I am not the master of my life, yet I am I responsible for the results of my actions or inaction’s. Sadly, in this body that I occupy, on this earth that I walk, I am a minor act in a play that promises the death of me. I have been designed as weakling, proving Darwin’s theory. I ask myself, why would I be born only to become a meal to a more fortunate specie, but the rains pouring down my window leave me no answer as they find a place to settle in the mud below. My reflection in the glass almost leaves me in shame or in shyness of what I look like, like it wished it didn’t belong to me. Who am I? Why am I here? A 24 year old question that plagues my feeble mind to this day.
I need a sign, something that gives me reason to believe in my existence, an explanation that proves why winning the love of my mother’s egg against millions of competing sperm cells was indeed a good idea. Could I have been better off as a spirit born out of the moans of my mother and the sweat of my father? No, I had to be born, to taste hunger in the depths of my belly, to feel pain so strong like the spasms of an epileptic. Oh dear, I feel my heart slow down when I am hurt. To whom do I owe thanks for my creation, to whom do I owe the gesture, dear God, are you listening?
Seven billion people, and yet I feel so alone except for Modupe’s consoling words and promises of undying love. I have placed my trust in love before, my father tore it. I have firmly set my feet on the solid rock of trust, my friends sold me. I sold my birth right to find true love a couple of times, each time beauty murdered the beast. But I am a sucker for love, so I learn little from my past mistakes and I place the apple on my head and watch Modupe take aim with her arrow, I pray she does not hit any vital organ.
A depression lives with me together with its son, a pessimist. They hardly eat my food and they pretend they are not here with me, yet they gradually take up space, edging me into insanity. I worry about them a lot; I spend lots of hours thinking of how my life would be better without my guest. I especially hate the odour of hopelessness they carry around with them, I lie to myself that when the sun rises, I shall forcefully vacate them from my residence, but the sun falls into the hills and there is an extra dinner plate on the dining table. The sadness they bring into my house buries me grain after grain of brown sand. In the end, if I am not careful, I may fail as predicted.
The rain stops its alien attack on the earth crust. I pull open the window and I am hugged by the cool night breeze of April and the smell of new beginnings that come with a heavy downpour. I see my shadow; it looks bigger, amplified by the disability of the wick lantern to light up the room. I see depression, the pessimist, sadness and failure. I hear their loud chatter over the silence in my room. They dare me. PHCN wouldn’t give me light to extinguish the shadow they hide behind. Everything may be broken in this country, but our spirits thrive in the wake of so much despair. In fact our number one natural resource should be the bountiful hope we carry around everyday of our lives.
Like many, the hope that tomorrow would be better keeps me going. The odds are stacked against me, yet I yearn for a bright future. Rather than expect an epileptic light to extinguish my pain, I surprise them, I lay on my bed and sleep, they may join me in my dream and hunt me, but they cant withstand the blinding brightness of a new day and if they persist yet again, I would blindingly hope, endlessly seek, continuously toil till I overpower the forces of nature that predict my extinction, else, natural selection be the death of me.
It is destined that the flesh will die, but the tale of a great warrior would be retold a thousand times. So fight, I will.