Aside

My Ordeal

Since what I pass through, while hiking my eyebrows, is neither a nuisance nor a gaff, I am obliged to disclose it as a transparency to dig the scrap like a story of how one paid his girlfriend to have Sex with his Grand Dad.

Every mortal can be sick and, as an artist, I’m no exception. If you hardly imagine why I write much sometimes than other times, you rarely think of what can make a writer a human being with a leg to kick a bucket, squirm, rest or die.

Two dozens of paragraphs are not okay since writing better articles doesn’t happen everyday. So at most times I try this and that without flow or option than to beat my forehead and be careful that this nadir can make me lose sheer interest except if I am in a conventional writing, say like professional writers, to get things done even without inspiration.

When my heart stuffs me to wait-to-get-well-to-write attitude, I deflect.

Quit Stress or Depression

There are many compadious publications on how to crash stress or depressions, but setting rules and making self-approbation is the best.

Major causes of stress or depressions are not only when you go insolvent, fail exams, lose your job or your beloved one(s), or have heavy tasks to cover. Sickness can make you feel that, and even dizzy.

When malaria attacked me, I felt worse. I had bad dreams: people are dieing, people are having bad accidents, I am becoming a wizard, and so on.

Someone with high fiver also described his case: ‘I haven’t done anything wrong to go penitent, but I often feel as if I killed my beloved one. What can I do?’

Malaria fiver doesn’t cause stress than HIV/Aids. Some people with HIV/Aids don’t only become depressed, but insane. Some even committed suicide.

To quit stress or depression, have good friend, discuss about success, go out and look at the scenario, make phone calls to friends and tell them something good, be optimistic, take hot bath and wear good cloths, talk to your pet, take your pet out, e.t.c.

Reading Novels a Great Outing

I could get exhausted with this world, I couldn’t travel to America, Europe, Asia, and others, but I could do that in a few hours, by reading Novels. Reading passages of Daniel Goldman’s ‘Working with Emotional Intelligence’ makes me feel like present in the United States of America. As I read in page 7: ‘As CEO of Wisconsin, a devout Catholic, Richard Abdoo, often uses eight hours a week for solitary reflection’, I picture my self in Wisconsin, greeting Mr Abdoo in his office. In page 170, under Empathy Distress, ‘She had been a pediatric nurse for seven years, but now she was asking for a transfer to a different service at the medical center. Why? ‘I just can’t take holding another little kid who is going to die of cancer. It’s too hard on me.” I saw the nurse handing her resignation letter to a smart Medical Director, in a wide office. When I read Mc Boland’s ‘Sky Sweeper’, I found my self, in the dark corner, watching war. In ‘I’m not Really Here’ by Tim Allen, I was inside a wardrobe, watching the narrator in his bedroom, saying:
“Who am I?”
“Why am I?”
“Where do I go from here?”
“Just where is here?”
” Can I still hear?”

Speaking to the Death

We live in the rocks surrounded by cactus. After the death of my uncle, my father often went alone to speak close to his grave:

To Makanan,
Your spirit is unworthy
Your witchcraft is dead
You can’t see us here
Go to the land of death
And become a vampire there.

After a month, I began to follow behind my father to see what he often did. My father spewed some substance like libation on my uncle’s grave.
After a few days, I visited the site and saw my uncle’s grave dug (when his body wasn’t yet osseous), his skull thrown beside it, and no deleterious smell.
Those days, my father often complained, that our people seldom reasoned to give their children good names.
‘The instances are pellucid’, he said.
My late uncle’s name, Makanan, means a person, who is inflicting diseases to people, by means of witchcraft. My name, Murum, which my soho (grandpa) gave me, although my father prohibited its use, as my real name, means hyena. And my father’s name, Mafuyai, means cemetery.
I couldn’t understand why my father often complained about that, till when I realised he was who harvested the skull of his late elder brother to calculate the number of worms inside it, and come with the theory of how many people he kananed before his death. He had inherited this sense from his father, who was the former king of traditionalists of our clan.
Makanan’s death came about, when he tried to Kanan someone, who was powerful than him his victim retrieve it to the sender, and made him looked like a pellagra victim, for a month, before he died. During a valediction, after his corpse was laid down in his grave, some people swore a dark cloud formed over the tree in his compound.

What is Wrong with this World?

I was inside a busy coffeeshop, in the recliner, when a woman cried, “Oh, the world isn’t natural! It’s a cage.”
The man to whom she talked gulped coffee, while I coughed, and wiped my mouth with the white handkerchief.
The man glanced at me, “But what is the world doing to you, mom?”
“I hate these Feminist Theories.”

What instantly prompted me to cogitate were dog-eared Feminist Novels I read 30 years back, in High School, which were written out of anger due to what our ancient culture held, against women, that, ‘when a man offers his opinion, he’s a man. When a woman offers her’s, she’s a bitch.’

The man wiped his mouth with the brown handkerchief, dropped it down beside his brown breadtray, and listened to her.
“Someone said feminism is the radical notion that women are human beings, although it’s highly beyond that. I can only believe Gloria Stein, who said, a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.”
“Most women that benefit those lucky theories are preponderantly lesbians.”
“They are, but they still need husbands, because the society cackles at them, that, if they are good enough, men would have become crazy. These days many places of work also make things rare by preferring married women to all those flashy girls out there.”
“They practice this for security purpose, and for gaining high respect from their clients.”
“Including Banks?”

The coffee man now intruded,
“These days, mom, most guys are gay like me, while women are running the world, and You don’t have to feel depressed. But why are you?”
“Please, don’t call me mom. Shit! Do I have any child to deserve this? I thought guys would go gaga for me after my university, but I reach 30s, 40s and, now, 50s…”
“You can’t get anyone to date, woman, if you’re looking for the specific.”
“I hate this! I’d rather commit suicide than to scout for a man.
This, her sudden outburst, made me apathetic.

Women were in trouble!
This predicament had sprouted out dated early 16 century when French women began holding Salons where educated women could interact equally with men. And in the 18 century, women began fighting harder to attain equal rights.
The word feminism came to the United States from France in 1910, and the Feminist Movement started off from suffrage-oriented Groups after U.S. Women were granted the right to vote under the 19th Amendment in 1920.

So going out, I saw a lot of guys doing nothing having got well paid by their wives who were using their names; going from one coffeeshop to the other, from one bar to the other, from one country to the other, up to continents.

Coming Home

‘Where is your real home? Do you believe you have a permanent home?’ an old man asked his grand-son.

‘I believe I have a permanent home, Kaka’, Karma, replied.

‘Where is it?’

‘Here.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is where my father is born, where his father owns.’

The grand-father chewed his coalanut for a minute, and asked, ‘Why if your grand-father has nothing, living in a rented house?

Karma confused and scratched his head. Then he replied,
‘That house will remain as a temporary home.’

The old man laughed and chewed his coalanut.
‘If you don’t know something’, he said, ‘just say you don’t know, but don’t show your ignorance by searching for luck.’

The boy nodded.

‘Your people, not only your parents or siblings, even trusted friends are your home. Once you meet them, you are at your real home, because you trust in only them, and feel happy whenever you are with them. But your permanent home is death!’

‘Death? Kaka’ Karma asked frighteningly.

‘Yes, your permanent home is death. Where Osama and Sadam Husein are right now. They will never return.’

Link

I fought Stress with my Limbs

Miss Glassgod was my Facebook friend for a year, before she liked to witness my face which she admitted was a fervently masculine ilk.
She came from Halifax with her white cat, and said Halifax was forever watching the sea.
She shared me dozens of messages on how to cope with stress, including breathe in deeply and out. This could also, she added, fight lugubriousness.
I told Glassgod one day I had fought stress with my limbs, and she didn’t laugh, she sent me a sad character-you-don’t-appreciate-my-effort, my care for you, dude.

I remembered Glassgod was saying nothing attracted her than my blue profile picture on Facebook on which I was on a rock, watching the city of the Blackworld.
One night, on a desktop, I wrote her, ‘Send me your picture you picked in a blueroom.’
‘Please, gimme two days’, she replied,
‘What!’
‘Kwat?’
I shut down my desktop, and went to bed.

-Maren John Mafuyai