NAIJA BLOG

 Our Robespierre, Our Machiavelli  your power-lust soul reeks,  like the mass-dug graves  likes hands freshly drenched in pedicide genocide and homicide,  the trail of blood leaves an invisible stain  on your immaculate white babarigas unseen by all, seen by all oh tiny tyrant, whom Fate has seemingly nurtured for such a time as this,  what will be your end, you despicable one? will you die a pauper like Machiavelli,  become a crippled invalid like the loathsome Sergent Rogers, who was dreaded by all at a time now beaten by life, a shell of his fearsome self,  or will your tiny neck, out of which sprung millions of untruths grace the guillotine, like Robespierre, the  public accuser,  amidst the ecstatic joy of the murderous mob? Or will fate look the other way and reward your bloodthirsty avarice-filled years filled with gilded rot? Only time will tell

 The Circle gets smaller, The days grow shorter Once again one is gone, Gone away forever  leaving in wake the surprise and the memory forever etched in the  recess of our minds Death always takes us away unprepared. Dad, Chibuzor, Adah,Attah, Vicki, Ekwuolobia,Benjamin, Clemment, Samson The ones we cannot forget, Kebbi, Ieulogize you, hardworking Kebbi, murdered and butchered what did you think about in the throes of death,  you died struggling, you died hustling, you still haunt the car parks of Miatama,  There are the ones we feel deserve it and say a prayer for forgiveness for we mourn them not, as their actions continue o hurt us long after they have gone. Our nights get shorter, our days grow wearier Death stalks us all.

  You live unhindered and uninhibited, determined to take a sip of every poisoned chalice? determined to experience every debased passion.   It’s a slippery slope to death by self, death by inhibition.   Your eyes are glazed with opiates, body destroyed by encounters, soul is haunted by unsatisfied desires,  a glutton for endless passion, unending desires. You are on the highway to death, going 200 per hour, and cannot stop.    

 I moan on Monday and groan and prepare to face the mundane, the twisted, and the jealous horrified of the comfort they find in the mundane, the petty squabbles, the time-consuming gossip, and backbiting I die as I sit in the Wednesday vortex of mindless nothingness and wonder as they strive to outdo to do themselves in a baseless competition of the unremembered I wonder  at them will you be immortalized for doting your  i s and crossing your  t s? do you want to be immortalized? could you be Immortalized? I cringe at the petty  squabbles, the back-biting and vicious smear campaign that will be forgotten after retirement,  when you are gone, you are forgotten as if you never existed, the minutes, the office bickering, the per - diem fights are  gone and forgotten after your valedictory  dinner, and you become either a cautionary tale or a nostalgic one. The life of the consciously forgotten 

 Life is a surreal tease,  memories of the past uglified by the realities of the present the rebel uncle, dark and tall who dies emaciated and wasted,  dragging his love towards the horror of the grave, Uncle, I see your face, the cool mangrove of Lagos Street that hosted the intellectuals, artistes, actors of the eighties,  gone forever, encased in my amnesic mind. My handsome Uncle, divine and cool, now elderly and broken  Peter and Betty, handsome and pretty We used to jump and walk you as you left Bolori,  Peter you died twisted, swallowed by the god of Iron,  your intellect, hopes and memories faded into the abyss of nothingness I always remember you. Dad I was so unkind to you, yet I miss you more than anyone I have ever known Life is an illusion, the beauty of today is the horror of tomorrow the hopes of today turn into the regrets of the morrow. 

I wait day after day night after night for the tears to dry for the pain to fade I laugh some days I cry some nights but it still stays, nestled comfortably next to me pain   owns me, it has made me its. I am its slave the tears always fall when I am alone and the flashes come searing by, hot, hurting and painful  I stop and cry and wipe and sigh and wait for this perpetuality  to pass I see people with the same pain who speak empty defiant words  with hard broken eyes I feel their souls are break just like mine they will try themselves to sleep in the quietness of the night they clutch don't their bibles  like their shield  their faces caked in makeup forgotten and forsaken old and sad theirs is the tears that wi;; never heal I wait for the days I can be free from these empty words and empty days when the tears will dey an the pain will fade and I can smile like I smile once agao until that time I clutch my sword and sigh and cry and smile 

Through your magic,  i  travelled  widely, from my room, across the mystical valleys of Haggard's She, stayed in the castle- with  Sleeping Beauty was onboard the bus in Ayi Kweh Armah's Ghana sat with Chase's Ma Barker supplicated with Ntiru's Pauper traversed the realms of Asia with Marco Paulo emphasised with Dicken's Pip.. Libro, my comforter, my truth-teller an anchor in this duplicitous world of double talk lies and betrayals, your embrace is cathartic, it heals teaches and steers me I can laugh at the boys in Melville's Bartleby, the Scrivner can be strong like Henley in his Invictus and ponder from a distance  the darkness of human nature from Conrad's Heart of Darkness