers.

It is perplexing and maybe designed to annoy you; this sheer refusal to interact directly with a thing but, to take second hand subjective information from everything around a thing, and use this to force an interaction with a thing and insist, when response deviates from the expected, that, a thing is not what it is- that a thing is not true. But of course it is not true! You have refused to interact directly with it so you do not know it and you do not know it because you’d rather talk to others of it than to talk at once to it.

 Is it psychological, an attempt to wear you down, anything to give them some advantage against what they do not understand? Why not seek to understand it directly? It is puzzling, amusing but often irritating. You must not be angry at such misunderstandings however. Perception is a powerful thing and people will see only what they want to see. Learn to walk away. .

Often, we mistake a thought; an idea; a circumstance- a person’s circumstance, for the whole of it. We often do not see beyond what is before us especially when we think so highly of our evaluation methods. We never stop to think there could be more to a thing than the limitations of our methods allow us to perceive. An almost odious insistence creeps in; one that supposes any other dissenting opinion is wrong or contrived- especially, when our observations, are our only frame of reference, in respect, to our understanding of a matter, situation or person. Now you are tired of this place you find yourself. Did they not tell you that the world remains the way it is because it consciously does not want to be otherwise? Those that seek to control than befriend have no idea of the dynamics of influence. What we seek to control, we truly have no power over. What we can accept, we have mastered.

  

               Do not forget your journey for a conversation.

These games disgust you and you’d rather bake in the sun than spend any minute at it you remind yourself humorously. Some people spend the whole of their lives at this? Perhaps the satisfaction derived is utilitarian; you are sure you want none of it. Let these ones play at such games, the Cosmos has better games for any that seek it.

Hark! You must not lose sleep if you do not have this conversation; other travelers go before you; do not be tempted by this view.

 Get up, fasten your sandals, sling your pouch, wet your face and continue your journey. You are not angry, not resentful. These are not necessary conditions and should not be.

                         First, you must do no harm...

 They have taught you what no one else will and for this you are grateful. Wont you leave a token behind? So that they may remember; that at one time, a traveler passed through.

The Eeewiest Cheesiest Love Bars Ever Unrapped.

Many people mean many things/

But you don’t mean just anything/

Ill rip out, give you my heart and everything/

Even things I haven’t seen./

I’ll work it really hard just so you’ll see/

Bring to life your fantasies/

I swear to God and that my word,

I’ll take a life so you gon breathe/

I’ll give my life so you gon live/

Our love so strong it’ll weather the seas/

Can’t stop us now we factor free/

Fuck G4s you gave me wings/

Am flying real high am above all things/

Wanna take you where the land is green/

In my arms at a sunset scene,

You and me, my African Queen/

Wanna tell the world heck I would scream.

High Thievery

It was a hot, sunny, lazy Saturday afternoon. The type that required that most inhabitants stayed indoors with only doors and windows opened for increased ventilation. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sparse, white clouds that dotted it stayed put; as if there had been a hike in transportation costs up in the stratosphere. 

The metropolis had only a few trees and the shade they offered was easily used up by drowsing, shirtless men. Ordinarily, such a day would mean little other than the regular to the student community in these parts. As long as they could afford it, they’d engage themselves in the hallowed pastime of every decent, self respecting student: drugs, alcohol (usually Alomo, or Jack Daniels, or Grey Goose vodka), parties, and sex - a whole lot of it. But this afternoon was different; the students - all the ones on this street - were on hard times. Mobile phones beeped as texts messages moved to and fro with peculiar urgency. The content was usually the same; got weed?, or varied slightly in terms of the social vice of preference.

By 2pm, the said mass of students was visibly restless. Visits came unannounced, perhaps in the hopes of barging in on friends suspected of telling untruths about their reefer stash. Passive aggressive levels were high; those actually suspected to be in possession of any such contraband consumables played smart and quickly went AWOL. You could tell there was a need for some form of excitement and although it wasn’t immediately obvious to anyone, they did not have to wait long.

 I was seeing off a friend after a drab, barely tolerated game of scrabble. We had just stepped out the gate when a cry rang out from the house just opposite. It was Austin, one of the locals. He pointed to a fleeing figure, shouting as he did so; thief, Barawo! My friend, Lareon, dashed towards the fleeing suspect, his bulky frame moving with astonishing speed. Austin moved next, I followed him, albeit cautiously. I broke into a jog, noticing as I did so how surreal this whole thing was playing out. For one, the suspect as far as I could see, though he was almost down the street, did not move with decent pace. He was running alright, but in a rather odd manner. Almost as if he was wading through water or more accurately, in slow motion- not the sort of hurry you’d expect of any criminal fleeing for dear life. This was still Nigeria after all and, mob justice was an unwritten, reverently observed penal code. Even when he noticed he was being pursued, he did not break (I was to learn later that he could not) into full flight. Lareon caught up with him, grabbed him forcefully by his neck and dragged him back. Then hell broke loose.

The said shirtless men under trees, friends at my apartment, the guys at Austin’s, the Grey goose vodka girls from the adjacent apartment building, and everyone else on the street, I presume, came trooping out. Austin, an aspiring orator no less, soaked up the attention and broke it down quick;

‘ Na thief, I be see as im enter house but I be no suspect because plenty guys dey enter this house. Na when im commot the house again dey shook something for pocket na im I begin dey wonder. As I enter see say them Mark just lie down dey sleep and all the phones wey dey connected dey charge before before don loss, I know say na dirty rugged thief man. Na so I shout, carry stick begin dey chase and catch am. Wahlai, ask Dary, him be dey observe.’

Stick? catch? I pretended not to hear the little lie he tried to make me corroborate. It did not matter anyway. A mob action was underway and no busy mob ever liked a lecture. The Grey goose vodka girls were in action, back hand slaps landed across the culprit’s face whilst Mark and his roommates retrieved their gadgets. But the girls weren’t limited to the usual screaming and clawing stereotypes; they really went in hard, smashing at least two bottles on the suspect’s head. By the time the guy we called “Sensei” delivered his push kick to the suspect’s chest, (as he laboured to get on his feet) he was a bloody, dusty mess covered in painful welts from cowhide whips and a host of assorted DIY torture instruments.

 Now, I digress to talk about Sensei and his push kick. Sensei was the dude everyone did not mess with. Built like a pro wrestler, you’d find him working out, slicing the early morning air in fluid, vicious, Karate chops whilst screaming; kyaah, kyaaah. I had always stayed away from him as he would naturally pick on weaker folks to soothe his ego. I did not want to end up in one of his demonstrations. But, his kick; I swear, I often think about it. When he kicked that guy, two things happened and the physics of the former is as complex as quantum mechanics if not more. The push kick had hurled the suspect in the air and crashed him a folded pulp a few feet away but you heard a ripping sound as soon as Sensei’s foot met his chest. The thief-I swear, I shit you not-tore out of his trousers, half-flipped through the air, and, landed like a bent pin, naked from waist down save his underpants. The mob, momentarily stunned at the vicious display of trained human capacity (or perhaps at the range traveled by the human projectile) burst into a great cheer then chorused;

“Sensei, sensei, sensei..!!”

I was in a fright. To be honest, and I won’t try absolving myself, I had tried landing him a quick slap as Lareon dragged him (pleading and struggling feebly) back to the portion of the street that led to my apartment but he ducked and I hit Lareon instead. Lareon retaliated by sending him quick, heavy, body blows (and that had been way before this whole community murder-intent business started).  I did not want any part of what was unfolding anymore but a mob they say is fickle and, I suspect, a guaranteed killer of Sensei(s) even. I rushed to the trampled, torn, trousers and rumbled through it.  In the back pocket I found a heavy wallet. To my surprise, it had a thick wad of counterfeit five hundred Naira bills, a half used sachet of Rohyphenol, seven more sachets of Diazaphram. Clearly, a junkie criminal or dealer. Or both. Then it hit me! He was running that way because he was high out of his mind on the pills and God knows what else. Someone- a familiar face, from the crowd reached out to me. I looked up in the direction he indicated and saw “the Boar” coming my way. The Boar,(a bumbling, overweight police officer that lived a few houses down the street with a particular penchant for shooting threatening stares at my friends and I), moved into the centre of the ruckus and tried to make his presence felt with some measure of success. I made to hand over the trousers and wallet to him but someone (one of the girls, probably aware of my feisty status with the law man), offered to do so instead.

A while later, two policemen on a motorcycle came and whisked the suspect away. There was no Hilux van even. The suspect was sandwiched between the motorcycle rider and the second policeman. The Boar then led the convoy on his own scooter as the crowd dispersed.

After the excitement of the past hour there was palpable anticlimax. The unspoken question; Is that all? I walked back to my room and tried to get busy. The scrabble tiles littered a corner of the room and the guys exchanged tales of what they did and had intended to do until ‘’ the boar” came and “fucked” things up. Perhaps they had expected to be allowed to beat him to death; I got bored and walked out. One hour later, this time at the Gray Goose Vodka girls’; a mobile phone beeped, someone had gotten a text message. Hushed, excited, chatter followed, I looked up from the magazine I was reading, enquiringly. Bisi gets on the bed and rolls over to me. She pushes the mag away and shows me her phone instead. It was a text alright and it read;

“ The counterfeits fetched, got 3k for the 7.5k I took. Got Vodka and SK. Are you down?!’’  

A moon gazer's doubts.

And I guess I realized at that moment that I really did love her. Because there was nothing to gain, and that didn’t matter.

S. Chbosky.

At that time, I had only wanted to hear her side of the story. What she had to say for herself. It wasn’t like I cared if she wanted to, or, was fucking the entire street. I did not care to judge her. That was her life. What I did care to know was my right to know. If she told me, I would live with it, be not bothered by it, but only because she was honest enough to tell me. I could always say to myself; at least, you knew the terms.

The other night, some guy had walked in her apartment. It was a face she knew by all accounts. When I knocked her door after a while and came in, she was fidgety and insisted- quite urgently, I come around later. When I did the next day and asked her about it, she would pretend no such thing had happened. I do not know if she knows this but, she shot me that day, that late afternoon she made that denial (?). She pointed a magnum at me and shot me.

I have tried to rationalise her reply or lack of, but, it does not add up. Never did. The morality of the situation is not what bothers me. This is not good or bad. Just the lingering feeling that one is blind in this situation, and consequently, unable to chart one’s course; led on by the suspicions of a denial or lack of it.

 That was a major pivot in our affairs. I remember quietly taking what little of my effects I had at hers and walking out. Early next morning, as she came out her building, her travel luggage dragging behind her, I was sitting with friends doing the MG ritual. There was no hello between us, no friendly chit-chat, not even for keeping up appearances. I only, briefly, looked up at her once. That morning was deliberate. It was a morning for hurting and the hurt.

I sent her a text recently, two nights ago to be precise. In it, I said I was sorry for the incident. I was wrong and sorry- those were my exact words. But before that, I had gone to visit at her new apartment. Almost two years have passed since when we were neighbours, intimately sneaking around...

We stood on her top floor balcony, looking down at muffled figures in the street. It is the harmattan season and she has wrapped herself in my denim jacket. The full moon shone brightly and very soon it was all we talked about. We playfully pointed out what cluster of stars were its groupies, which far ones were distant lovers or side chicks. She insisted the North Star was the estranged first wife. We laughed. We huddled, close, but not too close. We talked; past and future, our assumptions, our ambitions. Then it came to ‘us’, and eventually, that incident. She asked, (I think her voice broke once or twice) what exactly that coldness had been about that morning. Apparently, she only saw or felt the effect and not the cause. To me, I could only question the circumstances leading to the cause. Did she not shoot me at point blank range or was that my insecurities behind the gun? And later, was she leading me on again, reinforcing the darkness that one was smote in . . . . ?

March 28, 2011.

Visiting Valhalla

There are times when one finds that things require only their own frequency to come in to being. Its own pace; its own rhythm. . .

 And when one necessitates that IT comes into being, one must essentially be required to tap into this rhythm and wait till IT’s crescendo is first attained then hopefully sustained. These matters cannot be hurried. Its rate cannot be catalyzed. Suffice to say, that, one must endure and by so doing, learn patience.

But all this is particularly embarrassing for the man who thinks he has not time. What does it even mean to have or not have time? Anyway, it is an enforced/endured suppression of his rhythm, because; his rhythm in this case is not what brings things into being. His rhythm is that of expectation; hollow and out of tune with the natural order of things. His is tuned to receive and not to create. Is it not why, when we set out to define a discipline, we do so by suppressing what is other to that discipline so that it may be seen to be untied to what was? Hence, in tapping into the order of the celestial; the order of nature, his hollow rhythm is suppressed because he now becomes part of the creation of things and, is created anew. When this happens, he resonates with the celestial and maintains an amplified harmony with nature-his nature.

Thus, we can say that the rhythm of nature multiplies creation; slowly, deliberately, and with unmistakeable purpose. Is it, perchance, the reason why the fast paced beat moves the limbs but only the well timed one moves the heart? Or perhaps why good health depends on a steady rhythmic pumping of the heart?

 It is manifested as the seed germinates, deliberately, breaking through the earth to claim its assigned space under the sun. Existing in reality and above the lump of earth that hitherto buried it; nourished by what overwhelmed it until that alone now sustains it. And then, it stands, mighty and proud, worthy of the lines of prose of his Baker Field;

‘….are fit to stand before Valhalla..’