Revolution – Deeperlook

Preamble

And the journey comtinues. The journey you started when you opened your eyes
O.R.A

In this part, the book I was reading was having a toll on me…..

Political Africa, Changing?

Sleep again hit me hard as I tried to concentrate on my written summary.

Was it because my stomach was full? Full of what, three small cup cakes and a small bottle of packaged guava drink?

I was defiant and read amidst dozing.

I picked up the book, The Famished Road.

Today, it was funny but kept me in more thoughts. The reality of the situations the characters were was so similar, familiar. I put it down again and continued with the other books.

I picked it up again, I had already refused to imagine the strange beings. I had only imagined the realism in the story. The images were already formed and I was familiar with Azaro’s compound and the wide space in front of their habitation. I was also tired of getting tired by the father’s continuous drunkness. He was a frustrated man but he loved his family and it was true that you poured your frustration on people you loved. His wife was a good woman, she loved him and respected him.

Azaro loved his parents but he was just so far away from their world, though his narration was the opener of my eyes.

I was tired already. I had sat for more than three hours without getting up, my medical mind reminding me of thrombosis. That was the problem when you studied medicine, you always thought of something extra.

I stood up, my mind had captured enough from the book. It held me in deep thoughts. I was going to continue next time, I left earlier than yesterday. It was still not so early.

In the bus, the usual not luxurious bus. The sweat, and smell, and people. My space was beside the driver.

I loved the style of writing in the book, I said it before. It was so poetic. I loved the puns too and the sarcasm. It made my mind feel creative more and more and it seemed to open my eyes to things I already knew. Suffering and poverty.

I was out of the bus, a new topic already raging inside. I was already having conversations with myself. They were so loud that I could only hear them. I felt like I had a job a job of a writer; that was known worldwide.

Africa and suffering.

I pondered: Is the African man made to suffer? What makes us different from developed countries that had humans living in them? Why were their lives seemingly better? Why were we so consumed by greed?

This book was written 29 years ago but still had the same issue bothering us.

29 years was enough for a man to start a home and have children. Enough for a toddler then to be a family man now and still, it was same issues.

It tugged my heart, I felt really sad. The book was making me feel revolutionary. I seemed to understand what some revolutionist died for.

Could I do that? With my writing? Was I interested in doing that? I remembered the aged that had suffered for it, some had not survived.

Again the boasting Sun shone on my face as I waited for the teeming cars to cross. My life was precious to me, I wasn’t going to throw it on the road. I looked at the rushing cars.

Was the traffic light not functioning?

I was standing too long.

They looked like what it felt when you felt hunger. It came without stopping,the waves biting hard on your stomach. No patience, no mercy and then I remembered banana.

I actually didn’t forget it, I had already planned to get some hours ago. I was going to add groundnuts. The professional groundnut sellers were around, their groundnuts were very sweet.

I bought my snack, already making up my mind for the stomach day. I had some left overs to warm if I still felt hungry. I picked two bananas and gave an older woman sitting beside the shop on the floor.

It was not enough but it was something, saying ‘malesh’ as I gave her, hoping she would understand.

I tasted the grounduts, it was like opoids. It was intoxicating. The light were off, my roommates were resting and the water a.c was cooling. My room was a special cool room.

I didn’t want the words to disappear. It had rang so poetically in my heart and even as I thought of them, I wished I had a pen then. I was born to be a writer. It was born with me, it is a passion.