WHISPERS OF A NAMELESS FEAR ( Article )

Marriage they say is an obligation to one’s coital ardor, harder than it used to be during the days when love was a teenager. Settling down into the belly of a pregnant milling machine of true love, whose remnants were eternal spouses given to anyone interested in getting married— had been briskly pounded into the mortar of tradition and taken a dust bath into the tenets of adulthood—then, love was not lust. I’d got the thought at about six-thirty the previous morning; Sunday – during the “Whispers of a Nameless Fear” that choke my blood vessels with a countenance of hope, ageing itself a prided shame across the continent where I grew up.

Pains enough to fulfill a mad man’s destiny had been successfully enrolled into the silent university college of my humble thought— “marriage”, “death”, “widowhood” and “divorce” casted and spelt out by some men in Africa; who out of jealousy and desire had caused the death of their fellow men with the ultimate aim of inheriting their sweat, wealth and property. Justice must never be ashamed to speak in our mother tongue.  The vulture faiths on the death even it is old. A heinous act increasingly unpardonable— a mind that sees beyond the seven colors of the rainbow, as I understand the language of the thunder of a widowhood and death that has been raining on African soils.

A housefly that never buzzed at your smell, when seen sucking your trash is highly interested in something. Take for instance, how many of us in Africa who are from the same family— will have each other’s time during hardship; but the very moment an individual dies, heartless among men and oblivion of the human crocodile that a person mostly needed help from when her/she was alive, will turn the funeral into a feted feast of allotting wealth and self-competition—some will be eyeing on your beautiful wife/wives you have left behind, your daughters, your properties and your business. It’s call “Inheritance of Haste”— a brother to a brother, nephew to an uncle, aunt and a niece, a sister to sister, friend to a friend, blood for blood—the same people who used to counsel you to get a divorce in your marriage during hard times, or had been your sympathizers; are those who will supposing be asking for your hand in marriage immediately your husband or wife dies. If you’re looking astonish with my write-up and seeking for answers to this thought, just die and see— all in Africa. Making the troubles of African widows my worries, I felt the literary pedigree of their discomfort so sorry—a loftiness of a story, beneath the annals of history; some live all their lives in dismal distress.

To undress the naked fibers of my shameless African sweat-glands, funerals in Africa are now festivals— such that the death of a person calls for few tears and celebrations. A headache of a rich man is far better than the death of a poor man in Africa. When a poor man dies, he is buried with dignity for being poor and had nothing—but if a rich man does, his ghost dies ten times in his grave before he is finally laid to rest.

Sorrow has made the African milk sour, venom of pain had stung our hearts with hatred, tribalism, jealousy, mourning and poverty. Is it when we cry blood these acts will be condemned? How can you inherit your brother’s wife when you were always at odds with him when he was alive, my brother, the problem is you not your late brother. You caused his death and advocated for it—my dear sister, have you as well taken a closer look at your image in the mirror; your conscience is not clean in the death of your friend, you love her rich husband and sent her to hell, to inherit your friend's joy and bank with her husband—are you not bigger than the Pan African bank? Banker of the year, you’re civilizing hopelessness to bake our hearts with ponderings of misdemeanor. 

 I’m understood by only those who understand philosophy, soil me in your earth crust to better explain to you the degree of doom and decadence felt in the hearts of disturbed corpses in the grave. We have to form an alliance with each other in Africa to end these—it is God Who has the eternal key to lock every door, but man was born naked and must die naked. Death is the separator of the dear from the dearest— the dead are not happy anymore in Africa. Some died innocently, others gave up their properties, some abandoned in the darkness of hatred in the family; and others gave up in professional hatred at work that killed them. Jobs in Africa are now embattled for, to the extent that men had to send others in their grave so that they can be a “CEO”, “Director”, “Permanent Secretary”, “Minister”, what can I add— a “President”. That best describes the evil seen by the uniform trousers of my naked corridor of my weary eyes, as they got blown away by the wind of sight idiomatically. Africa has indeed a great battle to fight aside from poverty, hatred, jealousy, ignorance, greed, pride and evil are the most vital things to be fought for eternity, if ever there will be United States of Africa; we must be freed from the bondage of evil.

All Rights Reserved! Thank you for reading and following my blog. Should you wish to extract any of my articles for personal use, research, lectures, etc, kindly address your messages to modoulaminsowe1@hotmail.com. Copying any of my articles without a written permission to me is an infringement of Copyright.