|Photo reused from BrittlePaper.com|
I shouldn’t be writing this. I shouldn’t be writing anything now. Lately, I have just been comfortable sticking to reading and reviewing when I must. I just can’t write. Or simply put, I can’t write from a vacuum. And my mind is so troubled right now. Writing anything from it might be spewing out boredom. But I am moved to doing this. I don’t why. I don’t how. Please, don’t ask me. I don’t want to know. Not that writing is spirit moving anyway. At least, not for me. I just write whenever I think there is anything sensible I may contribute to a discourse; a trend; a subject. Just to whatever catches my fancy. I am almost always never inspired to write. The only thing that inspires one here is shit. Maybe that’s why ‘here’ is called Nigeria. And I hate shit.
‘Here’, for me now, is where government has declared itself poor on education. Every day, I wake up, pray (pray hard), sip tea, scratch my butt until blood drops, mull over my blogs, meander between social networks and join in on any discussion, however lousy. That’s my regimen to survival, the most trustworthy. You once wondered what boredom can do. Now you know.
I am affected by the strike. An ASUU strike that has become normal, one we are long inured to. ‘Here’; where some academic body is on a walkout and the monthly pay still stays. Old news. I know. My brother had a taste of this, my sister too, and most likely (if I don’t get filthy rich soon), my children will join in on the ridiculous circle. That’s a stale issue anyway. We shouldn’t be bothered. Nothing bothers you when rot doesn’t smell to you anymore.
I am new to this. I grow hard; grow hard of the many pains when solutions seem few. I shrivel; shrivel instantly when I know my desires wouldn’t be met, when I know there is no way where I seek a place. I climax; climax nonetheless, in frustration. Climaxing you do when your solutions are few, when there is no place where you seek a way. I shouldn’t have started this. Now I regret. But I want to continue. There just must be a way, a place, somebody I can put my thrusts into. My mattress is rumpled but only one sleeps on it. My mattress is wet but I don’t piss in my sleep. I now know why porn and alcohol sell well. My friend just started trading in them. He’s blossoming. His ATM card is smiling back at him.
Every day when I sleep, I see porn in my head. When I am awake, I smell alcohol in the street, even in someone I know, in a person I have always known, for a long time. ‘Here’ is full of shit, of porn, of alcohol. Today, I must win a soul for Christ, I am told. I am expected to.
I go to them always for jobs, they scorn me. They ask what if ASUU calls the strike off, would I still stay? I look bland, blank, stupid, I am unsure. I swear to them that ASUU will still be at for months and I will stay well, for some time. Nonetheless, I must leave; I must continue school when it stops, when it is called off. I am stupid; I am not qualified; I must leave; I am not ready. They tell me those in successive stutters. ‘There’ and then, I curse school. I want money instead. Tell me how to make one. But I must continue school. Know that.