the great little things

I
shine the torch
on great
little things
that offer
sublime lessons
if you
care
to
look!

have you ever noticed
that those tiny stars
are bigger
than
the sun?

When things don't make sense

Sometimes you wonder. You wonder at life at your little pretensions and you ask yourself in some maudlin despair if it were in any way possible to just fade away. You know, not breathe nor have to anticipate waking up the next morning then you gasp at the sheer cowardice of such a thought because you know you are hurting and confused. You are hurting because you wonder at the futility of it all. You made an attempt to reach for the moon and all you got was some pie in your face! What does it feel to eat lime grapes when they are at their sourest?

That is how you feel. Underneath it all, there is despairing question, will you ever get it right? What do they really want? What really will serve? What? You might as well ask the moon. After all they said it was dead place right? You have walked the gang plank as it were and there is a silent scream dead in your throat! Your throat is tight and dry from the desperate longing to cry and the horror of feeling you just might be able to do that.

But if you open your mouth and scream, will you be able to stop? You walk the street and you are tempted to step in front of a speeding car, one thump, one sharp pain, a red mist, silence and it will all be over. Then shame like slime crawled all over you and your turn over in the bed as you feel the slime of your saliva, it smells awful and you cannot swallow it and you rush to the bathroom and you cannot pee either. The owl laughs at you and you shiver from the dread of going to sleep.

Lord! It is going to be dawn soon, for me or for whom? You do not want to be different when you open your eyes and pinch yourself awake. One more morning settles like stone upon you! Why? It escapes gingerly from you, hope tries very hard to open the door and you hold on very tightly to your pain.

Some day child this will pass away. Hmm, they got you there. These humans, they got you by the short hairs. Sold you a pig in a poke when they whispered sweet nonsense about the possibility of happiness here on terra firma! What were you thinking of anyway, believing them?

There is nothing at the maggot heap except more maggots. All the crabs that made it to the top lost their names and limbs! You need to mention your name to yourself a thousand times a day just so you could remember what it signifies. Yes sir! You walked, like some soldier just let out of the war. Yes the war of life.

You did not ask for heroes. You do a body count of your dead dreams lying close to you like some tired whore! Why in heaven are you always attracted to pain. It seats so easy on you. No one has ever taken seriously whether you have needs.

When things don't make sense and you feel as bad as this, then help is nearest to you my friend. We won't always get what we want but love is laways waiting to be close to you.

Africa Story telling..lost art?

In the old days in Africa, we taught ourselves values through stories. We had quite a lot of stories. We used all the methods we could then. Some stories were songs that spoke of the heroic battles of our heroes. We had heroes that everyone in the community could identify with. We had stories of animals through which we told our children the virtues of life like honesty, honour, loyalty and courage.
Animals represented different things and concepts. For instance from my part of the world, we had stories of tortoise being shown as wily, cunning, sometimes hilarious but always with an underlying lesson for us. It was natural every evening after the day's work to sit by the fireplace, or under a big tree and hear of the escapades of the tortoise. However in all these stories of the tortoise, a thread of a code of ethics was woven for us. It was usual at the end of each story for the story teller to ask us the listening children, what was the lesson of the story.
In the broader sense at the government level, we had festivals, that were used to teach the leaders the essence of honour and integrity. Such festivals were usually some kind of masque in which erring leaders were lampooned in songs, drama and such devices that sent the message home. It was understood that the actors of any masque could not be punished. The victim who felt very bad at being lampooned would naturally keep to his farm for a few days and weeks depending on the severity of the satire. He returned to the larger community after a time hoping everyone had forgiven or forgotten that misdemeanor. You however notice that in his anxiety not to have the same experience the following year, he would amend his ways.
Society was friendly, knew its place and governance was at most times benevolent and inclusive. Story telling had its uses and was a simple form of entertainment as well as instrument of instruction. Sadly however, the story is radically different today in my part of the world. The only viable story telling we can tell each other these days are of poverty, disease,(some really strange ones our forefathers never heard of) and of our insensitivity to each other.
In those golden yesteryears, a thief could not find succor in any place unless he changed his ways. His family disowned him. His community would reject him and no matter how wealthy he became, he was never given a chieftaincy title. The community will watch him in derision if he even attempted to contribute to the common wealth of the people.
Today, there is no more story telling. There is no more sitting by the big tree to watch the moon, sing to the moon or tell stories of the escapades of the tortoise. There are no more moonlit games or wrestling or folksongs or beauty pageants in which we show off our African hairdos. What we have now is the television that has made apes out of the dignified African, the fashion that has stripped us naked and left us naked. The thieves get chieftaincy titles now and sometimes decide the course of a people that was once proud and self sustaining.
We can still go back to the story telling days. We can still use stories to change our concepts to something noble and uplifting. We may not be able to physically sit by the big tree, but we can still tell stories about honour and integrity for these stories are as timeless as the virtues they preach. It is the essence of real civilization. Do we still have good story tellers?

The wail from our ancestors

The ancestor is
in the Market square
he told us stories
of the happiness in heaven
We tell him
we don't need
the sacrifices of
goats and chalk
the ancestor in
the masquerade garb
laments our denial
from the ways
of our forefathers.
We tell him
we don't need
the long walk
To the stream
Pots balanced neatly
On corn-rows of beauty
The 'jigida' beads of
Our waists
We changed for the
Belts in our skirts
Our simple graceful walk
We exchanged for
Tortured struts of haste
The ancestor wonders
At the noise of our fears
Why we barricade our hopes
In ten foot walls from
The wails of our brothers
We tell him
The hunters have changed
The bows and arrows
To guns and bombs
We chased the darkness
And fears by
Pinching the walls of our fortresses
The ancestor wonders
Why there is hate in
Our midst knowing us as
Brothers of a clime
The ancestor cautions
That our haste
To taste unripe fruit
Wets the ancestral floor
With the blood of our kin
We tell him
When we changed the beds
From the raffia at home
We changed our souls
To the foul stench of unknown
We tell him
We have taken
The full potion of doubtful
Civilization, drunk full draught
The potent broth of it
Now we stagger round
Looking for help
From the ancestors
In the empty market square!