I Walk to the Moon

I got up prepared for the walk only to hear him tell me it was impossible. I wondered at his blindness. How could anyone think it impossible to walk to the moon? More than my shock at what he said was my shock at his shock! Can you imagine? He was actually shocked that I had my hiking boots on and my knapsack filled with snacks, water bottles and oxygen tubes for the journey. He will never cease to amaze me!

Painter of the skies

Sculptor of the clouds

Let me walk your ladder, sanguine,

Neither interfering

Quietly, I’ll pass. Your vigilant hands at work

On the form of yonder jaundiced clouds

The lights for this night

Songs for accompaniment.

Quietly, I’ll pass. This Eastern canopy you nurse

On my walk to the moon and back.

After he told me it was impossible I quickly reached for my knapsack, hung it on my back and got going. I wasn’t even planning on settling there yet, just wanted to take a walk and back an here he was making noise. He forgot it was he who told Orville God would have given humans wings if he wanted them to fly, that it was he who told Marconi waves didn’t have wings to fly across the Atlantic with, and that it was he who told that blessed inventor that erasers weren’t necessary since one could always trust his saliva to do a better job.

I come back from my walk and there he still is, afraid of taking a step for fear he will miss and fall, all his energies directed at telling others they will fall too. He is only good for aborting dreams and judging from the number of people seated around him, he has been quite successful. But the world is such a sweetie and this age such a darling that before he can say it cannot be done, someone has already done it!

The Voice of the Calling Bird

He calls and sings, and then he sings and calls. I hear him calling every morning; long before the first stroke of the yellow brush on these African skies I now gaze at. After the break of dawn, he keeps calling. He looks for a lofty platform, climbs like a celebrity in prime and lets out his voice, struts with the bravado of a he-goat, and lets his fellows take up the call. One look at him and you can tell even winners of the Grammies were never this cocksure!

Voices in my head. Clear and glinting
Like liquid mercury
The voice of the irreverent deity, this song bird
Sings of this home I dare not hope for
In tones I dare not hear
For the smothering smoothness of it all!

Calling bird.
The drums and the flute
Accompany your single duet
Music for my soul. Voice that calls me home
Teach my heart
To trust
In the soft colours that tell
Of this winter harvest.

When the entire neighbourhood has heard his voice and that of his primetime companions, he walks away. He is oblivious to the fact that he is the symbol of life, that his call is the sign that this light will not fade when we get to the end of the tunnel. He calls us to rouse and march into the darkness, confident that morning has come although all we see is night. And when we heed the croon of this arrogant caller, sooner than later the light surprises us, whisks us too quickly from night.
Only stupid farmers quarrel with the calling bird. They trust him to know when morning wakes, although they know too well he cannot define time. Only foolish hearts quarrel with the songs of their hearts and refuse to dance to their unseemly melodies.

Onye Akwukwo

There are many modes of expressing thought, this is dedicated to books.
I fell in love with Maths as a kid. I have wondered what the attraction was because I loved English too. And with all due respect, English has not always been the African’s best friend. Ever heard a grown man shouting, “My frem, pay me my lent! A bag of lice is now 20 tauzin naila. Evn dorrar have lise na brack market.” Don’t blame the man, pity English for making herself an international caricature.
I’m still in love with Maths. Many of my fellow lovers broke up with her, accusing her of being difficult. They say she is not understanding and has grown distant with time. I disagree because now I love Physics too. I used to think it was just the logic I liked. Now I know it’s more than that. It’s also about the pictures and the patterns. Where you see meaningless numbers, I see beautiful patterns. Where you see formulas, I see art- shapes and drawings. I see thought captured in those numbers. Literature captures feelings with words. Physics may not be such a good talker. He captures those same feelings with numbers. Art is very much like science. The major difference between both is their respective mediums of expression.
Books are fascinating. By the way, books are generally divided into history, philosophy and science. I think the greatest inventions of all time are the mediums for recording and transmitting thought. Apart from speech, the other media are written and visual. Books, whether print or virtual, are one of humanity’s greatest. A little digression, I beg your pardon. The imagination has been called the greatest nation on earth. The reason is that a man who has never owned a bicycle tire can be Bill Gate’s heir in his dreams. It’s really a matter of perspective. A vibrant imagination will colour reality the way he/she wants. That’s why children are always so happy. They imagine the useless patch of sand behind the house as potential castles befitting of Arthur and Lancelot. Give them a minute and your little shack has become Japan in the time of the Samurais. And in case you don’t have swords, don’t worry. They will improvise. Your spoons just gained employment! Every expressed thought, no matter how stupid, is a product of the imagination. In these expressions of thought we have the opportunity of capturing the greatest and the best of humanity.
Reading a good book is a lot like talking to a wise best-friend. It’s the writer’s heart speaking to yours, like a heart-to-heart tete-a-tete. That’s the attraction of art- sculptures, paintings, photographs etc. it’s also the attraction of literature and science. Books speak like your TV does. They get you to converse with the writer, to open up your mind and see pictures rather than words; patterned decor rather than a bunch of numbers. They bring you to the shore by the sea of imagination. Their aim is to help you see the writer’s world and the look further and find yours. That was how Einstein found Relativity. He stood toe to toe with Maxwell at the clearing by the sandy woods, and then he looked.
Read a book. Learn.

Why the Caged Bird Sings

It’s not because he wants to be free. He does want to be free. But that is not why the caged bird sings.
The caged bird sings because he is wired to sing, in captivity or in freedom. The caged bird sings because the songs of a caged swallow are better than the wails of a free eagle. The caged bird sings because singing is a matter of the heart not a matter of the place.

Pretty little bird in your dainty iron cage
Your brothers free in the air and free in the grave
You sang to me in your high pitched
soprano the soothing musicals of the Savannah
So there was none for backup
And you will waltz in tenor, baritone and alto
Simultaneous
Prodigiously.

It feels like home.

Spilt milk is already spilt. That is why ants and roaches can survive. If the caged bird can sing, can you not as well? The songs of the cage aren’t different from the songs of the wild. The caged bird has brought fresh and free to us the songs it took generations of his ancestors years to master their bridges. He has mastered the art of looking beyond the beautiful golden gate that protects him from Tom’s longing gaze. Prisons are really mind games. He sings because perhaps he is freer than you and me.

Photography

An illiterate photographer told me some years ago that photography is the science of light. It beats the definition Oxford would give. Come to think of it, isn’t it really about how much light your retina can capture?
Back in the days when images were developed in dark rooms, before the advent of the digital camera, mobile phone and the annoying little selfie-stick, analogue cameras were like the IPad 9. The world is a place that lacks respect for elders. I guess the dark room became old. I think the selfie-stick fails to realise he might one day grow old. So full of himself! Urgh!
The image that comes from a photograph is dependent on the amount of light the camera lens sees. The Photographer decides how much light will suit the texture of the image he wants to produce. In the end, it’s about getting light in. this is why I really didn’t understand the concept of the dark room. They said pictures were “developed” there. So, the picture starts in the light and is given birth to in the dark. Like, the light is the sperm and the dark room is the delivery room. Neither can substitute for the other. The picture cannot be taken in the dark neither can it be developed in the light room.
I would spend lots of time looking at negatives from the film of my big brother’s camera. Negatives, they called them. What a name! We would flock round a negative and try to identify the little images they carried; then cheer at how tiny and colourful they looked and at the absurd, mischievous beauty of it all.
Studying and learning is a lot like light for the photograph. The amount of light you let in will determine the final state of the picture. Dreams are negatives. Good ones always look smaller than reality and improbable. The dark room is the seat of imagination. Creativity is a dark world to explore. It is best shrouded in mystery. Dreams are songs of night. We should not allow them experience the harshness of light till they have been rubbed with the tenderness of night. Don’t smother the dream. Let it grow. Stretch your imagination like the vast, plain expanse of moonless night. The beauty of night is that nothing is. You can therefore fill the void with your anything. After the dark room, the image- the winning idea comes out ready to face the glare of day. It won’t shrink then. It’ll grow more beautiful.
Every amateur photographer will tell you to take lots of pictures. Better to have lots of negatives. Who knows, one of them might capture the groom’s candid bulge.

The Nation of I

The nation called I is the greatest nation in the universe. Its strength is spectacular. That strength nestles in the nation’s Ministry of Photography. It is also colloquially called the Department of I-MAGI-NATION. That word is a complex word derived from three other complex words- I, image (imaging), and nation. The nation rests on the ability of I Party, the ruling party, to create images for the nation. Creating images of the nation is okay. This is however creating images for the nation. It pays better.
The concept of nation is instructive. It refers to sameness amongst a group. Any group with something owned collectively is a nation. “If Facebook were a nation”, a friend said to me, “it’ll have a larger population than China.” The nation Facebook has a population of 1.65 billion, the nation WhatsApp has a population of 1 billion plus, the nation Twitter has a population of 310 million. However, contrary to my friend’s opinion, I don’t think Facebook is the largest nation in the universe. Ever considered how many citizens the nation Lipstick has? What of the nations Pen, Pencil and Eraser? Now, consider how many patriotic citizens the nation Internet has. Hitler would cringe! He didn’t need to win a war. All he had to do was birth another kind of I-DEA through the Department of I-MAGI-NATION! I-DEAs are the images the Department produces.
Every state has its own brand of wahala. The nation of I is particularly troubled by the opposition parties Me and Myself. Me Party is only cognizant of yesterday. They fight every attempt to allocate money to the Department of I-MAGI-NATION. They think it’s a waste of time and resources and that the nation would be better off doing things that would yield commonsense dividends. Myself Party is so concerned about the welfare of Me, I and Myself that they fail to recognize that independence is only the starting point of interdependence. This party believes in the Department of I-MAGI-NATION. They fight tooth and nail to ensure the only projects that gain approval are Myself-oriented! You never met more adamant groups.
In the History books, I read that the nation of Zion travailed and gave birth to children. “There they go again”, I think to myself, “crazy old fellows!” Wise fellow! Nations are living things, but I was too smart to see. They grow, give birth and die. Their lifespan is eternity because eternity has been set in the hearts of man. I learnt that from my instructor. He is called the Philosopher. Nations die, though they can live forever. Please, don’t ask me why the Typewriter, once the envy of the world, is now on the throes of death. I even heard (Don’t even ask me where, when, from who) the Abacus machine offered to send him humanitarian aid to assist the epidemic the nation is facing. The Nation Bill Gates gave birth to the Nation Windows and Microsoft. Now, he has another grandson! I heard his daughter Microsoft recently adopted the child LinkedIn.
When you seat to eat, give thanks for Bitter-leaf soup. Who gave birth to that great nation? Give thanks for Couscous, Ewedu, Tuwo and Kenke. Then give thanks for the nation Toilet Paper.

Yellow Was My Favourite

That was until I found orange. I later switched to turquoise, lemon and green in no particular order. I’ve also liked peach for some minutes and in between days. Yellow was my favourite as a boy. I loved it. I was in the school Yellow House too. Not one to love sparingly, I practically adored yellow. I couldn’t bear anybody loving yellow a little less. And I wanted yellow to always look better than the world around. I don’t hate it yet but it isn’t anywhere near favourite anymore. I don’t like bright colours. They seem to be screaming at me whenever I look at them. Yellow is so bright I can hardly hold my gaze. For old times’ sake I don’t hate it. I just respect it as an old acquaintance.
Growth is replacing lies with truth. It is putting away and bringing in. Growth isn’t acquiring numbers. It is making numbers valuable. A lot of putting away is necessary to accomplish growth. Growth is really metamorphosis. And contrary to popular opinion, growth is a reversible reaction. People grow up and grow down. Like I said in an earlier post, it’s really a question of the Mathematic of Numbers.
Whether we like it or not we’re always changing. Those who make progress are those who are conscious of change and direct it towards the pull of the tide. The airplane would have remained a boy’s toy if it didn’t learn from the fish the science of fins and the art of streamlining. That secret is pivotal to its ability to fly today. Airplanes shouldn’t be wiser than you. If they can streamline then so can you. We ought to possess a certain degree of aloofness with respect to things that be and those that were. This will help us shed old skin and grow new ones. Growing up is a lot like marriage. You’ll have to leave if you’re going to cleave.
When my options were limited to black, white, red, yellow and green, yellow was my favourite. My options started changing when I heard cyan, turquoise, indigo, violet etc. The larger options created room for a larger choice. It made me choose the colour of the sea breeze and the song of the quiet night. Limiting your horizons is akin to shaving off a leopard’s beards. It is closing your eyes to the beauty all around. Life’s most important skill is learning. That is broadening your horizons. Learners grow up easily. The learnt grow down more easily. They move from adultship to babyship in no time. Learning is leaving and cleaving. It is discarding old and irrelevant data and feeding your drive with present truth.
When the airplane approached the fish for a discussion on its ability to swim without falling, it went as a learner. The fish introduced the airplane to the first principles of thermodynamics, drag, viscosity, air resistance and streamlining. Learning from the fish put the airplane several steps ahead of his friend, the motor car, which was just interested in maintaining status quo.
Avogadro was once a lawyer, Gabriel Okara a Book-binder and Yeshua bin Yusef a carpenter. “Was” is a powerful word. It preserves history while making room for newstory. “Was” teaches us that yesterday’s ideal isn’t today’s credo. It shows us learners never lack. Learning is refining, beautifying and adorning. Kids, they pay little attention to beauty. Growing up is defined as the process of becoming more beauty conscious. It’s not about numbers. It’s about the one more committed to adorning his night and day songs. Yellow was also once my favourite. I ended up breaking up with her. That is why I can paint in the voices of my dreams.

(re)Defining One

Math told you one is the littlest number ever, apart from zero which is obviously not a number. Then you deduced that one is less than two. These are fortunately absolute falsehoods.
Math told you one plus one equals two. This is a blatant lie. I shudder to think how wrong mathematicians could be in such a simple case. It’s nothing but naivety to assume one and one adds to two. The fundamental question any right thinking person should ask is the quality of the ones (1s) to be added. I’ll introduce you to this concept. It is called the Mathematic of numbers.
Mathematic is a science of quality, not quantity. It’s more about the character of numbers, shapes and patterns than the numbers themselves. Quality is really a function of character. In other words, quality is directly proportional to character. Let’s study this more.
1 is the largest number there is. Every other number is simply a definition of the quality of the 1 or 1’s involved. A single 1 could be equal to 2 while many ones (1s) would equal 0. The words “useful” and “useless” describe the quality of any particular 1. Like I said, 1 is the largest number there is. I challenge you to show me a larger number. Any number you just thought of now is an adjective. It shows quality, nothing else!
There’s actually no number other than 1. That means that 1 is the only number that exists. Every other value you call a number is a naming word for the mutation of the 1 or 1s involved. Every 1 is mutant. 1 is naturally metamorphous, and metamorphosis is a reversible reaction. The state of any given 1 at any point in time and space is therefore a function of its mutation. In lay terms, differentiating the 1 with respect to its metamorphism will yield you the adjective and noun descriptive of its state at the instant. Neat!
1 is a stand-alone. That much is obvious. 1 is also enough. Being a stand-alone is independence. Being enough is potential. Add these two and you could get a billion as the answer, that is, 1 = 1 000 000 000. Then how in the world would 1 + 1 always = 2? I wonder where some mathematicians get their ideas from. Maybe my readers know and would gladly supply me an answer.
In technical terms, my point is that every 1 is inherently independent and potentially fit to be a billion. Your independence means you’re your own opponent. Your potential means you’re also the referee in the game. I’d advise you to team up with yourself and score as many goals as you want, not against any but in favour of you. Your value is a variable and it is dependent on your capacity. Building capacity is building value. Build your capacity. You are independent and enough. Depending on circumstances is making you less than one. And you could be less than or greater than one. It’s really a matter of capacity. Decide to be a trillion 1, then you can walk with others to accomplish it. Every collective journey is really a collection and summation of personal journeys. If you aren’t ready to go it alone you may not be able to go it together.
Never look at one as too little. It’s an insult to the only number there is. Whether it is you or anyone else, one is a number to reckon with. It must not be imprisoned by low self-esteem, fear, doubt or regrets. Without being repetitive I’ll say it again: 1 is independent and enough! Every great endeavour is at its barest minimum a product of one. History is the biography of great ones. Education is the thoughts of some 1 among us who have made a passionate impression on the psyche of the many.
Be happy you’re 1. That’s all there is to be. 1 is all that is necessary to bring the sun to roost in any cave. One leader could be worth a million followers. Every 1 is born a leader. Every 1 can dream and make it happen. It all boils down to the Mathematic of numbers.

Songs of Night

My Songs is a song of night. Hahahahahaha. Of course, there is a Songs of day. And I shall sing it to you soon.
Evening and morning are the first day.
My Songs is for dance. And the dance is for night too. Yes. There is a dance for my Songs of day. And I shall dance it to you soon.
I wanted to sing for egwu onwa. But I find the moon an unstable betrayer. He is the betrayer of night. So I will sing instead a Songs of night. The betrayer might choose to forego our playground if he finds we aren’t a-scared of singing.
My Songs is not for melody. Neither is the dance for rhythm. It shall be a mighty jamboree without let or hindrance.
The orchestra shall be dressed in dainty Agbadas. We shall embroider the musical instruments with tender flowers from the oil-palm. We shall be rid of great pianos and grand violins. Get us electric talking drums from the forests of Ogbomosho, the ikolo, ekwe and ogene. The ekwe shall be made from the wood of a virgin oak. I know a Fulani herdsman who shall strike the tune on the electric talking drum. He was once a beater of cattle, a cowboy or so.
Singers shall sing who never have sang, sung or sing. And their voices shall be harmonically out of tune. Aha! Let us have a harmonica too. It shall be pretty for decoration, especially hanging from wooden chandeliers. We shall be rid of keys. They are neither quiet nor noisy. So much like routine. Neither lovely nor hately.
An orchestra that is indeed an orchestra must have a conductor. We shall have one. I have the perfect fit. His voice is gruff from the long hours of shouting from the Island to Ojodu Berger. I used to pride myself on not being able to make out anything he says till I found nobody ever hears him too; except when he is conducting or collecting the fare. His manner is quite beastly and his face fearsome. He respects no one and is unfettered. He is anything but gracious. We shall have him.
We shall employ the playground for our performance. Whoever heard of an orchestra performing behind closed doors? The surrounding darkness shall be light for display. Oh the beauty of it!
Not for want of chord the discord shall indeed be sonorous. And the performance? Its sheer absurdity shall be pure melody. Destined to fail it shall struggle to live and without making much ado about life it shall sprint to life.
Night songs ought to be absurd, and unbelievable, and stupid, and unreasonable. Because they can afford to be. Day is for thinkers, Night for dreamers. I sing Songs of night. Can you dare dance to it?
Better still, sing your Songs.

I'd Rather be Free

Historians reminisce, philosophers wonder. I would rather be free.
I have the memory, and I have the wonder. I would rather be free.
The memory is past, the wonder is yet to come. I would rather be free.
The past is a treasure, the future is the dream. I would rather be free.
Day threatens, night beckons. I would rather be free.
Failure looming, success impending. I would rather be free.
The melody of the funeral drums, the rhyme of the birth dance. I would rather be free.
To remember, and to forget. I would rather be free.
To forget, and to remember. I would rather be free.
Yesterday, today and forever. I would rather be free.

I’d rather be free to fear than be scared of freedom. Freedom is what I have. And it’s not on the market.
I’d rather be free in the unknown than be a prisoner of the known. Too many are bound by what they know, so much so that they cannot explore what they shouldn't know. They end up knowing a lot of nothing.
I’d rather be free to fly than be a bird without wings. Flying is real easy. Just spread your hands inwards and dive.
I’d rather be free to walk on water than analyse the buoyancy, upthrust and surface tension of the Atlantic. Too many analysts spoil the broth.
I’d rather be free to forget and remember than be bound to forget and remember. Memories are great. But they ought to remain behind and to speak in hushed tones. That’s why toilet doors are always, always closed.
I’d rather be free to walk free than be held to work bound. It’s really a question of perception. Prisons are mind games.
I’d rather be free to smile today than dream of yesterday’s laugh and memorize tomorrow's dance. Well, what can I say?
I’d rather be free to live than be destined to die. The fatted cow bragged he really had a better lot than the lab mouse, and he told the mouse so. That was until he met the rock badger through a mutual friend.
I’d rather be free to rule than be the Prisoner of prestige. Only free people get elected President. You could ask Obama. Ask Obasanjo as well.

I would rather be free. Captivity makes no sense to me, especially when it’s self imposed. I choose to be free. I am free to remember and to forget. I keep memories in their place. The unpleasant ones will not keep me chained. The pleasant ones will be my code though. I am free to respond to love; to love and be loved. I am free to be human; and also not to be human. Lifted is a place someone took me. Fear is the ultimate captivity. Fear of failure or of success, they are both makers of the Prisoner. That's why freedom is the opposite of fear. And love doesn't fear.

Being the Prisoner doesn’t exempt you from work. No, it doesn’t. It simply means you make yourself too small to work for yourself.

Kings dream up palaces. Prisoners build them. Then kings live in them. Do you still wonder why I chose to stay free?

may we NEVER remember

Memories are good for lessons. They are also good stuff for prisons. Greater prison none ever built than the one in between his ears.
Record keeping is good business but accounting should never take the place of manufacturing. The latter is the reason for the former. And records are for erasers and shredders.
When we say we are products of our upbringing, we’re simply saying we are prisoners of certain experiences we’ve had. And we all are. It’s a cheap prison to build. It is also very cheap to maintain. But slabs of concrete and pillars of granite do not compare. Iron bars and electric fences are nothing but sham. They are quite superficial, mere illusions. Memories far outweigh these. The man who has entered the solitary confinement of Regrets, Self-pity and Inferiority complex is the Prisoner.
And he’d rather be there than be free. A prisoner behind walls of concrete and bars of iron wants to walk home free. Not so the Prisoner. He doesn’t want to be free. He’d rather grovel in his pity and righteous indignation of his terrible mistakes. He just knows how wrong he is. And he knows such a mean person as hisself ought only to be remanded in a multi—maximum security prison. The Prisoner is such a sensible fellow. He just doesn’t want to hurt humanity with the burden of another low-life.
“If only”, the Prisoner says. If only I was smarter, a little taller and a wee bit nicer. If only I was Mother Theresa with a little Mohammed Ali and perhaps a pinch of Hitler. If only I was… If only the Prisoner would open up the door. If only he would rather be stupid than smart. If everybody was smart what would geniuses and Nobel prizes be for?
“If only” is not a Martian. ‘If only” is the lady next door who chose to commute the sentence she gave herself and walk free. “If only” is the kid disobedient to the sensible voice telling him nobody wants to hear a smart punk any way. “If only” is doing it, although the Professor from Wharton knows you’re going to fail at it any way. If only is walking out that prison door.
May we never remember we grazed our knuckles learning to drive a train. May we never remember the resolution to ignore the mail-man that was broken after long months of hard labour. May we never remember the leash holding us glued to Pityland, St. Failuresburg. May we never remember we are so like the circus elephant. It is held by a pole at childhood.  It struggles with the pole and doesn’t get free. After months of experimenting, it discovers with empirical proof that it cannot move the pole. Then the baby elephant also forgets to remember it is growing. It just remembers to remember it is held by a super-human pole. He is another prisoner to fact.
The Prisoner will no longer try. He has discovered there’s no point trying. He will fail. The walls are too heavy and the bars are made of the finest steel. He just can’t get out. Such a sensible fellow, the Prisoner is.
But the journey is also something. The means is an end in itself. And the fact that you who were dumb at birth has learnt to turn at the honk of any car is proof that you are indeed stupid. But you’re stupid enough to merit a place on the earth, stupid enough to keep trying. Failure is a fact. And memories of facts flush easily. That’s the reason for the loo. Try it every now and then.
The guy who forgets the night has not done well. The dream and the journey to the dream are priceless. We sing songs of night.
I have asked the Prisoner to open wide the gates and step away from solitary confinement and from the prison of self-doubt. I have asked him to sing again. And to dance.