The Perfect Sacrifice

LORD, we are vile, and full of sin,
We’re born unholy and unclean;
Sprung from the man whose guilty fall
Corrupts his race, and taints us all.

Behold, we fall before Thy face;
Our only refuge is Thy grace:
No outward forms can make us clean;
The leprosy lies deep within.

Nor bleeding bird, nor bleeding beast,
Nor hyssop branch, nor earthly priest,
Nor running brook, nor flood, nor sea,
Can wash the dismal stain away.

Jesus, Thy blood, Thy blood alone,
Hath power sufficient to atone;
Thy blood can make us white as snow;
No other tide can cleanse us so.

- Isaac Watts

Desensitization

Danger inches ever closer
until the endangered species
risking fate
learns to live with it.

The risk of harm
remains as high
as when first
it appeared.

Thrill replaces fear
while life on the edge
dices with death
until safety bores.

Quite naturally
sleeping with the enemy
ultimately culminates in
dying in his arms.

Strange but Overheard

My brother bought a he-goat at an auction during last year's camp meeting, most likely for the fun of it, to win a bidding war. His winning bid eventually turned out to be good value for money, far beneath goat market price. The goat lived in Grandma's compound for a year, grazing and being a frisky randy generally undiscriminating he-goat, like the rest of its kind. But its life was brutally cut short one night when unknown people slaughtered it and stole its meat. So clean was the job that only its bones were found, but "a zasbec was abbri-ended."*

The case is still current, despite the owner of the goat (my not-so-little lil bro (he's actually taller than me by now)) seeming more amused than annoyed by the whole scandal, even though that theft effectively ended his short humble stint in the league of livestock owners.

Anyway, fast forward to our chance meeting with two local stalwarts of the drinking den, who were either eyewitness to the drama following the slaughter, or had gleaned enough from the grapevine and embellished it with an active enough imagination to paint a vivid picture.

Upon setting sight on my brother and I, these two offered their unique idea of commiseration in a lengthy rambling dialogue.

"It's not the first time such a thing has happened. The thief should not have been caught."

"Catching the thief was the most foolish thing those people did."
"That one, they beat him a little, but it would have been good if he died."
"If it was another village that thief's carcass would be collected on the highway by police."
"He was lucky! I'm telling you, if you had been the one who got caught slaughtering other people's livestock, not even far, in just the next village…"
"You are talking about slaughtering livestock! You don't want to know what they did to me in Kano when I was on my way to the market and I saw a ram entangled in the bushes and I just had pity on it."
"Bad idea."
"I was beaten so badly that I forgot about going to the market and went back home. The lucky thing is I had my own cow with me so they reasoned I couldn't steal their sheep while I had a whole cow. That's what saved me. Anyway they still beat me properly."
"Nobody will believe you were helping their ram even if it was near death."
"Nowadays when I see domestic animals entangled in the pastures I never try to release them! Instead I remember the beating with which I was beaten."
"Elsewhere they kill thieves."
"The other day one man woke up in the morning and killed his wife. Now what manner of killing is that? That kind of killing is not good."
"That one woke up craving to kill, just bad luck that he found his wife nearby..."

As they went on and on, meandering between deathly subjects, I wondered how they distinguished good killings from bad ones.
___

* - "zasbec was abbri-ended" is police talk for "suspect was apprehended."

Rap Battle

Sundry rappers stepped forth
purporting to run this city.

Each maintained an entourage
Their shiny trinkets swung like pendulums.
Their egos swelled like hot air balloons.
One feared their dancers were boneless.
 
All in quick succession spat venom. 
First came a quick talker with a mic
who claimed the love of all the fans
except of course the haters.

His successor took to the stage
opening with a salvo of insults,
blended curses and abominations
wrathfully declared.

A third loquacious character joined in
citing gangs, drugs, guns and bullets.
His drummers paused briefly for gunshots
before he mentioned his army of women .

A fourth jumped up barking orders
for hands to be thrown up and screams to resound;
Her sick flow massacred the audience,
and she was proud of the death toll.

Diss track pursued diss track,
And though they strove for supremacy
they certainly didn't run this city,
no, not at all.

You-nique

Somewhere out there
There is no other you
except, of course, you
Just like everybody else
:)

Pearl goes to the park

We had too much time on our hands, after lunch and light shopping. Every languid step we took declared "No hurry in Africa at all, none whatsoever!" We talked as we walked, too close for far too many passers-by who stared at us. "This town,"  I joked, "is so conservative that our chemistry is setting off alarm bells." She was surprised we had chemistry.

By this time we were inching our way back to her place. At least that was the general idea. But as we passed by a public park, its open entrance seemed to invite us. Shady trees swayed in the afternoon breeze as if they were beckoning "Come!". We took a detour, walking off the pavement and onto the grass. Indecision briefly reigned as we were faced with a range of trees under which to sit. Finally we settled under one where we could talk privately, just the two of us.

Not that I expected much heavy talk at first. My mind was loitering back and forth between a football tournament I would be missing, and a project I was to begin working on. But, once seated, the quaintness of the scene awed me. There we were, passing time in a park, enjoying the breeze, the grass, the sunset, one another's company, the sounds of our voices, while all around us the world was hastening on to urgent work. Might as well enjoy it, after all, it couldn't last.

We talked about ourselves, our people, our fragments of shared past. Hours went by in this easy way. But all too soon it was time to leave, work called her away.

(It seems like parks agreed with Pearl and I. The only other time we disclosed ourselves to each other so liberally was at a park. I don't know too many people who could sit at a park and actually enjoy it.)

Romance etc

Looking into my introvert mirror I am forced to wonder where my cynicism towards love came from (I have been avoiding the topic). Out here on the internet I collected a clue: men act like realists whereas at heart they are hopeless romantics. Ladies, meanwhile, pretend to be romantics, but their inner instinct is realist to the core. (In other words, men love romantically, with all the ideals in place and all. Women love realistically and pragmatically.) Once I read this it became clear: there is the source of my cynicism, in so many words. I had already subconsciously suffered the truth of it, long time ago, though it never matured into active thoughts until, wandering on the internet, a kindred spirit brought it to life on his blog.

Emotions and hormones complicate women's realism for them, so realism is not always a straight, coldly calculated strategy on their part. They acquire the romantic's outward mannerisms and deportment. It's called bait, because like attracts like, therefore a man is drawn to a pseudo-romantic woman. No, really.

Romantic overtures are commonly regarded as such when they conform to the common rosy-colored feminist Hollywood format, whereas "it's the thought that counts" gestures far outweigh that other stage-managed circus.

Now see how this mind game plays out. A Kenyan girl, or a girl from anywhere, will stand up and declare "Kenyan/wherever men are not romantic at all! So unromantic." The emotions accompanying this announcement will nearly condense into tears. Remember it's a mind game, therefore the nearest Kenyan man who has always been far more romantic (think "affection" not "flowers") than the girl ever will be, he invests some kind of effort to conform to her plastic definition of romance, notwithstanding the fact that his ardent strength of feeling merely lacks any instrument strong or big enough to accurately measure it. But at the same time (remember, it's a mind game!) no man will openly confess to being a romantic, so, in order to preemptively save face so the boys don't rib him about it, they collectively imprudently surrender the label Romantic to the female party, who take it and run with it, and then at opportune times they jump up and lament in male hearing how unromantic Kenyans (or Africans, or humans, as the case may fit) are.

A man could be staring into a potential partner's gaze while hers is trained on his bottom line, real or potential. Her eyes are looking at you, but her mind's eye is guessing how many zeroes, give or take. But I half-joke. It's not commercial like that. Just concretely appreciating the depth of that article I read.

Feast of Tabernacles

Camp meeting week is always the most tiring week in the year for me. Very little sleep and so much work, and I mean physical exertion type of work behind the scenes to make everything tick. Still I love it. The whole day from dawn to midnight is a revelation. Maybe its the fellowship with believers. Maybe its the way everyone involved decides their daily bread can be put on hold for a whole week of worshiping GOD. It's amazing the unity that shared faith brings about, the sacrifices people are ready to make in faith are stunning. Then there's Bible study. Never a week passed by that I did not learn something new, or came off with my library enriched somewhat by the literature evangelist at hand. Singing in the choir is always uplifting. The company of my fellow church youths lend an air of comradeship to the occasion, and the selflessness that's evident everywhere is disarming - people looking out for ne another and helping out, sharing freely, without expectation of reward. I can accurately predict that come Saturday sunset I will be sad to return to the real world, because the end of camp meeting week saddens me. People do not live like that any more. But what am I saying, it's only Sunday! It begins! so much to look forward to. By GOD's grace I pray this one will be more than merely enjoyable, certainly the times are perilous, and the flesh is weak.

Looking back

Pretending to chase an enemy that fled,
I fled the fighting, fooled everybody,
and vanished into jungle foliage,
cutlass aloft, to hack away at
shrubs and snakes and
the imaginary enemy.

Soon I felt, the more I ran
the more I would have to run,
and for what? From what?

Looking back, the enemy is me;
The war is mine.

How to Warm the Bench

Life is full of ups and downs. A bit like football. Sometimes you’ll be on form and sometimes you’ll be in a slump. Injuries will come and heal. The coach will gain or lose confidence in you for reasons good and bad. As such, one’s skill set is not complete if all one knows is merely how to play the game perfectly. One must also be well acquainted with the skills of warming the bench, be it the substitutes bench or reserves bench or even Perennial Benchwarmers’ Bench.

I know what you must be thinking: “What could be so hard about just sitting there on the sidelines and watching the match? Fans do it all the time!” But for a player, it is not as simple as that.

 

A player on the bench is somewhat more invested in the outcome of a game than a fan. Even if their leg is broken and their foot is in a cast, they are itching to get on the pitch and make an impact. That is why, sometimes, in replays of scoring chances gone bad, you see the entire technical bench, including the coach, all subs and reserves plus the first aider, shooting to their feet to grasp their heads, their hands framing anguished facial expressions. But this is no way to warm the bench.

One must sit still. Unfortunately, equanimity is a forgotten art in this fast-paced, melodramatic twenty-first century. In order to warm the bench, it is best to position one’s center of gravity precisely perpendicularly above one’s sitting base, and limit movement to the turning of one’s head as the ball traverses from the opponent’s half to one’s own half and back.

It will help to have teammates alongside you on the bench who are of such a peaceful disposition, and to keep commentary at an austere minimum.

Resist the urge to abandon the bench and run to the corner flag to celebrate goals with on-field teammates. This will defeat the purpose of warming the bench entirely.

With any luck, if by the end of the match you have not been subbed in for tactical reasons, you will have successfully warmed the bench by quite a few degrees. Just sit still.
___

PS: Of course metallic benches are colder at the outset but more agreeable to conducting heat from the body into themselves, as such they get warmer, faster, but are just as quick to lose that heat. Wooden and plastic benches, on the other hand, will present greatest resistance to all attempts at bench-warming. But once they get warm they’ll take a great deal longer to cool down again. A bit like women.