TODAY, 2014-02-01, 6:15a.m-7:40a.m
Too early and I’m defeated by the darkness;
Too late, i can see too well, and I’m swamped by vertigo;
Some weeks ago, someone had to bring me down the bridge; Ikeja ‘underbridge’ that is.
Today, I train my eyes to the ground and put one foot in front of the other.
I clear half of Awolowo, half of Oba Akran, the whole of Adeniyi Jones and Aromire. It feels good.
I deliberately go through Ikeja underbridge. I want to walk amongst people, feeling their waking strength, and for some, their weariness as they trudge into another day. R. Kelly assures me that ‘if I believe it/I can achieve it/with Jesus on my side’ (the version with Bishop T. D Jakes), and I’m like, “yeah? Like when you abused those little girls? Get outta here!” then yank the headphones off.
The sounds intrude, assault; a cacophony of voices. I listen to them, unfiltered. I absorb it all; my blood hums.
I walk, and think ‘do they know who I am? Who walks among them?’ I am nothing. I am everything. I am a God, walking these grounds. Fashola’s Lagos. Gods’ earth (the apostrophe is not a mistake).
I don my haughty expression, the one Kollins described to me when I walked into a club one day and he didn’t recognise me for five whole seconds. Like I own these streets. Like I said, I am a God.
Yes, Gods, all of us. Ancient and modern. Foreign and traditional. we walk these streets, and this beautiful morning, we are out in force. Modern ones like me. Like all of them, these smiling faces, these scowling countenances, we are Gods. Among us in this crowd on the sidewalk are angels of life and of death; they smile at me and I smile back. I feel one with everyone here, so many people. A hundred people, a hundred lives, a hundred stories.
“Tell me your stories,” I whisper. They whisper back, “our stories are written on our foreheads can’t you see?”
The lifegivers. Us. I who sat by that man in Oshodi for nearly three hours till I got him to the hospital where the doctors were no longer sure they could save him, while the crowd swelled and ebbed around me (sometimes I think I can be as arrogant as I want to be, I have earned my humanity); the doctor who lay beside his patient and gave blood he didn’t have to; the stranger who stopped and pulled the accident victim, my ‘son’ James from the wreckage, despite the risk of an explosion; the uniformed woman who held up traffic for the kids to cross the road; the man who pulled me up as I hunkered on the bridge a few weeks ago, shaken and scared. I love them, love them all. I am feeling this goodwill, this unity…
Then I think how easily the tide could change; I could touch my chest and declare that my breast had been ‘stolen’ and I could point out a man. This crowd would turn, morph like creatures of the zombie Apocalypse. Slaves to their superstition, they would converge like pack animals, driven by irrationality. They would turn resourceful, producing from their meagre supply of things a tyre here, some fuel there, a match here, some stones and sticks there; weapons of their fear. They would fall on the man, a symbol of their desperation, insecurity and grief, and he a mere conduit, through which they will channel all the misdirected anger, impotent hatred of things unseen, people untouchable. He will become less and less a man and more and more an emblem of the despondency they feel, an icon of the desolation that eats up our land in bite-sized pieces.
And I, would I stand one with him and declare that they would have to kill me first. Was there anyone, ANYONE who threw themselves on the Aluu4 and said ‘would you kill an innocent person too?’ or, is there a silent communication that fizzles through the crowd and goes from ear to ear whispering, ‘He deserves to die!’ is there a general nod? An agreement. A handshake. A contract. Contagion what what! Take a breath.
So we are bound by these things;
The giving of life by speaking up for the things we stand for and believe in.
The taking of life, by our actions or inactions. By our speaking, and by our silence. We dance this dance of life and death. We are Gods!
I break into a run leaving them behind me. I let the breeze cleanse my thoughts and I clamp my headphones back on.
Now Bob Marley is urging us to, ‘emancipate yourself from mental slavery/none but ourselves can free our minds.’ This, I like!
Have a beautiful month of February.
Ayodeji Lancaster said:
I’m with you, Pearl. Even the Good Book said “Ye are gods”.
Keep writing Sis.
pearlosibu said:
Thank you. I will.
Ayodeji Lancaster said:
I’m with you, Pearl. Even the Good Book said “Ye are gods”.
Keep writing Sis.
Antigha Essien said:
i’m tired,for there are many needless killings.Someone driving a car full of explosives and ramming it into a public place or a church building full of worshipers is something i cannot fathom.Killings like this are commonplace today. A senior friend of mine (a stammerer) was killed in Lagos in the early 80s because some people screamed ‘tif!ole!!tif!!’ ,pointing at him.People still wonder today where the tyres,petrol and matches came from.Kelvin ( that was his name) was innocent.”Wetin you come find for here?oya talk!!’. Kelvin could not talk as he was a chronic stammerer.They set him on fire in the very eyes of everyone.No one could throw himself on him and scream,’you’ll have to kill me first”.I guess a mob situation is a peculiar one.By the time his colleagues from the very good-paying company where he works arrived the scene,Kelvin was dead.Evereyone regretted Kelvin’s death.When the corpse was brought home for burial i was only 11.My goodness!i cried.I still hear the sound of the ambulance that bore his corpse till this day…parara…parara…parara….parara.i think people need to be trained on how to respond to such mob actions.I think its a completely different scenerio from rescuing victims from an accident scene or helping little children to cross a busy road.
pearlosibu said:
I know exactly what you mean. It’s doubly horrible when the person really is innocent. What a tragedy, what horror. Who would think such an unthinkable thing.
And yes, you are right about a mob situation being a peculiar one because despite what i say, i don’t know if i really could do that, throw myself on the victims, against the mob. That’s why i wondered aloud about whether there is a silent unifying conversation, cuz it really is strange how total strangers would unite and do something so gory with such methodical, seemingly choreographed precision. It stuns the mind. Do you know, i heard in the case of the Aluu 4, one of the onlookers was a sister to one of the victims and she was trying frantically to call their father and crying into the phone while the whole thing was going on. I don’t know whether i can stand by and watch my brother get killed, but then, i don’t know what a mob can do – probably pick u up and toss in another state, or set u afire u and you may have to coldly calculate whether it is better for you to die a sentimental death and let your parents mourn two instead of one death. Sigh.
Trae Zeeofor (@trae_z) said:
I was an atheist until I realized I was god…“Ye are gods”.
Peace!