Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Tomorrow

The seat belt held his torso suspended. He couldn’t feel anything from the waist downwards. Or was it upwards? He couldn’t tell. He winced as another strain of pain shot from his back to his skull. He must’ve fractured something behind as well. His entire frame was a receptacle of hurt. Something warm wormed its was down from his chest to the left side of his chin and divided into two rivulets. As both sleeked their slow journey further down, one streamlet made it over his lower lip and into his mouth. He tasted his blood.
But his attention was riveted elsewhere.
From what was left of the broken side mirror of the car, he craned his neck, forcing his body to adjust as little as was possible to see the path down the road from which he’d just passed. The effort only served to dish out more pain. He screamed involuntarily. The hurting came from a jammed foot underneath the crumpled dashboard. Or what was a dashboard.
Yet, he still obdurately continued his effort to look behind at the road. Was it worth it?
Exactly two minutes ago, Adi was driving back home. It was one of those weekends where his attention was needed in the office. He never got used to working weekends and always thought it was a violation of his hours of rejuvenation wherever it was required of him to be in the office when the rest of the natural world was resting. The only difference this weekend was that it was on a project that he had initiated and that had become the model for new market innovation by the company and for which he had received a personal note of appreciation from the oga patapata. In fact, his exhilaration today was that his line manager, Isa had confided in him that the boss was putting Adi’s name up as subsequent line manager when Isa leaves in two months.
Adi knew what that meant. He was on the move up. It had been hectic getting to where he was. The sleepless nights spent in school trying to make the grades. His penniless parents who sacrificed life and limbs putting him through school. His 4-year sojourn as a “will-work-for-peanuts” job applicant whose shoes were angry at him for inhumane treatment. His loss of friends who went on to big jobs, happy marriages and the lifestyles of the “employed and married”. His perpetual “friendzoned” status among those who only date those with white collar jobs. He had quietly exited all that inglorious past without fanfare and now, he was going to even levels not imagined by his ever supportive and now contented parents.
Adi was going up. And he was going to celebrate this news as he always did. With his parents.
Tomorrow.
He would surprise them with a visit. He’d be waiting for them when they return from church. Their new apartment which he’d paid for in full on their behalf was only an hour’s drive from where the company accommodated key members of staff like Adi. So, it will be a thoroughly enjoyable Sunday. He had earlier made plans to see a movie that Sunday. It was about an accident survivor who was thought to have flat-lined and pronounced medically dead for all of 5 minutes. Only to live to tell his story of the out-of-body experience he had for those minutes. That was right up Adi’s alley. The kinds of things that excited him. But that will have to wait. This news of his elevation trumped that and his parents were going to see their child…
That was when the image of someone’s child crossing the road while Adi was speeding through came into his field of vision.
And everything slowed like in the movies…
Adi glanced at the rear view mirror. There was a Carina 4 seconds behind him at quite the same speed as he was going. Just behind the Carina was an Accord. He didn’t have the time to know how fast that was travelling as he engaged his brakes. The screeching was loud. He spun the wheel, drifting to place the car horizontally across the vertical travel of the road. This gave him enough time to look left (see the wide-eyed shock of the child who stood transfixed in the middle of the road not more than ten normal paces from where Adi’s Camry stood like a bulwark of protection) and look left to see the panic on the face of the woman driving the Carina.
And then impact.
As the woman attempted to brake and minimise the impact with Adi, she was rammed into from behind by the Accord whose driver was in a haste to go see the premier league opener between his team and another. The force of the collision drove the Carina violently into the midriff of Adi’s Camry, mangling the part where the driver’s door meets the frame. It sent a jolt through the entire form of Adi’s body but he’d never have imagined what it’ll do to his car.
It was too fast for the mind to register. He could only remember being spun over and over and the violent contractions his seat-belt bound body endured. He couldn’t number the knocks his head got nor describe the searing pain that he felt when the dashboard caved in on his torso. In less than a minute he’d gone from thoughts of Sunday to a wreck of epic proportions.
When the car finally stopped wheels-up, he’d no idea he was upside down. All he cared about at that moment was trying to see if he’d been successful. Was the sacrifice worth it? Did the child escape unhurt? Was he now safe? A scream had escaped Adi just a few seconds ago but he still laboured to find out. If he could just spin he body a little, it’ll allow him stretch his neck enough to see the rest of the road from where he was suspended on the upturned crumpled remains of his Camry.
As he forcibly stretched, a scrappy metal edge of the door frame sliced through the vein in his left arm, letting out a stream of warm, gushing blood. Adi felt the warmth not the pain. He still stretched some more. But the blood loss was too much. He willed his body to move more trying to see the road and see the child safe. It was not to be.
As his body became limp, his eyes closed of their own accord.


image source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Auto_katollaan.jpg

Friday, August 19, 2016

Podium Calls

I was concluding one of those pieces that one re-reads with ecstasy (y'know, acknowledging one's own expertise with words *dusts shoulder*) about how excruciatingly embarrassing our Olympics participation was becoming Olympic-year by Olympic-year when I stopped mid-sentence. Reality had set in. I was abruptly shoved back to earth, literally.

It was accomplished rather easily, this clarity. It came as one word.

REALLY?

Yea, that was it. Really? So simple. So short. So clear.

REALLY?

Pardon the cliche, LIKE SERIOUSLY? I mean, it's not like (another cliched expression, sorry) it really matters. I mean (sorry, again), we have a myriad of problems and all you can think about is the Olympics? Are you alright? Common Kerosene is not there and you're looking at Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh? Oops, sorry, what are those other medals again?

*vigorous shake of the head*

That's all.

Oh, I deleted that earlier piece. Painfully, though. It took me time to research all the details I had included in it.

*sigh*

Thursday, August 4, 2016

50 or More Dark Shades of Grey Tissue

It is discombobulating to come to this disconcertingly dire conclusion that it appears that some people are unhappy that they have a brain. This unhappiness manifests itself in a protestation not to make use of this unwanted, unwished-for and abdicable collection of tissue.

Thus, it is allowed to lie unused, fallow. Unplowed, hollow. Akin to the Dead Sea where nothing enters hither and nothing comes wither, it an unrecognisable morassy desolate patch of grey matter.

Hmmm...

If that was all, it probably could've been worse enough. But there's more because the worst part is that this condition appears to be infectious.

God alone knows by what medium it spreads but it has become viral. And there seems to be no end to the consequences for the world teeming with unused brain cells.

(image via preventdisease.com)

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Behemoth Facebook

Behemoth Facebook

Snapchat users aren't happy Facebook is stealing Snapchat's thunder through new features introduced to Instagram. And I'm here laughing.

True, I'm no Snapchat-ter nor am I invested in Instagram. But it's no news what's happening.

Sadly, or maybe fortunately, people are waking up to Facebook's general master plan. Not content with cornering the lion-share of the social media experience (in Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp), the internet behemoth's imperialistic and expansionist tendencies ensure that if you, as a strong competitor, refuse Facebook's mouthwatering advances, the Zuckerville smart-alecs go to work and incorporate your best and most attractive services into their existing and well-used platforms, baking it smoothly into the user experience.

The advantage of already having a faithful userbase means their services (Facebook's that is) will, sooner than later, overshadow those of the unwilling competitor, making their business difficult. That's how 360° videos, live videos, a standalone Facebook Messenger app, Facebook Memories, and now Instagram Stories came to being forcing competitors to look futilely as their userbase shrinks.

If they can, Facebook will make sure as soon as you unlock your phone, you stay connected to Facebook's apps and services until you put your phone back in your pocket. Whether competitors like it or not.

So, even as they "altruistically" (I'm hysterically laughing at my use of that word) attempt to beam "free" (ooh, there's no such thing in real life) internet access to Internet-cold areas of the world using satellites and solar-powered "Impulse"-like planes, there's one goal in mind: worldwide domination.

The pieces are falling in place, calculated piece by calculated piece. Users of competitor-services can bemoan it all they want. I'd just be laughing. Except of course there's another revolution in the offing that makes nonsense of these expansionist objectives. History is filled with the Yahoos, MySpaces and AOLs.

We'd see. Until then...

NB
I stayed out of the insidious accusations of "Facebook's listening in on users' conversations and surreptitiously capturing images via users' smartphone cameras" on purpose. That's a gist for a future date.

Monday, July 11, 2016

Less-ness

The faceless, nameless, pitiless and noiseless have died. Again. For no fault of theirs. The national and local conspiratorial silence buries them as abstract numbers. 81 butchered. 52 massacred. 74 slaughtered. Evening comes and is followed by dawn.
"Life" goes on.
But does it? For the bereaved, nothing can be farther from the truth. Innumerable tears understandingly shed will never bring to life the vacuity of bloody bodily digits nor will their dispirited mourning recall the dead from the beyond. No big guns will blaze, no national mourning held. No media focus, no local attention. In their cold, brutish, nasty and short experiential existence, it'll appear to them as if life has lost its meaning and purpose creating a lacuna that nothing will ever fill in much the same way. A pain that'll never go away. A festering sore that'll never heal. A brokenness that'll forever remain broken.
Death does that.
Especially when it could've been avoided and worse, when there was neither rhyme nor reason to the question of why it occurred. The fleetingness of rational closure is yet denied these mourners. The perpetrators are "criminal spirits", never apprehended to give account of their criminality, never made to face the "justice" of the system, never punished to enforce deterrence and nary an act to console those who have lost a loved individual or another for nothing. No, no such alien practice will come to pass. Bracketed by celebrated deaths of an Elechi Amadi and a Shinkafi, they, the bereaved, must also come to accept that "life" indeed goes on while themselves dying daily in their own share of facelessness and namelessness, pitilessness and noiselessness.
Broken, warts and all.

Saturday, July 9, 2016

Life and Life

Today, at this present time and age, there's life and there's life. One is of utmost importance and is thus highly guarded, heavily protected, ultimately guaranteed, assuredly insured, and luxuriously lived. By contrast, the other just exists because there's still oxygen in the owner's lungs.

So, what we observe is that everything is done to keep life going in one set while the extinguishing of the flame of life in the other set arrives like twilight or dawn, one of those occurrences that we don't count as anything because it's all part of the natural stream of things. Evening comes and morning follows.

What sets life apart from life can be as flimsy as the surname you bear or as alterable as the level of social structure to which you belong. A concatenation of factors can mean that when one life is taken it's a national catastrophe or a death is recorded as part of the statistics. Two national coaches dying a week apart can raise questions of what's happening and have people worrying for the shelf-life of ex-footers while no one will ever know the names of those many whose lives were snuffed out when their communities were attacked as they innocently went about their daily hustles for meagre survival.

Life is not the same as life.

And it's not just national. It's as global as recent events in God's own country exemplify. For the presence or otherwise of melanin in your skin, your surviving a routine drive through town is not guaranteed. That's all. It doesn't get any flimsier. Whether it's argued that a majority of crimes are committed by those in that skin shade ad nauseum is beside the point. Life here is the focus.

Who decides that one is of more importance than the other? And on what basis? Those accidental cleavages of class distinctions? Racial taxonomies? Historical fractions? Anecdotal stereotyping? Bank accounts? Tribal sentiments? Nominal influence? Unequal fingers?

It must have appeared ingenious to declare at some point that "All Men Are Born Equal". It still is, in a sense. The thing is they don't stay just "born" for the rest of their lives. They grow. And somewhere along the line of leaving being born alive (in a castle or in a manger) to getting a life, equality ceases to exist.

The irony, no? Life is born and equality dies. Life is not life. There's life and there's life. Go figure!

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Power Corrupts. Absolute Power, absolutely.

The greatest tragedy of a democracy is an enfeebled, terminally bedridden, anaemic and debilitated opposition more concerned with its internal grime as it persists in the death throes of its self-induced, corruption-tinted morass.
And the people who could've reaped the conflictual benefits from the contestation between incumbent and opposition for the soul of power are rather exposed to the concatenation of consequences of the wiles and caprices of intoxication that absolute power bequeaths on the unrestrained governing party.
Conjoined with "representation without consultation", the people become mere victims of what can best be described as a caricature of a shadow called democracy, for want of a better word. That political system was not envisioned, in its best practice, to be without a virulent opposition and representation was to go hand-in-glove with consultation of those thus represented. Yet, what do we experience? Everything but.
And where, in other climes, this has evoked the people to coalesce in single-minded, homogenous, undiversified objective to make the tribe of political selfish oafs realise that their self-seeking antics will no longer be tolerated and that enough is enough, what do you find? A divided house spewing brickbats at each other, taking one suicidal side or the other while their lifeblood seeps to the earth from gashes inflicted by the hand of brother or sister.
Emboldened by the absolute lack of substantial checks and total absence of counterbalancing anywhere on the horizon, is it any surprising that we find the incumbent strutting its stuff with the swagger of a teenaged hippy with a whiff of independence away from the prying eyes of doting parents? Who's to enforce correct behaviour? Who's to keep discipline? Who's to effect correction?