Life is a homily

Wiki Leaks

Why is it that people in government hardly tell the truth? the boy asked his father. Otutukalili adjusted his pince nez and looked at the boy. Children of nowadays were always asking questions above their age. He had a newspaper spread over his legs. This was how he tried to relax when he came back from work. The boy was at the dining, rifling through his homework. He sat in the couch in the sitting room. The lone ceiling fan in the room continued with its whanging noise each time it completed a revolution.

Who told you that? Otutukalili eventually responded. Confidentiality was the bane of every white-collar job which included capitalism and government. While somethings were considered not good for public consumption, at least in the short term, confidentiality hid a lot of atrocities and mistakes made in decision making within private and public organizations. He was a civil servant. He knew that there were some affairs of the state government that were not made public knowledge.

The boy took the pencil that was clamped over his teeth and peered sideways as his father. He waved a sheet of old newspaper at his father.

I have here the life story of Julian Assange, he told his father triumphantly, it seems like most government are afraid of what his organization might divulge.

Otutukalili moistened his right third finger and turned a page of the newspaper he was holding.

Who is he? he asked the boy,

You don’t know? The boy stopped what he was doing and turned around to look at his father.

Otutukalili gave him a crooked smile.

Of course, I do, he told the boy to cover up. The truth, however, was that he did not. What would a civil servant working in the State Secretariat in Enugu have to do with knowing about this Julian Assange. They were not paid enough to worry their brains with something like that. The boy appeared doubtful for a second, shrugged his shoulders and went back to what he was doing. Otutukalili did not immediately go back to reading the newspaper as his mind went back to Julian Assange. Who was he?

Honesty . . .

it does not taste

like Hennessey.

more like

a well-kept secret

that continues

to ride high in integrity

until it gets a kick

in the teeth from wiki leaks.

have you truly ever seen

an honest person?

if not the children,

for its only to such as them

that belongs the kingdom.

when you do,

tell them goodbye

before you discover their lie . . .

i wish

honesty is as certain

as the sun set

instead of

this continuing puzzle

of who cheated first.

people have learnt

not to blink an eye

even when it’s obvious

they are telling a lie

convinced though they are

of their reason

which turns out to be

just another filth

which gathers moss

with every passing season.

a crooked pastor

wrapped up on stage

like a rooster

preaching heaven

to people that wants

have robbed of their reason

does not stop

to ask

if the congregation

is on the same course

they live

their illusory reality

very much detached

from their very society.

but then

truth has always been relative

taking from what is not

to add color to what is

scarcely told for what it is

but most times

for economic benefits

maybe this is why

it is beneficial now for humanity

to have whistle blowers

if it’s only

as a reminder that

the straight line we think we see

is not really what it seems.

Deception

This is a letter of a father to a son on a forlorn wintry day while staring out of the window of his house as the snowflakes fell. He had just been foreclosed on this piece of property which he had spent his whole life on because he had fallen behind on his mortgage. He only had a couple of hours to stay in it before the agents of the law came to implement the directives of the court. He lived all alone. His wife was long dead, and his only son was somewhere in Africa fighting a war that was not his. His belongings were heaped in one corner. While he waited for the cab to come, the reading table tucked in another corner of the room seemed to beckon on him. There was a sheet of paper and a pencil and an envelope that was coated with a thin layer of dust lying on top of it. The urge to write was something that he thought he did not have any more in him. He was not so sure now. He looked at his wristwatch. He still had time, he told himself and he had nothing to lose. He took a seat at the table and picked up the pencil.

Dear Son,

there is a smile

that is not measured

by the byte of the guile

that they hide.

there are some teeth that glitters

transparently like a film,

but tears to bits and pieces

those who fall its victims.

there is a kiss that is

as silent as a hiss

that awakens sleep,

so, the snake in it

could finally sink its fangs deep.

there is a sigh

that is a blanket

for a lullaby

but hides maggots

that thrives on thoughts

that ought to be forgot.

there is a love

with the allure of a rose

that wilts with

the beginning of a sun rise

to reveal a core putrid with vice.

it’s scary to stand

in front of a mirror

to discover

the image in front of you is an error

a double whammy

to see that the past, present and the future

as they file by in the vision….

has had a kiss

from the snake at the garden of eden

an addiction which even now

continues to mould their very culture.

what then makes a champion

is not that

they come face to face

as they must with the chameleon

but the grace of a discerning eye

that enables them to sift through the pastry of lies.

when a bird learns to fly

without perching,

the hunter

who can’t be deprived of his game

will also learn

to shoot without aiming.

My future has died now with my past but yours is still a rage ahead, a long road now my son, one you would be well advised to hit running. Not with the lumbering brutishness of an elephant, but the calculated frugality of an ant. And then who knows, you may yet survive in this rat race, where lies are told so that others could save face.

Forever yours,

Dad.

Communion of Saints

They were almost within sighting distance of their house when the boy took her hands and looked up at her face. She knew another question was coming and braced herself for it.

Yesterday, at the catechism class, he told her, we were taught of the communion of saints.

She nodded her head, and what did they say it is?

The spiritual union of the those who are alive now, those who are in heaven and those who are in purgatory.

Good boy, she said and squeezed his fingers gently, and those who are yet to be born, she added.

You mean babies? he asked.

Yes, babies, she said and smiled.

But they do not know how to pray, he told her, looking up at her face.

She smiled down at him.

Prayer is not only those that is spoken, she told him. Both relapsed into their thoughts.

An inferno of a forever,

incantation of holiness,

riding on the chariots of warriors

of eons past,

whose sword

continues to carve a swathe

that offers a passage to a freed soul.

death is only the beginning of life

which i am not meant to hasten

for this shell that hides my capsule

is deserving of the curing

that could only take place on this very earth.

my words are not of my creation

but have been in the mouth

of my fathers

and their fathers

and are with the wind

on a journey

to the mouth of babes

yet to be born for the tomorrows.

i am invited to participate

in this journey whose destination

is unknown to any man

unless it was revealed by the spirits,

a destination that is

as certain as the history of our past.

i was born an african

but i grew up an americanized european

and during my transition,

i will probably end up an asian

because the world

is my footstool and

everyone in it is my kin.

it is good that

i do not know what the future holds,

but i am privileged

to behold the sun,

the wind and the fire

because it is in these elements

that thoughts are arranged

in a constellation

that enables the appreciation

of the other existence.

my prayers

on my own has strength

because of that of the martyrs of yore

representing yesterday

while i am today

and the wonderful reality of a tomorrow

that is the legacy of those coming in front of me.

i rely

on the rest of humanity

of like minds to lead me there

because my efforts alone

is just like a tiny fart

in the middle of a raging gale...

my religion is legion

a freed spirit

at peace

with the origin of its being….

Lust

What they came to watch that day at the viewing center was the fixture between Manchester United and Liverpool. The venue was at La Pouch, an offbeat joint along Ogudu Road. The atmosphere of matchdays at viewing centers was always of frivolity. Fans and routine clients had started arriving at La Pouch as early as 12 noon although the match was not scheduled to start until 1330 hours of that Saturday. It was not unusual to get the adrenalin started off while waiting for the main action to come on. Banters and counter banters of the quality of each of the teams that was scheduled to play became hot topics of discussion. The supporters of Liverpool came with their self-branded jerseys. Manchester United not only had theirs but came with a vendor whose specialty was importing these items from the UK. The beer flowed. The three friends - Jokolo, Aboki and Nwokem were in one of the huts facing the entrance.

The television was mounted on the wall adjacent to their table, so they had command of the environment. On their table was three bottles of chilled Heineken with glasses of the beer at different levels standing in front of them. A lively conversation was going on. Suddenly a young lady burst into the consciousness of those gathered, bringing the lively conversation to a halt as her beauty or poise, whatever, took everyone by surprise. About twenty-one years old, she was tall, with