Eneh Akpan Writes: Poetic Essay

Showing posts with label Poetic Essay. Show all posts

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Things We Lost In The Fire

A Poetic Essay

Photo: colourbox.com

We grope in darkness and call out for light only to get answered by strife.

It's not unheard of old aches returning to taunt fairly healed scars. Sometimes, Fate could be that absurd. But that's just the way it is, lifting the songwriter's words.

History cannot be unlived. But if faced with courage needs not be relived again. - Maya Angelou.

And it's been said, the past makes us what we are. (I think I heard that in a Jet Li flick) But how do we erase the marks of the scar?

Mistakes are the bane of our existence and extremely unavoidable. Still, the greatest glory in living is not in never falling but in rising every time we fall. - Mandela

A dream deferred could provoke the greatest pain ever discovered especially, a dream rooted in the most sensitive spot in your heart. The adversities that engage us and almost rip us apart beyond repair hold within 'em the seed of our ressurection.

It's impossible not to feel injured when all you hoped to achieve shipwreck inches from the shoreline.

Some come out of the fire, squeak and clean, others just crash and burn still, some step out unscathed but lose everything they invested an entire life to build to the fire.

The pains uncovered are the footprints of unfulfilled dreams; the agonies of darkness visible; the frustrating emptiness of might-have-beens.

We grasp for a reality that blurs into fantasy before our very eyes; to substance swallowed up within a shadow and step out to face the days of our lives in defeat. At this point, the soul is deprived of every single reason to wrestle annihilation. Time crawls, eternity speeds along and life through your bloodshot eyes is a blur of rage.

We are made to concede defeat; made aware that some of the stuff we lost will never be regained-a loved one, opportunity to go to college, friendship that never was and prospects that fizzled away on the fringes of dawn. But the glory of life is not in recapping a trove of hurtful memories but in purifying them to the point that they act as catalysts to personal excellence.

Life, living, must be perceived as one constant sacrifice. And that gives the impression that at some stages in life one must be willing to let go of something, (precious, yes! But that's the point of sacrifices, isn't it?) to offer up something in the game of life.

Things that we lost to the fires of desire often help us, drive us to the limits of our genius. And concealed in the disguise of pain are the blessings of sacrifice!

Akpan

Friday, October 19, 2012

Who’s Calling The Shots?

Photo credit: sytereitz.com

We will grapple with opposition as long as there’s a world to occupy. But, tragedy is we often perceive the people (the bringers of bad luck) involved as challenges in themselves. That’s taking it a little too far, don’t you think?

You got it all wrong when you got your rage misplaced. ‘Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.’ (I think Maya Angelou said that.) The struggles you tackle are like chisels for carving masterpieces from artless rock. And the fools who bring ‘em are exactly that.

It’s to your credit to engage your dreams in the midst of raw opposition. There are times, it’s a natural response when you’re under heavy fire, you view your goals lurking on the other side of impossible. These are the moments you need to believe in the worth of your aspirations or you will get distracted. This is the primary objective of a conflict, what it drives for when it sneaks up on you. To steer your focus off your locus.

You ain’t going to remember pursuit of a vision when you’re way in over your head chasing after phantasmas. Turn the spotlight on bitterness for a minute. When bitterness trundles in a room with its crew, joy flies out the window. In the absence of joy and enthusiasm, your mission peels away in narrow strips in the ball of your fist.

Tons of experiences are chucked out when you waste your strength on people. Holding out under pressure opens you up to latent power, potentials buried deep within you. Like fuel to dying embers. It renews your faith in your dream.

Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Time wasted can never be regained?’ While you’re busy fighting people, opposition is taking bigger chunks of your time, poisoning your dream. To pay the cost, to be the boss, to be the one calling the shots, you need to stay on the grind.

Keep your pen bleeding!

Akpan

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Anarchy on Wheels

Photo credit: Thecityfix.com

Lagos bus drivers (besides being speed daemons) have a hang for maneuvering their buses with one-half of the tires rolling on asphalt while the other half bumps along suspended on the shoulder (God knows why), which is often than not a mud-rid depression. I guess you could call it a variant of talent just as people have a talent for walking into doors. Trucking with these road hogs sometimes, leaves me in strange circumstances–getting stranded is just one chapter in that book.

“Hey, driver! Take it easy, will ya?” Somebody yells from behind me as the driver navigates the Nissan Urvan through a nasty ditch.

“What the hell does it look like I’m doing?” The driver turns around and the look on his face says he doesn’t know from Adam what the guy is talking about. “I’m trying to get you jerks to work as quickly as I possibly can and you dare run off your mouth at me?” He cusses a little to buttress his point.

“Just take it easy,” another passenger, a lady with a child in her laps, says.

“We want to get to work in one piece,” adds yet another passenger.

And that makes the driver really press the pedal to the metal. “If you want, I can drop you off right here.” Yet, he doesn’t ease up so they can get off. No one takes up his offer either.

And the tango between driver and passenger that has by some method become tradition in Lagos, Nigeria begins.

If the makers of the 007 films could tour the roads of Lagos, aboard public transport for a day, they would learn vital lessons from the real-life car chases Lagos commuters survive on a daily basis. The anarchy we have somehow, learned to live with. The bottleneck drama we have dubbed James Bond driving. There are other ways to live with knowledge.

Mornings arrive with a sour-sweet taste in my mouth. On one palate is the pleasure I derive as I write this in this vehicle (I’m doing this on my way to work), on the other–maybe, the hard palate–is the situation I described above. Every now and then, I feel my teeth rattle as the driver who finds it impossible to stay on his side of the road, dive-bombs a bump or a pothole. I pause my writing at this time and look up, tensed. When the coast clears (some come later than others), I continue to write.

The road to hell is paved not with adverbs or works in progress but with hunks of junks called Nissan Urvans. Especially, the fleet operated by Lagos commercial drivers. Nevertheless, as I stated earlier, there are other ways to live with knowledge. Sometimes, life gets in the way and ruffles up my affairs like my rides to work do. I continue to seek ways to put my talent to use.

The one thing, which abides always, always, always is that I continue to write. In some amusing way, I find opportunity poking out of life’s stack of slack like rabbits bending blades of giant grass to take in the scenery. And like the roads that get me to work, this place becomes more and more familiar to me even when my writing is 99% bilge and 1% slog. I continue to write because like my early morning bus rides, I can see my destination looming over the horizon like the big arc of a rising orange moon.

“Owa o!” I tell the driver as the bus bumps and bounces towards my stop. He doesn’t seem to hear me. I yell “Owa o!” a second time.

“Ibo lowa!” he says as if he’s totally ignorant of the Bus Stop. I tell him where I’m dropping off and the bus sputters and coughs and finally comes to a halt several meters beyond my stop.

I leap out of the vehicle and hurry to take my next ride–the last hell ride–that would finally get me to work. It appears to me I’m almost eager for the jittery ride through torture and all that’s life threatening. That I almost crave for it.

But I know better. It’s the chance to reach into the richness of my imagination that I long for; the beauty of finding creativity on these anarchy on wheels that calls out to me–seeks to possess all I have and am.

Yes, I know better. And it makes me unafraid.

Akpan