For millions, it’s money. For thousands, it’s entertainment. For hundreds, it’s spirituality or science or art. For scores, it’s identity. What our souls yearn for; what fulfilment portends to us, differ, based on geographical, genetic, racial and psychological differences. Many find what they seek; many, never will they find, but death which shall seal their fates, forever. And it’s getting so short around here, I’ve seen three tens of years on earth, and never that long it seemed, anytime I look back, and I think I’m still young, but like hell, if my age is doubled, my death would bring a party.
Last time I met mum, I told her how much I collect for salary, she screamed “Damn! But you’re a professor for God’s sake!” That’s my mum for you, a professor is what I am to her, never calls me anything else. I wasn’t sad about the salary, I loved my job. But then every night before I slept, my ancestors whispered in my ears, “You’re living below your standard. You’re embarrassing us.” I’m seeing something clearly now, not everybody wants to be the richest in town, some just want to be loved and have families of their own to watch Game of Thrones with. The tragedy though, happiness has got married to comfort, and money gives birth to comfort. Time is wicked, it just doesn’t wait, and we aren’t walking fast enough, it’s a grimy mess of a thorny walkway around here. I’m exhausted.
I left my job few weeks ago, every kid I saw as my responsibility to train, behind they’re put, for while I was loving my job, time wasn’t loving me, and double my age sweetheart, my passing spins on a party. For many, it’s spirituality or money or fame. For me, what? Mum expects something big from her professor. Mr President mocks me, calls me lazy ass. But God! I don’t want to be the richest in town, can’t they understand? I just need a girl to sincerely love me, make me write more books. I want a wife. Oh no, the tragedy! Happiness has got married to comfort, and money gives birth to that. Time is wicked, I claim to be young but the hair on my head vomits eloquent dissent.
What do I really want from life? What makes me happy? When was I ever genuinely happy? The first time I was kissed by Bukky, fiercely like she was carnivorous, I was happy. The first time a girl cleaned my room and lit my lantern when I wasn’t home, even though she claimed we were at war, I was happy. The first time a girl jumped at me, legs around my waist, tears on her eyes, “I love you,” she said. Will I ever live any of those lives again? Or will I just keep searching for money, which of course makes mum happy and births comfort, which of course attracts girls, whom of course flee, when of course money dies, and of course comfort skips town? Or should I find love first, and nurse it, that when money finally comes, it’ll get jealous to see that without it I was happy?
The past has buried my heart somewhere unknown, an ogoid angel searches for it. I hope soon she finds it, and down to my chest comes, to restore my lost glory, my genuine happiness, which wouldn’t be birthed by money, but rather exists on its own. That’s what I want. That’s what’s best for mum. That’s what would shame Mr President. Love is what I’m looking for. Gimme me love, bae. Gimme happiness. That’s what I’m looking for.
– Lord eBay (and his random ruminations, 2018)