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Tuesday, 8 December 2015


The human race is a bag of beans; along with the seeds comes the chaff and stones. Even the desired requires adequate sorting to separate the defected ones. Only few serve the final purpose.

The cry of a new born brings joy to the mother and satisfaction to the father’s soul. Neighbors come and merry, family rejoices with dance—a new life has come. Unfortunately, the innocent remains in his cradle, ignorant of the thistles called life.
He grows and transforms and the elders ask, “When was he born? Was it not yesterday?” He starts to interact with people and environment, gradually learning language and culture. But the eyes of his parents are closely on him; “Don’t go there,” Always ask me first,” “Sit down here,” “Bring my glasses,” this or that—he lives the drill, a breakdown of dos and don’ts. This builds him up with morals and discipline.

There is another group he belongs to. He barely knows its building him up for the future. He plays with them, he fights and cries, he rises from the dust and runs home to mother. Mother is worried and says, “Don’t play with those boys again, they are not your playmates. Come and play with your toys.” But again, he is back in their midst with his toys, learning to be tough. In spite the quarrels and fights, there is friendship and happiness. He is still a happy kid.

He has grown into a man, a function of the factors that formed his mold. Through hard work, he has distinguished himself. He is independent yet, he is a slave—an independent slave. The eyes of the people enslave him and their lips utter swords.

If he coughs, they say, “He is spreading disease.”
If he uses his kerchief to cover his mouth, they say, “He is showing off.”
If he buys a car, they say, “He cannot even tar the road to his house.”
If he attends a function, they say, “Is that all he can donate?”
If his child falls sick, they say “I knew it is blood money!”
If he scolds a mischievous child for scratching his car with coke bottle cap, they say, “See how he oppresses the less-privileged”

And his relatives. . .

They say, “The child I carried yesterday has forgotten me,” they forget the tubers of yam and litters of groundnut oil he had sent.
They say, “He is successful yet he cannot help my son, his blood cousin!” They forget that their sons prefer smoking weed at street corners and living the gang life to formal education.
They say, “On my burial day, he will buy an expensive coffin to bury me,” they forget the drugs and money he sent few months ago.
They drain his battery with calls and he cannot pick them all because he is a busy man. The few he picks is piled with complaints and demands.
“What is he doing with all that money?” They often ask amongst themselves.

They forget that he earns just enough for his needs and strives to live a comfortable life. They ignore the fact that he has many responsibilities asides their demands. They make him grow weary and troubled, aging faster than his mates.

He wonders what happened to the good old childhood days where he was celebrated and embraced by all, where he played with the kids and bruised his knees, where he had happiness and rest of mind, where he worried about almost nothing. What happened to these people?

 He is the seed. They are the stones, the chaff and the defected ones in the bag—they are the talking people.

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