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. He 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 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, the former king of traditionalists of our clan.
Makanan’s death came about when he tried to Kanan someone, who was powerful than him–and the person retrieve it to him and made him looked like a pellagra victim for a month before he died. During his valediction, after his corpse was laid down in his grave some people swore a dark cloud formed over the tree in his compound.


My Ordeal

Last edited 6/8/2015

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.

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.

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

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?”

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.


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,
I shut down my desktop, and went to bed.

-Maren John Mafuyai