Life in a flash

Tags

children, emotions, flash, life, orphanhood, orphans

I am currently working on a project at school and my topic, simply put, is about the nutritional status of orphans living in caregiving institutions. It is amazing that after many years of advocating for improved orphan care in Nigeria, and my relatively robust familiarity with orphans-seeing as I was one myself, I am still thrown off balance at the site of the indescribable suffering of orphaned children. Most people have the notion that the problems of the orphaned child are food, shelter and clothing. This is very true for an ideal human, in fact they constitute the primary needs of life. It, however, is not true for the orphaned child. It is real that the weather breaks their tender homeless skins, also a fact that the cold nights torture their naked bones, and hunger continues to drag them on their scaphoid, bare bellies, but the realest problem of the orphaned child stems from the formless monster that prowls in their heads. The emotional void, which like a black hole, engulfs their minds and keeps them lost through most of their childhood.
In the course of the past 2 weeks I’ve worked with over 100 orphans at different institutions, and have learnt so much more than in the past 2 years put together. Among all the experiences that have added to my cache of knowledge on the behaviour and nature of the orphaned child, one particular experience was dumbfounding.

 At one of the institutions, something absolutely magical happened. We were waiting for all the children to assemble so we could all take a picture together before leaving. I was very excited because we had enjoyed a good time together, all the children were excited too and now it was time to leave. That was when I noticed him. He looked about 7 years of age, but I got to find out that he was much older. He was lost, standing in the midst of the other excited children, but this child was gazing far into the distance and seemed to be thinking about something. Looking through the assembly of children, one could effortlessly sense positive bursts of energy, but once you spot this child you could feel such dense cloud of negative energy. I was standing right across from him, once I spotted him I was automatically drifted away into his world. I too became lost in the moment. All the voices of the children were instantly muffled and my vision switched to a tunnel view, all that existed at this moment was just me and this child. Thoughts began to gather in my head like particles of dust seen through a beam of light settling on a table in a dark room. I began to wonder what had occupied his mind, why was he so gloomy?

This was the beginning of a very long and tortuous 3 minutes. His eyes were glossy and beautiful, his irises were like tuft of golden threads rolled up in balls. I could never have imagined those eyes in tears of agony. I tried to look beyond his eyes, to see the fabric of events that make up his mind. This was virtually impossible because he showed no emotions whatsoever, he was completely without expressions. Suddenly, he smiled, I too unconsciously smiled, as though he could see me, but my smile was of joy that I had at least gotten an expression. Right at the moment when I was to enter into his labyrinthine mind, I was shut out and snapped back to reality. It turned out another kid had bumped into this child in his state of excitement and had broken this short but unbelievably intense communication we had, without him even knowing. At the end of this 3 minutes, I was physically exhausted but grateful to God for a new reason to continued advocating for orphaned children. This experience, to me, was life in a flash!

Just 3 minutes made a lasting connection between me and that child. Don’t stay away from the orphanage because you don’t have food or clothes to share, a little time spent with them can make a child go to bed smiling, even though they know they may never see you again.

Unlived tales

Tags

charity, childhood, Christmas, dreams, orphanhood, orphans

The excitement is incredible. I am expending several kilojoules of energy like it is nothing. What an exciting day. No one goes to work, not even busy daddy. Everyone is home today and the house is full. Favourite cousins are here and everyone is just so excited. Today we are a day short. We have to rush up in order to meet up with all necessary preparations. Mummy sings as she watches the girls prepare the chicken. That chicken incident was all so funny, remembering it gets me hysterical. Who would have imagined that a headless chicken would run in such a co-ordinated manner that it will escape the grasp of 3 boys. Once it was dropped in a big bowl, it jumped out and started running around, headless. I made the first attempt to catch it, it went right through my hands and in between my legs. The exact same thing happened to my other two cousins who attempted serially to catch it. At first it was frightening, but eventually, we all laughed so hard at the narration of the incident. Mummy calls out to all the children, “its 10am, everyone come in for breakfast”. For mummy, this was the only time in the world that children could have breakfast before bathing. For we the children, this was the only time in existence when we could go all day without a single meal. Ideally, breakfast was earlier, but everyone is busy today. It takes mummy’s parental experience to remember the children. All older ones can take care of themselves.
Daddy always has a great day planned out for everyone. An eat-all-you-can lunch, and then an evening hangout. Now, this hangout, you see, was the beginning of the day for me. Nothing compared to it. Wherever we were going was a secret until we were in the car. It was more or less a moment of magic. Like travelling to a land of floating colours and untraceable chimes. Like being in a wonderland. Daddy was a genius at choosing family hangout sites. Everyone gave that to him.
The boys refrigerate the drinks and decorate the house while the girls spend the entire time in the kitchen. The role of the girls is unknown. No one even speaks about it. Whenever a boy attempted to go in there he was ejected as quickly as possible. Even when we were called upon to deliver something to the kitchen, the door simply opened and a hand front behind it received the delivery and the door was immediately shut. That great brown door; the kitchen door, was always shut on this day. Once, we were standing in front of this great door. All 8 of us, arranged in a triangle, and I was at the apex. We all looked up at this great brown door. It was like heaven’s gate. So majestic, and resolute. We stood looking up at it like hypnotised boys, no one making the slightest flinch. We stood spellbound by the mystery of this space. From all openings around it came finely blended aroma of several foods and spices. Lots of singing and joy from the girls almost burst the door open in our direction. Perhaps the only other force holding the door in place was the explosive counter balancing force of our aggregate curiosity on the other side. Daddy suddenly appears from the corner and pauses for a bit in surprise, “what’s going on? Is everything alright?” he asks. “They wouldn’t let us in” we say in unison. Daddy laughs and replaces me at the apex of the triangle, “brace yourselves for the mystery of the kitchen” he says, like a knight leading an infantry, then he pushes open the door. Bright light emanates from the door as it opens up. The more the revealed space, the brighter the light. All of this is happening so slowly. My curiosity comes alive, I can feel it holding tight against my chest. Squeezing so hard that I cannot breathe. It begins to give me gentle taps on my shoulder, and even begins to call out my name, then it says “it’s Christmas, wake up!” My eyes fling open and there is my mum, leaning over me with a loving grin.

Its Christmas again, and so many children can only dream of a fun Christmas. Many children don’t even have people with whom they are biologically related to spend Christmas with. Many others have never experienced the joy of Christmas.

People say one fun part of Christmas is travelling home to be with family, these kids have no family to return to. There is no happy reunion for them. The people they love will never be seen again.
If you have every reason to be happy this Christmas, then make a child happy. Let a child share in the tales of your family celebration.

There are 7 million children living in institutional homes all over the world. Do something to give one a memorable Christmas this year.

multiple jeopardy

We only know that they roam the streets, the information of where they retire to when darkness falls eludes us. We see them in their ragged clothes, as it partly covers their malnourished, wounded and abused bodies. Underneath their bodies is a soul, a soul that pretty much resembles ours, you and I, the rest of us that neglect them. A dark soul that is laden with pain and burns for vengeance.
This post was inspired by a somewhat stray information on the causes of street and abandoned children by percentage in Jos Nigeria, based on a research. So I thought to expose you to this shocking reality. Here’s a tale to qualify it:
In a cold town where the vegetation is green and luscious, with every new morning announced by cock crows through the dense dew and the freshness of the day can be smelled in the air as the wet dust glitters in the morning light.
Sitting in the cold wind as the screams of his wife keep spiraling him back to consciousness. Several thousands of thoughts come at him like shards of glass from an explosion. This is a first time for him, overwhelmed by outrageous joy yet bothered beyond control all at the same time as he sits on a large stone in front of the house , his back rested against the mud-hut wall. He mutters at the thought of his friend whose wife had died the week before, “what if she dies as well?”. Suddenly one of the old women in the room shout. He cannot tell if this was a shout of joy or sorrow. He jumps up from the stone and rushes inside. The candle-lit room was stuffy and full with the eldest women in the village. Through their shouts he hears the cry of a baby, his heart leaps for joy, but he cannot express this joy as the status of his wife remained unascertained. He looks at the floor upon which his wife laid lifeless with her eyes shining bright accompanied by that smile that never failed to melt his heart .
This child, Hajara, grew up to be a beautiful girl with dumbfounding intellects and a graceful smile. For a six year old, she did a little more than anyone will be willing to admit as ordinary. All the kids in the neighborhood never contested the fact that she was flawless at heart and undoubtedly superior intellectually. Her parents were incessantly bathed with pleasurable comments as regards her eloquence for her age. Her farther, a security staff at a big teaching hospital, earned just enough to keep a comfortable home.
He had a personal unique attachment with Hajara, a child that had come after several years of waiting. On the day that she was born, everything had mysteriously worked out perfectly well for him. His unfriendly rather harsh boss had just returned from a trip to France and, shockingly, bought him a shirt. He was 2 hours late to work but rather than get a query, he was asked to stand in for the chief security officer. Furthermore surprising, yet again, he was paid the full salary and benefits of the office. To crown it all up, when she was taken to the hospital after her delivery, the wife of the governor had visited her relative whom was delivered of a child and decided to foot the bills for Hajara’s post-natal care. From that day on, Hajara’s father knew she was special.
Hajara’s mother was indeed a mother on every side, she was a full-time housewife who kept her home. Ensuring ceaselessly that everyone was fine and happy.
One day, while Hajara was playing in class with a couple of her classmates at break time, she felt a tap on her back. It was her teacher, and very unusual of her, she had no smile on her face. She simply pointed at the window and said your uncle is here to take you home. Hajara was lost in the moment, she could sense something was wrong, she felt in her head as if hundreds of cathedrals had rang their bells at the same time and caused a rhythmic commotion. Her uncle had a sinister smile. He’d never been to her school before and now he’s picking her up before school’s even over. The ride on her uncle’s bicycle from school to the house, a mere stretch of meters, felt like a rollercoaster to hell that lasted forever. He said nothing to her all through the ride. When they arrived home, there were many people gathered in front of the house, crying and screaming in anguish. There was thick black smoke coming out of all openings of the house. Her uncle finally spoke his first word as he got off the bike, “your parents are gone to be with the Lord, I know this must be difficult for you” he continued as he put his hands on her shoulder with a stern look as though he could see beyond her eyes, “but the lord gives and takes as He pleases”. The house had burned mysteriously and both her parents were in it.
As with every child who’s lost parents, the next couple of days were physically dark and frankly elusive. It all seemed like a very vivid dream. But it was too fast for even her to think about waking up. Leaving patches of memory, at one time she was sitting in a house full of uncles and aunts and arguments had gone on for hours as to who should take custody of Hajara. At another time she was standing by the grave side of her parents surrounded by people as the man with the white collar spoke on and on about death and its inevitability. And now, she’s in a classroom with 25 to 30 other students who are focused on the teacher as he makes a funny illustration. It had been 6 months, and this was all she could remember from the entire period. She’d missed out on moments in her own life, all she had was this random pockets of memory. Now, she lives with an aunt she’d heard so much about but never met. A wealthy business woman who loved her very much.
Hajara managed to blend in and life seemed to have continued. She liked her new school and friends. Her aunt was terrific, she’d made sure Hajara had whatever it was she wanted.
Now, one year has passed, it had been full of splendor and just enough fun to almost numb the pain, Hajara is sitting alone in the school yard, School had been over for well over 2 hours. On and on, time crawled by and Hajara was overwhelmed with fear, yet she continued to make excuses for her dear aunt. At evening time, when there was no sign of her aunt, She decided to find her way home herself, so she snuck past the school gateman and walked along the road all the way home. On arrival at the house, just as she stretched her hands to reach the door knob, she heard people arguing out of control inside the building. She paused for a while to hear what was going on. “she’s a witch” one person shouted, another said “c’mon stop repeating a concluded fact, the issue now is what to do with her?”. Her eyes glow in fright, who could they be talking about. Someone else said ” look people we cannot be so sure, what if this is just a twist of fate, a mere coincidence. I agree that the circumstances surrounding her death are very strange, but still, we cannot rule out coincidence. I think we should just ask Hajara about this, I mean a 13 year old cannot outsmart us all.” then she realized she was at the center of the discussion, but who could this dead person be, she thought. Confusion beclouds her, she immediately cannot hold herself anymore and barges right in on them. Everyone is shocked to see her, and it was apparent she had been eavesdropping on their conversation. “Who died” she asked, one aunt responds “don’t act like you don’t know, you have finally killed the only person who cared enough to take you in when your parents died.” then one uncle seizes her and yells “today, all your witchcraft has been exposed”. He begins to beat her and tell her to confess on how she had been killing members of the family. The room begins to get heated up as another uncle joins in beating her, “You are a witch, and I will kill you if you don’t confess”. She cried in horrible agony, she didn’t cry exactly because of the pain from the beatings, but because she could not understand why such allegations were made against her and that they were coming from her uncles, the very people who were supposed to protect her. She continued to express that she had nothing to do with the deaths, but the more she denied, the more she got beaten. When she couldn’t bear it any more, she accepted that she was a witch and that she was responsible for killing the members of the family they spoke about. Contrary to her expectation that the beatings will cease, everyone else joined in beating her and calling her names. After several minutes of severe beating, they came to a conclusion that they should throw her out of the house since none of them was ready to take in a witch. she was taken out of the house, disgraced publicly and sent away into the streets…
 
As rather unbelievable as this seems, allegations of witchcraft is one of the leading causes of neglect and expulsion of children from their homes in Northern and middle belt Nigeria. It is the product of a sequence that begins with illiteracy.
Some people might think this story is too sad and perhaps an extreme of imagination. I agree, I was sincerely tempted to spice the ending up a little, bt I was immediately reprimanded by the permanent image of street children in my head, there’s nothing good about it. Now that you know, do something about it, and if u don’t know what to do, Simply share this post and spread the word.

N.B: please note that the entire story, including the names used in this post are simply a product of my imagination, none of them refers to real people either dead or alive.

Profitable rage

For several years, people have tried to get rid of child-related emotional instability and its causes. I also lately joined in this struggle that has recorded massive success over time, even before I was born, but has largely failed to eliminate the root factors-Death, poverty, diseases etc. so I have at this time decided to attack this big pitch-black empty enemy of mankind. What if people learnt to manage this inevitable situations? What if people prepared themselves for it rather than act like it could never happen? It is in view of this that I have decided to put down a little bit of my own story and how I have been able to turn a precarious situation into a motivation.
I’ve always stated very clearly to people that after my parents passed on, my life change. My life did not change because of the things that were taken from me; like the smiles and the love, but it changed because certain other things were added to me, and they were unwelcome. They forged me into a different person. So much that, even to myself, I was a prying stranger. I became overly secretive, especially with my siblings to whom I barely said anything about my life and experiences. At the time, I spent more time thinking than I ever had in all the years before then put together. These unwelcome additions were, the biting pain, incessant stream of tears, and of course, the burning anger and the scars. Four significant and very evident things that were forcibly added to my life and personality. But there is something that I never really understood enough to explain. It was the most powerful thing that was added to me. Every other thing that I felt could be explained clearly, in excruciating details. They all flowed in a sequence like a chain of events. The sequence went thus: The thought always led the chain, surreptitiously taking over me at idle times; shortly after, the tears would come dancing in my eyes, at which time I’d then try to take control of myself having realized that I had been taken by ‘the’ thought again; the pain was unmistakably there as a bridge between the thoughts and the tears, it was always very deep and deliberately hard; the anger component was the factor that often always dried up my tears like fire in an oasis, and it always came at the end of the sequence. The anger component of the sequence made me end up wanting vengeance, but at the end of it I would wonder, vengeance on who or what? God or man? The scars were not exactly part of the sequence, they came eventually when the wounds healed but left me with only more pain.
What I have stated in the previous lines is a clear picture of the sequence of the factors that were added to my life. They became an integral part of me and I understood every bit of them. At a certain point I got to like the thoughts so much that I longed to have them, and this was because they became the only connection between me and my parents. The thought served as a portal through which I could interact with them. Eventually, I got so accustomed to the thoughts that at a point I could filter out only the thoughts and bypass all other component of the sequence. At this time I could think of my parents and smile rather than break down and ultimately have a terrible day.
But you see, this thing, this other thing, I knew very little about it. I only knew for certain that it was there because I could feel it. It somewhat made my blood boil, it made me want to get up and fly like a taunted dragon. The most unusual thing about it was that it didn’t have a particular place in the sequence that I explained earlier.
Now, however, I have come to know that this thing that I felt was RAGE. It is indeed the most beautiful thing, and it sometimes hurt me now that for several years I missed out on its benefits. But now, I harness it. It has come to be part of the energy that flows within me. Instead of allowing this rage to push me, I consciously suppress it at all times, unless at times when I need an emotional prop. I summon it and allow it total dominion whenever I need a motivation, then it drives me all the way to thinking that the world was unfair to me and ultimately build an inferno of energy. I collect this fire and channel it to productive use. This for me has had a 100% success rate.
Among my findings is the fact that it is similar to what happens to everyone at the point of beat down. I have come to realize that we (humans) are strongest at our supposed weak times. What I mean by this is, a person is strongest just right at the point when he is knocked down by a challenge. This is because at this time, the person is enraged and is filled with energy. That energy however could be channeled for either a rebound or bitterness about the occurrence, the latter causing them to give up. Very few people harness this energy and channel it for the rebound that eventually births that breakthrough. Now, the case is pretty much similar with orphans at the point when it dawns on them that they are alone.
This rage can be used to power self-development or to self-destruct. The difference between an orphan child who grows to become a renowned success and another who becomes a nitwit in the society can largely be hinged on the result of application of this rage. This rage is a blessing in disguise, it is what the last breath of one’s dying parents deposit in them. I like to think of it as a consolation prize, though not commensurate with the loss.
Having thought about all of these and its inescapable implications, who needs understanding of rage, and why? Everyone does, orphaned or not. One way or another, many have been broken. We’d have less number of miscreants and social nuisance in the society if people reacted positively to their unfavorable situations and event. For as many MEs out there, close your eyes and summon your rage. Grind your teeth and clench your fist if you have to, it’s in there somewhere, and it’s your ticket to GREENLAND.

Atrocious privilege

He squints and wipes his face to rid the sweat that dripped into his eyes. Deeply worried for his mother, he can imagine how much panic she would be in because he had never been so late. He bumps his feet against a stone and almost falls but does not even stop as he manages to regain balance and continues jogging.
Meet Daniel, thirteen year old son of a trader, he grew up to recognise his father only in photographs, his father had passed on years earlier. Daniel’s mother had told him the story; his father worked at a construction firm and was significantly successful. One Wednesday afternoon, he walked out of a meeting where he had secured a dream contract for his company and could not wait to tell it to his wife . To tell her that he could finally get her that car she had always wanted. He scrolls to “my cherry” on his contact list and dials it. His heart began to race when the phone started to ring. “hello darling, guess what?” he said with a conscious whisper trying to control himself and not attract people’s attention. The smile on his face fades away like a wet painting in the rain. His mood immediately changes as he screams, “When?” with a panicky voice. “okay! Okay!!” he says again as he rushes to his car. Driving at an outrageous speed, he is overwhelmed with joy and simultaneously drowns in a pool of sweat from panic . The call had been answered by a neighbor who had helped take his wife to the hospital for delivery.
She safely puts to bed and gets informed by her neighbour who brought her to the hospital that her husband had called earlier and was on his way to the hospital. Several hours passed, she tried to reach her husband on phone but to no avail. The phone rang on and on without an answer. She tries one more time, and this time, the phone is answered. It didn’t sound like her husband’s voice, it was a nurse from the general hospital. The nurse told her that her husband was involved in an auto crash earlier that day and that he didn’t make it.
Daniels thought is interrupted by a flash of light from the head lamp of a passing truck. He paces up as he realises that he has been slowed down by his wondering mind. Finally, after twenty more minutes of jogging, he sees his house up ahead. A single-room apartment where he lived with his mother. The house was all they had. Daniel exclaims as he mistakenly steps into a pool of water at the entrance of the house, but immediately quiets down remembering that it was 10:46pm. He opens the door to find his mother seated on a stool with her hand on her cheek looking very worried. She gave a sigh of relief when the door opened and he came through. She had been so worried, Daniel never stayed out that late. She jumps to her feet waiting for a worthy explanation. Daniel gave a smile and hugged his worried mother. They both sit down as he begins to explain what happened. Daniel had gone for a soccer audition at the stadium. He only heard about the audition an hour before it was over and rushed there to try out. The state coach was very impressed with Daniel and asked him to stay back to see a scout that was looking for a juvenile player for a foreign club. The scout took so long to arrive but when he did, he decided he was going to enroll Daniel in a football academy. His mother understood very little of all that he had said but he simplified it by saying, “mummy, this means lots of money for us”.
Somewhere on one other side of the world, there’s Stan, wakes up in the morning, kicks off his 100% wool Versace blanket and staggers over to the bathroom. His automated bathroom door opens up before him as he bumps through and begins to drowsily pee all over the floor and toilet seat. Just before exiting the bathroom, he turns around and looks in the mirror. Startled by what he sees, he begins to scream wildly, resonating through half the entire mansion and frightening everyone who hears it. Six people including his two nannies rush into the room as the butler grabs him by the shoulder as though to rescue him from danger. Stan continues to scream inconsolably as four of the people search frantically around the room and bathroom for the stranger while his two nannies continue the battle to calm him down. After few minutes of trying to calm him, he eventually stops screaming, not in response to their plea but from exhaustion. When asked what the matter was, he pointed to a little pimple on his chin and said in a commanding tone “I want it out before evening”.
Meet Stan, thirteen year old son of an English monarch, heir to the throne and over 16.6 Billion pounds worth of business conglomerate, besides real estate and property in the choicest parts of the world. Stan wakes up every morning to extreme attention and affection from his two professional nannies who bathe him and get him ready for breakfast with his parents before they leave to attend to their busy lives. Somehow, Stan had managed to keep his two nannies for a record time of 6 months. Prior to this time his nannies never stayed beyond four months, because he was such a spoiled and obnoxious child who had no sense of respect whatsoever. Stan sits with his father and mother at the golden dining table where he eats virtually nothing of the entire stock of food ranging from anything you can imagine for breakfast. One thing, however, was very certain to be eaten, his specially made Kellogg’s cereals. Stan is allergic to peanut, so his father got the company to make him special cereals without peanut. Stan was extremely rich the instant he was born. Unlike Daniel, the only problem Stan has is worrying about where to go on vacations.
It’s sad how people exist in the world who are on the extreme ends of the spectrum of comfort. There is a big gap between Stan and Daniel that needs be bridged. Its true however, that you my reader is but an individual. But an individual, Nelson Mandela, took it upon himself to liberate South Africa from apartheid; another individual, Mahatma Gandhi, took the stand to end unjust colonialism in India; yet another individual, Bill Gates, decided to end the misery of polio which today is at 90% success. All of these people didn’t see themselves as individuals, they made a decision that pulled the remaining population. You can do same. I have decided to build this bridge, and that is one of the reasons I started this blog. Join me, let’s forge tools out of our privileges and drive them with the fuel of passion. Remember! impossible is nothing. Let us change the world, a child at a time. Think globally, act locally and put your privilege to work.
Please feel free to leave me your comments and suggestions, they will be highly appreciated. Thank you and God bless you.

Hidden Peril

It’s awesome how the human mind can act like a filter to select what it chooses to believe. It fascinates me even more that you can somewhat manually override your brain and shut down the facts it presents, choosing not to accept them. On a bright morning, I woke up with a smile on my face for reasons I cannot explain. I guess it was one of those mornings you just wake up in a good mood. With a smile on my face, I picked up my phone which was right beside me on the bed and just went to my Blackberry Messenger updates. Then I saw the picture at the top of this post, what seemed like two brothers sleeping on a staircase. I immediately got an emotional downturn. One of my contacts had put it up as display picture (D.P). I scrolled down to see what the personal message “PM” said, it read and I quote “I can’t wait for valentine’s day because I get to make cupcakes for a special someone and that special someone is me”. The statement as you would agree with me had nothing, even remotely, to do with this picture. I became even more sad. Then I began to wonder, why then did the contact put up this picture as D.P? Was it to make fun of the situation of the kids? Or to show people that the person had intriguing pictures?
These kids do not deserve to live in such conditions as seen in the picture, no one does, not even condemned criminals. So I tried to imagine the life of these kids using the picture, and one thing I know for certain is that scenarios are better narrated using stories. So I’m going to try to bring this picture to life with a fitting story. Here it goes, first of all let’s name this boys. I’d say Hakeem and Haroun, Hakeem for the older and Haroun for the younger. In order to avoid a tortuous discussion, I’ll start from the morning of the day this picture was taken.
Hakeem and Haroun wake up in the morning and like every other day in their lives, there’s nothing to have for breakfast. So they get up from their beds- a pile of opened cartons spread out on the floor in a corner under a bridge- and begin to think of where to go beg for alms. Hakeem being the senior one suggests to Haroun that they go to a particular street, but Haroun is not comfortable with the suggestion. His mind drifts as he remembers the last time they went begging for alms on that road. They had begged almost the entire day and received meager change only from people who cared, while others had shouted curses at them or just passed them with obvious disgust on their face. They made only very little money, barely enough to buy food for one person, almost nothing to celebrate. Then as they went to get something to eat, they are apprehended by task force agents, whose responsibility is to rid the street of hawkers and beggars. Hakeem and Haroun eventually had to bribe the task force agents with all they had made that day. Having spent a while remembering all these, Haroun tells Hakeem he does not want to go there. So they both agree on going elsewhere.
Having begged for several hours without any help, they were beginning to wear out from their hunger. So Hakeem told Haroun he had an idea and then he tells it to him. Then they both leave for the central community market. On arrival at the market gate, Hekeem tells Haroun to wait for him at the gate while he goes into the market. Hakeem then leaves off looking for a vulnerable stall. After a while of futile searching, he found what seemed like a suitable one; a provision stall in a crowded part of the market. He prowls like a predator for a while, monitoring the owner carefully for his extent of alertness. Right at the time when the owner is distracted by a familiar customer, he walks over and briskly picks a loaf of bread and two tins of sardine. Hakeem had tried to be very careful and calculative, just as he had been taught, to ensure that no one sees him. He then walks away, with his heart in his mouth, listening eagerly as the market noise is muffled by his adrenaline burst, as though to hear someone call out. Another successful one he thought as he walked stiffly in fear. Just at that moment, there was a shout, this was louder than the market noise symphony in his head. “Stop! Stop!! Stop!!!” it was the voice of a man, soon there were more voices, and louder too. In his confusion, he drops the loaf of bread and tries to run away but was trapped in the crowd. A bystander had seen him take the things and walk away without paying. An angry mob gathers immediately and they begin to beat him. The shop owner realizing what had happened rushed over to see what was going on. Seeing Hakeem ‘s face white from fear, he tells the overactive mob to let the boy go considering he was only a child. Hakeem picks up himself, bleeding from the nose and bruised on the left elbow as he cried aloud in agony, he shouts through his cry appreciations to the stall owner. The stall owner also let him have the loaf of bread and tins of sardine.
On the other side of the story, at the gate to be precise, Haroun sees a group of other street boys with whom he is familiar and playfully wonders off with them. Hakeem returns to the absence of his brother, screams his name and checks around for him but to no avail. He becomes terribly afraid, “where could he have gone?” he thought. “Only a while ago he was standing right here, could the task force agents have taken him? Hakeem is only 5 years old, how will he negotiate with them, not to talk of catering for himself”. Tears uncontrollably begin to roll down his cheeks. “I have lost my brother” he thought, “my only companion. He won’t be there when I wake up in the morning, he won’t be there to decide what street to go and beg for alms”. In a state of total confusion he throws away the things he had earlier almost lost his life for. He begins to run around crying aloud looking for Haroun. After a short while of this pandemonium, he sits at the foot of a street light weeping and lamenting. He looks up to the sky to register his displeasure with God, but then he’s interrupted by something, what seemed like Haroun’s figure approaching in a distance, carrying a bag of groceries. He jumps to his feet and wipes his face to improve his vision. There was Haroun, the little rascal, kicking an empty can of coke as he walked on. Hakeem jets off and runs across the street as he is almost hit by a taxi whose driver yells at him. The joy he was experiencing was too much to mind the driver or whatever he had said. He runs towards Haroun and hugs him tight for so long that haroun began to wonder what it was about. “I thought you had left me like mum and dad” he said. Haroun had followed the other street boys to an outreach somewhere where they had given out groceries to the less privileged and somehow he was able to get some of it, enough to feed them for three days if they ate like kings or more if they ate just enough for satisfaction. So they walk back to their street home together holding hands, where they both eat as Hakeem talks about how he had been beaten for stealing and how he had given up on living when he thought Haroun had been taken by the task force. Then haroun begins to doze off as Hakeem enthusiastically narrates his day. Hakeem notices after a while that Haroun had slept off, he goes over to him and holds him in his hands. They both sleep off together as Hakeem embraces Haroun for the fear of losing him again and the undiluted stream of love that flowed from his heart towards his brother, the only person who cared about him (the time at which the picture was taken).
If my BBM contact who put up this picture had spent just a little while looking beyond the pixels of this picture, the person would have realized that these kids have names, also that they are real and so is their situation.
The world is on a crash course, imminent peril looms. But contrary to what the topic conspicuously suggests, this peril is not hidden, not anymore. We see these things all around us, but our mind filters are steadily shutting these children out of our thoughts. Use your manual override positively, stand up for street children. The tears in their tender eyes are a product of our neglect, do something now.
 
N.B: The entire story, including the names used in this post are simply a product of my imagination, none of them refers to real people either dead or alive.

Mental Jailer

I love to run in the open fields where the grass is green and the sky is blue. Where there is so much silence that the rhythm of the ambiance is clear, with intermittently added melody from the chirping of birds. A place of absolute serenity. How I love to run, run wild and free. Freedom though, what is it? It’s really hard for me to describe freedom in a general perspective, but I can describe how it feels in my own perspective. Using experinces which, for me, connote freedom. One such experince is the taste and refreshment of the first gulp of cold orange juice on a sunny day after several hours of intense thirst. Another is the feeling I get when I’m curled up under a warm blanket in an extreme cold weather. But again, that’s my perspective.
People say about me that I am tall, dark skinned and reasonably friendly. That I enjoy to walk with my shoulders square and demonstrate authority. I smile in the face of challenge and act like a ruler over emperors. They say I walk on the edge and take a lot of risks. I hate small spaces, simply because I cringe even at the thought of confinement. I agree with all of these, because that’s who I am on the outside.
Ironically, on the inside I’m a different man with the same name. My name is the only similarity between the man that I am inside and the man people know on the outside. The outward personality is a direct opposite of the man inside, with straight contrary attributes. As rather unbelievable as it may seem, inside, I’m a little man in a squatting position, with my head between my jerking knees. I see nothing around me, and this is not because its pitch black, but because I’m too afraid to open my eyes. My hearing is also impaired by the sounds from the rapid beating of my heart. I only know that I am circumscribed by very high walls. That’s all I know, there you have it… okay! I don’t want to be a liar, that’s not all, but I am afraid to continue. I tell you this in absolute confidence, there is a gatekeeper. I shiver even at the thought of him, better still, IT. It’s a monster in the form of man, with an outrageous muscle bulk. It’s the biggest being I have ever seen. It carries a huge bloody axe, with an inscription that says “THE MENTAL JAILER”. It wears a mask, but its face can totally be made out through the terror in its voice. It is a hideous creature that happens to have a familiar name: FEAR.
On the surface people see a free king, happy and jolly. They see a lord; a ruler over emperors, but just under my skin, the mental jailer rules. I sit on a golden throne with my chin up in pride, but deep inside; a squatted whimpering little man.
It was indeed a bad time, I cried on my throne but couldn’t figure out why. I tried to explain but no one understood. Oops! Forgive my clumsiness. I’m really sorry, I should have stated from the very beginning that I am writing about my past. My mental jailer died, I killed it a while ago. Good thing it’s not murder when you kill an emotion, a habit, or a mentality. I climbed up the high wall that tormented me for years and dropped a huge rock of courage on the unwitting monster, I crushed it.
Today, I am a Ruler inside and outside. You should see my golden crown, I named it success. I am now constantly in the open fields, where I run my hands through the green grass, under the blue sky.
The heart rules, whoever has control of the heart has control of the man. Your attitude should not be a function of your circumstance (I know I’m no Karl Max), but hey! It’s true. You’re a natural fighter, FIGHT!

Unfitting shoes

It’s easy to put yourself in another person’s shoes. It may be even much easier to draw judgmental conclusions about the person. Nonetheless, the latter is less offensive and inaccurate when you put yourself in the person’s shoes first. That way you are a little more likely to conclude less obnoxiously about the person. Here are my questions: how effectively does putting yourself in a person’s shoes demonstrate the circumstances of that person in the given context? When we put ourselves in other people’s shoes, do we really experience the situation first hand as the person in question?. My answer is “NO”. Putting yourself in someone’s shoes in the real sense of it will mean personalizing and reliving the circumstances of that person, this we can only do mentally, in thoughts. As far as this remains within the ambit of your imagination, however vivid, it is not real. Indeed it is only another work of art, painted in strokes most appealing to the artist(the thinker).
You know that feeling you get when a colleague mentions at work that she visited an orphanage over the weekend and there were so many adorable children looking into her eyes like they were magical orbs of hope, or on a first date with that perfect man, who for the first time tells you he lost his only surviving parent to cancer at 10 years of age; yeah, that very feeling. That’s an override mechanism that puts you in their shoes and makes you want to cry(for the soft hearted) or just dust it off your shoulder (for the ironically faint hearted). It sometimes makes you imagine all that they might have gone through and simply but uncomfortably positions you side by side with the imaginative experience of losing your own parents, but you can only imagine, it hurts several times more outside your head in real life. In fact, you’ll promptly be snapped out of the mood if a close friend were to come to the office and offer to take you to your favorite café for lunch, or the restaurant is taken over by a flash mob that interrupts the discussion with your date. On the contrary, it takes a whole lot more to snap the actual victims of any such events out of the resultant coma of their emotional trauma. It takes more than flash mobs and hyperactive friends to recover an orphaned child from their mental chaos and perplexity.
As I write this, I consciously bear in mind that you, my reader, may be an American doctor or an English poet, perhaps a French chef, resident where functional government organs are set in place to ensure that orphan children are adequately catered for. This, however, is not the case in Nigeria and most parts of Africa, where these children are often left with no better options than to move in with relatives. Often a place in which their quality of life is basically determined by their degree of closeness to the family head. Whatever the case may be, ranging from first world to third world or no world, orphans across the globe share a common challenge of psychological trauma.
At this point your mind should already be wondering what I’m driving at. If so, you’re right at the point where I show you the course of the golden thread in this complex embroidery, otherwise, just follow me anyway. When you put yourself in another person’s shoes, particularly an orphan, multiply the hurt you feel by 17 and add 13 to it. I know you are now wondering what formula dictates that. No formula actually, it’s just a metaphorical statement, plainly as inexistent as multiplying one’s emotions by a definite value.
They are everywhere around us, living through the pain. Spending every night in bed trying to figure out what hit them and why, before the long awaited soothing palm of sleep ferries them into the next day.
See orphan children differently. Do not put yourself in their shoes, buy them shoes.

Hibiscus or Roses?

And so here it was, 7:15am; Friday, 24 November 2011. This morning was different, she could feel the sorrow like a blanket over her bedroom. She had taken the day off from work because she wanted to pay her last respect. Her aggressive boss let her have the day off without a fight because her heart was so heavy he could see it beat in her eyes. Now she is standing in front of the mirror wondering which of her black dresses will suit her best. Looking into the mirror and seeing how much a mess she looked, she gave off a sinister giggle. Right then it felt like someone stuck a pin in her chest and let out all the tightness, but just before she could savor the freedom, a fresh wave of heaviness hit her heart. Taking a second look at herself, she sees how red and swollen her eyes are; her hair tangled in unpleasant locks. Then she realized there was nothing funny about her appearance and buries her face in her palms in shame. As her eyes are fixed on the image in the mirror, standing with a clueless expression with arms akimbo, she becomes grossly disgusted by human frailty and scurries off to the bed crying.
Somewhere in all of these, there’s little Robert, totally confused and tussling with all the things they told him over the night. Uncle George had told him again, like he said about mummy, that he was not going to see daddy anymore because daddy had gone to be with Jesus. At first little Robert had been so glad to see Uncle George after so long. Uncle George was his favorite, always jesting and performing magic tricks. Robert practically idolized him. Little Robert, an only child to Mr. and Mrs. James was just 5 years old. Little Robert and Uncle George spent the entire night discussing, not quite a discussion really, since uncle George did all the talking. Robert understood nothing of the entire conversation, except that he was going to be living with Uncle George from now. Everything from then on moved very fast for little Robert, there was the funeral the following morning. There were so many people who came from all over for the funeral, so many introductions, not any less confusing names and identities. It was as if someone hit the fast-forward button on his life as he watched everything hurry past. Before little Robert could grasp any of these, he was in a new school, with a new family and life entirely. His new family; Uncle George, his wife and two kids were awesome. They’d make him laugh all the time and try everything possible to make him happy. The days were glamorous, but whenever little Robert retired to bed, he would slip into a totally new mood. He’d wonder on and on about several things. Most of which he knew virtually nothing about. His thoughts were based on delusional premises and he’d almost always end up more confused. Because he understood very little about what had hit him, he rarely cried. Only on days when someone had caused him to remember his parents.
Quite late for the event, she hurried into the hall from the main entrance looking to get a seat in the large crowd. Then the event host announced that a speech will be given by the chief awardee. As a tall dark handsome man with a dazzling smile walked up on stage, everyone jumped up on their feet to give a reverberant accolade. There he was, little Robert, all grown up and successful. He raised his hands at the acknowledgment of the audience, and at that moment, she felt something crawl down her left cheek like a little insect, she reached for her face and realized a tear had escaped. While he talked she heard nothing of his speech. She was lost in thoughts of the dark past that had now birthed this glory before her eyes; remembering how she had worried about little Roberts life without parents. She had wanted to do more to help in raising him, but somehow she never did. Now she feels quite dissatisfied with her input into his life. She remembered how she had spent a long time thinking about her late uncle on the morning of the funeral. Gradually her thoughts funneled to how she had thought basically about things that did not matter; like what clothes to wear to the funeral, what flowers to buy for the graveside and even how best to start her tribute speech. She immediately remembered clearly how she had spent a long time on deciding whether to get Roses or Hibiscus flowers. All that period little Robert did not exist in most of the mourners minds, yes, for a little while they thought about his survival but lost it somewhere somehow between worrying about frivolities. Now everyone who knew little Robert says he’s grown into a man, a fine man. But they are all wrong, little Robert became a man several years earlier when his father died.
Roses or Hibiscus??? The thoughts that muffle little Roberts scream for help. Holding him under the dark water of the uncertainty for the future with one hand as he gasps for breath, while keeping you busy with rather mundane thoughts with the other. Have a new disposition, take a stand to play a role in little Robert’s life.

cocoon of memories

Tags

cocoon, daddy, memories, mummy, orphanhood, reminisce, victory

Once, they were always there, before school in the mornings, after school in the evenings and indeed always. Best moments ever were days when daddy wasn’t too busy to play with me in the evenings. I can still see my energetic 6 or 7 year old self making so much noise and jetting all over the place playing with him. We’d lie on our backs out in the evening light counting the stars; Reciting my spellings from the day’s work at school, and my favorite of all, finishing off his malta guiness that he always saved for me in his big black mug.
Mummy wasn’t any less awesome. She gave me whatever in the world I wanted. For things she couldn’t afford, she simply explained why I couldn’t have them in the most complicated way ever. So complicated that after hearing her reason I never even understood it enough to ask further questions. A smart one she was my mother. She made sure nobody treated me any less than the best and showed me love that cannot be quantified or emphasized enough in words.
Certain memories of childhood with this man and woman and my terrific siblings continually grace my thoughts. One of the very best was sleeping off on the couch and waking up in bed the following morning. It’s was always so magical that I get nostalgic whenever I as much as see a couch. Among those glorious moments were Saturdays, when I spend virtually the entire day watching batman animations. Those Saturdays often didn’t end very well though. My siblings would get really unimpressed, basically because I’d have the remote control commandeered and also for the fact that mummy had me covered fully to watch whatever I wanted. So they’d gang up against me and decide to leave me by myself, around evening when I was done watching TV, no one would talk to me. I usually went from one person to the other getting the same reply- ‘go away’. Hence, the Saturday evening sadness, super cool day ending bad.
I was still caught in the strong web of all this bitter-sweet times of my awesome childhood when my father fell ill and shortly after died in my mother’s lap on the way to the hospital, no details of this day need be narrated. Almost immediately after, 3 years later, my mother passed on as well. Relax, I know you think it’s inappropriate to refer to 3 years as ‘immediately after’, but living the experience absolutely clarifies my claim. Perhaps it felt so short because she died on the same day as her husband, immediately the doctor called her husband’s time of death. She only appeared to have lived 3 years beyond that day because of the strength she gathered every time she looked into her children’s eyes, mine especially.
Not a day has passed that I did not miss them. Life for me since then has been very different. It was like I was born anew, I had to start to accustom to a new life. I screamed on the inside of me every day, as though to say to life that I wasn’t done understanding the life it plunged me into at birth, only to have it switched up abruptly without prior notice. I was still trying to catch up on having to wake up and get ready for school, get picked up by the driver in the afternoon and see my parents and siblings after the long hours of separation. No one explained why all these had to happen. Life like that already seemed downright complex, and now this, a whole new world on the same planet.
Now, however, I’m what you may refer to as a big boy. I’ve grown up in no time and the wounds are healed. Time heals everything they say, so I waited earnestly for time to heal my wounds. Today I’m where I longed to be, I can think about my sweet parents and smile instead of get depressed like I used to. But surprisingly I’m welcomed into this phase by a whole new challenge, a challenge I never thought existed- the scars. This phase has taught me that scars hurt more than wounds. The scars are like elastic chains tying me to these tragic days in my life. Whenever I see the scars, they drag me all the way back and make me relive the moments that I dread the most. Feels almost always like an out of body experience where I’m little again and I’m experiencing the events for the first time, reacting with as much surprise and confusion as the very first day they happened.
I’ve been battered, beaten down and torn apart. I wish I could end it here, but this is not supposed to be a sad story, at least, not anymore. So I’ll go ahead and add very frankly that I learned a lot from my burns. They taught me to be independent, to stand resolute in the midst of impending horror. This is not to say that it made me a monster, NO, not totally. It simply made me ready for life, especially in Africa. Grotesque as it may sound, I am glad that I made a teacher out of my situation.
There are many more like me in the open world today, but as I have found my way through the rubbles, like a survivor of a building collapse, I hope they dig through too and stand victorious on the pile.