Words

What does a good day feel like? A little warm feeling gushing up from the inside, choking up the late lunch in the intestinal tract maybe? Or maybe a funny fever that eats up the bad blood that muddies the clear tracks that we carefully laid through the mazes in our addled brain? Eleemosynary instincts need to be obeyed but more so the essential urge to the stupefaction of the senses and if that should hurt another, the prerogative is merely misplaced. Not our fault entirely; not our mistake one whit. Let the dead bury the dead, I say. We go to bury the living.

There is a providence that guides us, they say, and fold their arms across their chest, watching the sparrow fall and the child starve. There is a fate that is decreed to all and there is the mead that only the victors will partake of. There is a lot that our sciences don't understand but we all know the winner takes all. Is it possible to give to the many while denying the few indeed?

Africa is not just a far-off land, marked in black in the atlas of our childhoods. The neighbourhood slum did not always overflow with the refuse of our middle-class mentalities. There is hope even when there is nothing to hope for sometimes and then life is created. It is not easy to give but atleast it is easy to rant about it.