IF THEY CAN COME AGAIN

If I write about a man whose clock rotates backward, you may not understand a word. And when I paste the odd story on a bulletin board, you will think I should be locked in a ward. Not that the story is ridiculous or absurd, but between stupidity and creativity it stands as a cord. Even a wise man will be bored, but the fact is, you would never stop to nod, and what would occupy your mouth throughout your time of reading would be “Oh Lord.”

You may think the people of today are wiser than those of the past, but you cannot deny that their discoveries are so vast. Our own inventions like machines and computers are so fast, but at every end, ask which one will last. If they can come again, the days when our fathers would carry and play with us; If they can come again, the days when our mothers’ concern was to see us smile; If they can come again, the days when the only thing that mattered was milk from the breasts; If they can come again, the days when the burden of survival was not placed on our slender shoulders; If they can come again, the days when I did not care about passing exams.

I’ve written books, nobody reads. I have wise words to say, nobody listens. “Excellent!” the talent hunters would say but never in life will you see them again. Arts except theatre and music are not appreciated in my country. BSc and Masters have become our paramount priorities. A talent without a certificate is like a picture or painting under the bed, even when it is dusted and polished, only cockroaches and rats come around to gaze in awe. Look at the city from a tower at night; no electricity, just like a desert in the night. We students pace the lawn with pride, but we never want to confess how hungry we are. The eyes of the people are blind to the poor; he who has no coin has little friends, little recognition, little mercy, and little attention. And no matter how wise a man may be, people will not listen to him if he is poor. That is why we never wanted to accept that we grew up in poverty. You say you’re not poor? If you cannot spend more than a thousand Naira per day, you are poor; that’s just the bitter truth. It’s a naked truth that scares even the pastors away. Ah, those days when books were gold and writers were kings, why weren’t I born to the time? We read now to pass. We burn the candles for certificate. A certificate is the key to an honorable life. Oh if Proust, James Joyce and Shakespeare are here. If David Baldwin and Richard Wright are here; if Ernest Hemingway is here, our pens wouldn’t have become worthless. Oh people! Why? Why have you become blind to Arts? …Only if they can come again.

Lord eBay

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