The Pre-extinction of Mankind

It is the year 3005. Approximately a century of a light year,  man is on the verge of extinction. The ozone is depleting, unfiltered rays shone through. Each Human  had a 100% chance of getting cancer if they were exposed to the atmosphere.

Augusta sat at her grandma’s heel, they’d just had lunch. The grub is meager now-a-days, all food, even confectionery  truck  foods had GMO traces in them which is gastronomically toxic. At the time of discovery, less than 3% crops were organic and while the world steadily ate their way to the grave, Australia  proved resilient to the natural selection of humanity.

Augusta loved stories, her favourite were about the life before the extinction era,  she was curious about civilization and the millennials. She’d revere in the stories like she lived then as she’d never known smart phones or social media and today was no exception. Luckily grandma Alex is the best story teller alive, literally, as there were only 300 humans alive.

Grandmother Alex enigmatic eyes loomed into the distance. She knew the story her grand daughter would request far too well. She relived it as many times as she reiterated it. She heaved heavily as if it’ll hurt to utter a word. She started;

“I come from a time of great triviality. We could have done better because we knew better. It was the year 2017 and mankind was at the peak of evolution. The world had 3 trillion occupants with oodling birth rates and a recline in  mortality.

I was a young student at the time, my ultimate goal, to become a neurology specialist. I was insouciant to the world around me,  It was the only way to stay sane… little did I know what life had in store for us. The migration rate was explosive, with the ongoing war in the Middle East, and economic stand of third world countries, everyone wanted a better life elsewhere than home, including myself, albeit this was the beginning of the end.

A neo-viral disease surfaced,  The terminal ailment was traced back to a CNC mechanic in Cardiff. I was the resident physician on call that day.  He presented symptoms of a complicated flu, 11 days later, the young man made a complete recovery, or so we thought. Later that evening, he suffers from status epilepticus and died within seconds. A culture of his blood sent to the lab suggested that the infection was a recombinant cluster of Ebola and Dengue virus. Attempts to identify it’s diverse symptomatology failed and sure enough, the disease spread fast.

Vietnamese migrants were the first to be associated with the disease.  East-Asia crumbled under the blow of an epidemic, the economic instability worsened it.  Attempts by the world leaders to aid Asia proved futile. Europe and USA went on the defence, abandoning Asia, watching under quarantined roofs as one subcontinent vanished. There was an uprising by world activists; liberals protesting the governments, and thus began the third world war.

Lives were destroyed. Dreams shattered, and families  separated.  Meanwhile Russian biologists worked secretly on a trial antidote for the pandemic, it was solely in the interest of the government. Nonetheless, the grim reaper spared them not.

By 2020,  the rate of inborn errors of metabolism had drastically tripled, and the world population was halved yet again. This was indirectly linked to GMO in food produce.

All these while, Australia went A-wall. That seemed to have a source of hope. Unbelievably, it worked. Almost no one migrated there. In that period, Australia was simply forgotten. The underdogs survived the greatest tribulations of Mother nature.

You, my dearest Augusta, are the descendants of the fittest survivors, grandma concluded.

Although Augusta loved that story, she knew it was a far greater burden for Grandma Alex. She made a solemn promise to herself that she’d never make her millennium old relative relive the worst era of her life.

An so it was, because as nightfall came and they rested their eyes, so they could fight tomorrow. Grandma suffered a stroke.

Today is  29. 2. 3005, General population of the world, 299 survivors left.

 


I wrote this story a while back but held back from publishing it. I guess now’s as good a time as ever. I hope it makes sense to you and you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Don’t forget to let love shine through your words, and deeds.

Bless your beautiful hearts. Au revoir.

Therefore I am

With each fleeting moment, I am confronted by what is, and what isn’t. This is seemingly a colloquial thought, one might argue that the things we see and feel  are meant to be and that’s it. If we allow ourselves to reach beyond our psyche and tap into unprecedented knowledge,  it may become more feasible that ‘what is’ stems from what exists as much as what is felt, and the interfacing harmony of it. It is the interpretation of time, space, and soul  as the core of our existence.  It is something that is intangible and unquestionably fleeting. It is what René Descartes summed up in five words.

There was a time that I thought being imaginative was a delirious habit. I’d stare at a blanc wall and a tumultuous mind would recreate that wall in the most alluring, pristine way and even add dimensions to it. Whether I realised it then, or not, this was a form of  existing consciousness. Then along came the Ego, the imposter I assumed to be the real me, he’d coax me into believing how awful that imagination was.

Of course he’s right, it’s only a boring wall.

Except that it’s not. It’s whatever I want it to be because I could seat in the core of the soul, where distilled emptiness and silence  harmonises the wall to my creative desire. In a way, it is a knowledge that redefines artistry and philosophy, including writing. Therefore, I employ us to tap into that seat of consciousness, never-mind what the Ego thinks. It isn’t real, but you are.  Your mind can either establish or annihilate you, and I believe that in our own little world, we can be heroes.

Humanoids

Vulnerable beings in a human world. As many as the shades of the sky, we revel to the atonement of abysmal asunder.

Complex as the hand of Midas, but who decides how to count seconds, and who yelled; Oh look! it’s sand. We braze in the knowledge passed on by people about what we think we know, slowly crouching a bottomless pit because the earth is devoid of  edges.

You’ve conquered an incredulous journey; they may orate, but after that, what next? the future is uncertain and the past cannot be rewritten, even the present is omnimously arcane, projecting little of our influence.

To each, his time capsule afloat. Yesterday we were here, tomorrow we are gone. Only knowing what we were told from the moment of conception, assuming that philosophers and mathematicians of old already did the work, believing a customised template  dreadfully gifted by life — oder the galaxy, whichever seems more plausible.

So forgive me for believing that we exist in a matrix-like state. Our minds being programmed by a universal force. A system that balances peace, chaos, and war.

For all we know we are floating in a tube, force-fed the red pill, waiting to be presented the blue bill at our last wisp of air. A bitter-sweet moment of heavenly wonder.

No Man’s Land

We come from the same land

dear brother,

I trusted you

unheedingly,

We walked through the desert

me, yearning for a new beginning.

 

 

Your skin like mine is dark

your flag like mine is green

I’m not a slave.

But like the Portuguese pirates of the old world

you’ve branded me, a cow

and while you feel safe in your lofty bed

I cry without end, locked in a cell.

 

If dehumanizing me earns you a fortune

then our bureaucracy has failed us

the Nigerian police can’t see us as equals

Buhari is blind

and my brother

even as you stand before me

I know you can’t see as a human

In no man’s land,

only money talks.

 

See my hair,

they twist and curl in the wind like yours.

Oh, how naive I was

to have resurrected hope on sighting you

but when I learned

how  hedonistic you’ve become

With my last strength

I yelped,

My countryman, help me! brother, please.

You told me,

there is no brother in the jungle

before you disposed of my virtue

to a fate worse than repatriating to Nigeria,

Death in the Mediterranean.

 

 

 

 

A piece in light of the ongoing slave trade in Libya.

 

 

The tunnel

 

We thought we could escape our troubles. We thought if we climbed the ladder fast enough, no one would stop us.

 

Across the bed from him, I sat.

“I like you, I really do.”

He blushed, licked his lips and placed a palm on my thigh. I liked that. I shut my eyes and allowed myself to dwell on this simple pleasure. His hands lingered from my thighs up to my waist before grazing my cheeks. I opened my eyes to meet his pearly hazel ones. It was the first time I permitted myself to look so closely into someone’s eyes. It was intriguing to see them dilate. He parted his lips and I listened to the words that fumbled out….

A Volcano erupted in my heart. My being was shaking; like an earthquake, like an explosion went off in my head. My ears could bleed, my voice was gone, My lips were quivering from the horror when he said, “I trust you”.

I jumped up, and for a second or five, I was patting myself as if searching for something. His face grew worrisome and he constantly asked me what was wrong.

“I have to get out of here”

“Where to? this is your house”.

“Nowhere,” I replied, “Just need a walk.”

I sprinted out the room into the night. My legs were moving, one after the next. The people I walked past were staring at me, as if in shock or sheer curiosity. Maybe I have something on my face but I’m acting as normal as I possibly can. My mind is a war zone, the more I try to focus, the more nothing seems to make sense. All I see is a tunnel of darkness that I’ve never been brave enough to walk through to the other side. But now, it beckons me and right there in the park, I could make something out of the rusty air. A tunnel.

“Idara,” I heard a voice call from within the tunnel. It sounded like a child with a thick accent, Western African perhaps, “come”.

“Why” I muttered hesitantly

“Because you will never be able to face your truth if you don’t”.

I heard the fluttering of wings, and seconds later a butterfly was in front of me, so close it could perch on my nose. In a blink of an eye, it’s wings would change from violet polka dot to black with white streaks then to brown and white with blue streaks then again, and again, each time, a unique blend of colors. I was too mesmerized that I almost didn’t notice that now there were two of them, and in a millisecond five, then twelve and they just kept multiplying. They formed a line before me and begun flying into the tunnel. I pushed some air down my lungs, took a step and then another and I was inside the tunnel.

My mind was simmering with thoughts and they were chaotic but with the light from the butterflies illuminating my path, I felt less anxious. I noticed the walls had phrases and sentences inscribed on it and there was a sense of familiarity I had when I read them, I remember them because I lived them.

At the tunnel entrance, I read:   “you were always there for me.’ I recall smiling when I wrote that. I recall feeling lonely afterward.

“when I count my friends, I count 1 person 10 times”.  I know who that was for, it came from a sincere place.

the next one read; “you’re the bitchiest bitch out there, but you’re also the only person that piggybacks me home when I’m drunk”. Actually now I just think she’s a bitch.

The farther I got into the tunnel, the more cynical the phrases were. “This may probably be the last time you see me, I’m not going anywhere but I can’t promise I won’t wander off.”

The other read: “I can’t stand the pain, it makes me cry. I want people to care, I want things to work out”.

At this point, I noticed that the butterflies were reducing, disappearing. I was feeling unsure again, anxious. In an attempt to forge on, I staggered through the never-ending corridor with my resilient companions.

The next I saw went thus; “it’s not in my nature to express myself so wouldn’t it be weird, stupid to people if I started expressing myself? wouldn’t it seem like I was impersonating someone I’m not?” 

I sidled on like a lummox drunk in a grave-yard, I refused to look at the walls any further. I tried focusing on making it to the end, but my mind wouldn’t stop buzzing and I kept on wishing I was out of there, I’ve never been more restless.

My gaze settled on one final inscription on the wall and I couldn’t help but read it through; “so once again I was alone staring at the walls as it were empty like my soul.”

I stopped. Thrusting my back against the wall, I read the phrase again as I slowly sank to the ground. The lights fluttered around me urging me to rise to my feet. I couldn’t move, I’d lost all my strength.

“I was alone…the walls…empty like my soul, alone…walls..empty, empty….

The butterflies wouldn’t stop but I ignored them whilst they continued to vanish.

“Get up,” the voice was back. “Come Idara”

“I can’t,” I yelled, my voice resounded through the walls. I watched the butterflies fade until the last resilient wings were flapping right before my nose. Its light began to flicker and went dim until it was gone. Everything went silent and cold. No insects. No buzzing. No light. Just me alone in the dark tunnel.

“I can’t,” I whispered. “I can’t”

 

Thin Line

There’s a thin line between genius and depression…..

Many a night, my mind wanders to these thoughts while I toss and turn around the edge of my bed, fluffing and re-fluffing my pillow and tapping my device in every hour.

Perhaps, there is some sort of correlation between owning your truth and the lack of acceptance which is more than a coincidence. We, humans, hold our social ethics so dearly; it has everything to do with fitting it and concomitantly becomes the source to which most attach their happiness. To be an outsider would mean to reject these norms imposed on one. To be an outsider would mean suicide.

Sigmund Freud was the psychoanalyst who created a theory widely accepted recently in psychology. This theory states that human is composed of 3 components: ID, the most primitive, uncompromising and self-centered. The Super ego which deals with society’s norms and morals. Ego creates a balance between ID and ego. Freud went on to describe five phases humans must go through in life to achieve psychological maturity. Interestingly, neither Freud nor his theories were accepted at the time.He died by suicide after he was diagnosed with an inoperable tumor.

There’s a thin line between genius and suicide. We’ve all seen the movie, the enigma code, which was centered around the life of Alan Turing. By inventing the computer that deciphered the coded transmissions between the Germans, he contributed immensely in the victory against Hitler’s armies in world war II. Unfortunately, instead of being appraised by the Britains, he was rejected for his sexuality.

One lesson the Holocaust taught the world is that not all genius is good. In profound chatter, I dwelled a little on the evil genius that is Adolf Hitler, and Hitler was a man who faced loss and rejection in his early years; leaving him vulnerable to be molded by the people around him. I associate his disregard for human life to the death of his brother from measles. He grieved deeply and his outgoing personality was overshadowed by a detached and rebellious exterior. We know where the story continues from there, up until he poisoned himself with cyanide.

Creatives have also had their fair dose of lows. Virginia Woolfe a feminist and writer invented a theory that entailed the communication with oneself through inner conversations, an art I’m all too familiar with.She was also gravely plagued by depression. One day, she headed down a lake, her pockets filled with rocks and the brilliance that was Virginia Woolfe never walked out again. Her last note read: “I feel certain I am going mad again”.

This draft wouldn’t be complete without shading a light on the relationship between dark-skinned and depression. Like most illnesses, major depression isn’t easily diagnosed in black people because they see it as a plague for the feeble mind and. They focus on fine tuning strength. The story of Albert Alyer, a self-taught Jazz prodigy is indeed a sad one. Alyer was better than good at what he did, but in his time, being a person of color was a disadvantage. His jazz concerts didn’t receive any media coverage and when they did, it was never aired so his art did not get the recognition it deserved so depression took a toll on him, leading him to end it all when he plunged into New York east river.

So, having insight it seems torments even the best, and my mind cross-examines and debates it until I drift into slumber land.