MM2

There are so many sides to life, hope and despondency; the mirthful and the melancholic; the bookish and the klutzy; the highbrow and the lowbrow. It is as though life by its own workings strive to achieve a balance. I saw a portion of this existential pathos at the local wing of the Lagos airport some days ago.

The airport was new, all shiny and modern; more like a futuristic anachrone in the midst of obsolete landmarks. Unlike so many things in Nigeria, the air-conditioner actually worked. The airport was dotted with restaurants and retail shops. The tantalizing smell of food hung in air like an abiding torture on rumbling bellies and hearts. There was a loud air of opulence in the ambience that shut out every lowly person by its sheer existence.

Strangely, in defiance of this, a mangy looking man, wearing a threadbare suit and a well-worn shoe strolled into the departure lounge. He could not have been taller than five feet.  He had poverty trailing him like a body odour. He was carrying a guitar covered with stickers to hide the numerous holes and crevices on it. He glanced right and left to see if the security men were onto him already. They were not. He walked towards the general eating quadrangle.

The seats were scantily occupied. It was not a busy day at the airport. The guitar man was visibly disappointed but nonetheless he started strumming the guitar strings. His voice was mellifluous as he sang La Bamba.

I tapped my feet and hummed along. After all, there was not much difference between the musician and I, we were both koboless.

He had picked a family of two kids and their friends to entertain. On their table, was food, popcorn, and soda drinks. The father of the family and his male friend were dressed in expensive looking suits and spoke in a refined manner. The women reflected their husbands status in their attires. This was a comfortable company of individuals by all standards. The children danced to the sound of the guitar man and mouthed some gibberish in unison.

But the men and women ignored him as though he was not there, as if he was invisible. Not even a kobo was going to come from them; not from all that opulence; not from all the fine suits and expensive attires, refined mannerisms and clipped English. The story of the world was playing out again, I thought, arcing out in its pure icy darkness; a tale of self-preservative humanity; a sorry story.

I pondered at what makes man so supercilious and self-centred? The horrendous nature that feeds the rich’s desire to align to and be spliced with their own kind. Life is full of such infernal proprieties and high-flown decorum associated with societal expectancy that every inch of existence seems affected. I wonder how much time one can waste on this cosmetic sham-show in the short time we have to spend here on earth? The most pitiful of humans are those living a life of constant pretence in a laughable bid to conform. People who live in shackles.  Society is like a fathomless abyss, an all consuming cesspit, never to be sated. The wise knows this, keeps this truth close to heart always and intentionally starves Society.

By the time I eased back into reality, a security man had spotted the guitar-man and all I could see was his rear as he dashed down a stairway to freedom...