IF DAFUR WERE PLUTO.

Mankind has always been plagued by a kind of myopia; that of mistaking its ideal for reality. This shortsightedness could properly be referred to as the original sin of misplaced priorities. It is not as if we are suffering from attention deficit disorder, but if as all who investigate the matter must admit, we are engulfed by a tempest of narcissistic personality syndrome, which is an obsession with fantasies of unlimited success, power and brilliance. Or, it may be that we have unconsciously and ingeniously fashioned out a system in which events of momentous importance have the misfortune of being placed not only under the same taxonomic tent as events of little or no importance, but the latter have the prerogative of being treated with an unbecoming preference and reverence and the former with a posthumous crocodile apology, as if that is something.

The maxim "matters of great concern should be treated lightly," ascribed by the samurai author Yamamoto Tsunetomo to Nabeshima Naoshige, a feudal potentate in ancient Japan, struck me as something of a paradoxical conundrum the first time I read the book "Hagakure," a manual for the samurai classes consisting of a series of short anecdotes and reflections that give both insight and instruction in the philosophy and code of behaviour that foster the true spirit of Bushido -- the Way of the Warrior. But the author went on to explain that to face an event and solve it lightly is difficult if you are not resolved before hand. It was at that point that understanding dawned on me. You are supposed to have done your homework properly so that when the time comes to call a spade a spade, you will go straight to the point without beating about the bush like George.

It is a matter of fact (truth?) that as far back as October 2004, the then Secretary of State, Colin Powell, while testifying before the American Congress, minced no word in concluding that GENOCIDE has been committed in Darfur. Although his reputation for veracity of statement has been seriously impugned by his now infamous declaration that weapons of mass destruction existed in Iraq (another case of misplaced priorities), Powell remains the only person to date that has come out boldly to give the evil that is being perpetrated by the Arab militia, high on ganja and weed, against the black African population in Darfur, its real name: GENOCIDE. It is noteworthy to point out that this systematic killing has been going on since February 2003, and it has brought along in its wake hunger, diseases, rape, deaths and displacement of millions of people.

The United Nations in its characteristic diplomatic tongue-in-cheek doublespeak has described the pogrom as the worst humanitarian disaster in the world today. This declaration is followed by eternal silence, prompting the Black-eyed Peas to ask "where is the love?" Endless conferences and peregrinations, but no action. Maybe the courage with which to just utter the word GENOCIDE is lacking. But when collateral damages are inflicted on the United Nations' structures and personnel either in Baghdad, Beirut or elsewhere on this crazy planet, the Factotum General is faster than Ben Johnson in running to the television, goateed and coated before a barrage of microphones to condemn the mishap. Sometimes, he even beats the gun. But action on Darfur where over 100,000 have been killed, has been shoven to the back burner. The only insignificant action is in the form of a ragtag contingent of 7,000 soldiers sent by the struggling-to-be-seen as concerned and important African Union to keep peace, meaning not to halt the violence but to monitor it.

And then, just yesterday, thursday, 24 August, the International Astronomical Union (not United Nations) after a tumultous week of agreeing to disagree over the essence of the cosmos, stripped poor Pluto of the planetary status it has held since its discovery in 1930. I must confess that I fail to understand how Pluto's demotion which was effected with such indescribable alacrity and ruthless efficiency, might affect the issues of hunger, rape, genocide, war, joblessness, homelessness, destitution, oppression, and the problems posed by Nigeria, Congo, Darfur and Somalia on planet earth. This is exactly where the ailments plaguing mankind come to the fore: attention deficit disorder and narcissistic personality syndrome. Our leaders who like to refer to their gathering as the comity of nations (instead of a den of thieves) are all suffering from Alzheimer's disease, real or imagined. My only wish and prayer is let the United Nations become desolate and its office, let the International Astronomical Union assume. Let Dafur be transformed into a celestial body that is in orbit around the sun, with sufficient mass for its self-gravity to overcome rigid body forces so that it assumes a hydrostatic equilibrium shape, and has cleared the neighbourhood around its orbit.

One Man's Journey

I owe the genesis of my spiritual journey to that imperial sage, Marcus Aurelius, who roused me from my self-induced lethargy with his admonitions thus:

think of your many years of procrastination; how the gods have repeatedly granted you further periods of grace, of which you have taken no advantage. It is now time to realise the nature of the universe to which you belong and of that controlling Power whose offspring you are; and to understand that your time has a limit to it. Use it then, to advance your enlightenment ; or it will be gone, and never in your power again.

Ever since I stumbled on these typographical nuggets, I resolved that before stepping ashore into another life, I would undertake as a wayfarer not to be oblivious of where my road is leading. Presently, I am making my way with unsure and tottering footsteps inside a labyrinth, a veritable laboratory where my karma, oral, physical and mental , will be examined under a microscope by the great Watcher to see if the seeds of man's inhumanity to man have taken roots or have been choked to premature death. Every little step I take brings me closer to the exit which doubles as a portal to the forked boulevard at whose junction I must labour under the indecision of turning right or left.

Something needs to be said about the traffic situation inside the labyrinth, a city full of straying streets where millions of bewildered creatures are striving to fashion a verisimilitude of order out of the babelic crescendo of confusion. Threads, ropes, strings, and all other objects with which one's progress could be delineated as we turn, overturn, and return inside the widening gyre, criss-cross into an inextricable entanglement. Even though it is cosmologically claimed that one must have chaos in one to give birth to a dancing star, a sane traffic policeman is a novelty, an oddity, and something of a rarity in these circumstances.

It was while loitering at the junction of the alley of indecision that I met a rather interesting character, a Hinduist of Indian extraction whose specialty was palmistry. At first I rebuffed him when he approached me with his trademark disarming smile. Still reeling from the euphoria over the successful outcome of my first attempt at tarot reading, I told him I could on my own and by myself look into the seeds of time and say which grain will grow and which will not. After this brief exchange, we both went our separate ways, only for me to realise within few minutes of leaving him that this went against the grain of my spiritual journey in which I was supposed to learn from and share with my fellow travellers. I then retraced my footsteps to go after this Indian palm reader who proceeded to tell me things in my life --past and present-- which were accurate. He also made some predictions, the most important of which was that I would live up to a hundred plus years of age! A hundred years spent traversing the nooks and crannies of this bedlam would turn me into a veritable bedlamite, seen only through the perceptual prism of the old grandfather clock that is kept locked away in the cellars because of the erroneous thinking that it has outlived its usefulness. I hate being kept under locks or in cellars; so I wouldn't want to live up to a hundred years inside the labyrinth where life is a jungle and man is a hapless creature against whom nature is pitched in a war of attrition and extinction. Many a time is he assailed by demons whose only natural delight is to launch an unending barrage of katyushas in the form of thunderbolts, hurricanes, cyclones, volcanoes, tornadoes, tsunamis, etc, at the products of his endeavours. In the midst of this battle, the son of man is often forced to seek refuge under the daughter of hope who assuages his ignorance by explaining to him the nature of the unknowable (or the unknown).

It is the nature of man, not to merely endure, but to prevail as well. Nothing in his life is more strange than the stirrings he finds in himself to look beyond his animal existence and not to be fully satisfied with its immediate substance. This restlessness may be described as a vague uneasiness, or a sense that something is missing. It is as if some higher purpose is being revealed, and for a moment we feel connected to a mystery that nevertheless eludes our grasp. I, personally, have learnt great lessons inside the labyrinth. Lessons that schooled my wildness and tutored me to the point of embracing humility, patience, endurance, and solitude as an art. I am conscious of how much I have been manacled by chains of my own forging, and which myself alone can render asunder. In my own maturity and spirituality, I perceive and affirm my anxieties with courage. Hence I am able to proclaim to the entire world of humanity that my one avocation is to unburden myself of the millstone of suffering which has been hanging round my neck ever since I was born. And the journey upon which I have embarked is not meant to lead me to perfection, but to enlightenment. My blood may become exhausted, my flesh may become decomposed, my bones may fall apart, but I will never surrender until I find the way to enlightenment.

Lest I am mistaken for a guru and believed to be the possessor of mystic powers because of the frequent occurrence of the words "spiritual" and "spirituality" in this essay, let me quickly say that I am only a newly emergent being from the cocoon of illusions in which things appear upside down. And now that I can see things in their right perspective, I see it as my duty to keep alive in my breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience which having taken hold of every nerve and sinew in my mortal body, has in addition consumed me with a desire to understand the meaning and purpose of life, as an antidote to end-of-life despair, depression, and hopelessness. My spirituality lays no special claim to expertise in matters relating to spiritualism, necromancy, psychometry, clairvoyance, telepathy, etc. These advanced studies are the exclusive preserve of those who have succeeded in attaining a certain mastery of the inner self, and who have developed a modicum of psychic force or power which is under their own control. I am just a work in progress whose everyday wish is to be granted the spirit of wisdom and revelation so that I may know my Creator better; and to be granted the strenght with which to remain steadfast, devoted, and dedicated in my relationship with Him.

THE SECOND YEAR ANNIVERSARY.

I have a little book where I make my personal observations and comments about the vicissitudes of life. Page 35 reads as follows:

I know of a woman whose faith in God is unshakeable
and undying. With eyes closed, she pours out her
heart every minute of the day, offering prayers on
behalf of her kith and kin. She once offered the
safety of her room to a total stranger who was
fleeing from the pigs. Asked if she had not allowed
herself to be hoodwinked by sentimental platitudes
into granting shelter to a man who could possibly
come back under the cover of darkness to rob her,
she replied with all the conviction she could muster
that that man would never dream of doing such a thing.
That singular act of faith by my mother is engraved
on the wall in the chapel of the cathedral of my heart.
Little did I know when I was making the entry on my mother that the essence which identified itself as Erhunmwun Omoghariagbon Agho, nee Obamwonyi, would be passing into nirvana seven months later, precisely on August 6, 2004, in conformity with the sentence passed on all men and women at birth. And this is one occurrence for which I acknowledge no cause but the immutable laws of nature. Inasmuch as fate has decreed that nothing maintains the same condition forever, we all have a rendezvous with death. Adieu Mama. Requiescat in Pace.