Furnace Of Success

Tables also Turn...How does time fly? Mine hasn't been anything different. It's a few days ago o'clock, alas! Who am I seeing?

I can't believe my eyes, really! Alighting from a mommoth car, there comes this big man, in with top-notch security detail, his dressing, short of words to describe this. Oh my God. He's hugging me nearly made me shrink down in cold feet; my Aha moment had arrived. Abi, I should go to bed ni? We talked at length. After a while, he left, not without pocketing me substantial naira notes.

After he left, I, in amazement, became imprisoned by my own very thought. You see, you would have disappeared into the sky should it be you. This is the same Kunle. Uncle Kunle lost both parents to an accident 12 years ago, brought up in his uncle's house to stay. They happen to be our neighbors then. At age 12, when he should be in school, he was denied education, sent out to the street to hawk Soft drinks for his uncle's madam, even in the rain. 

As if that was not enough, at times, he denied good food and good clothing; my mum, out of compassion, sneaked him into oblivion to feed him. "What sort of life is this?" I wondered then left to time to answer me. Sometimes, his uncle's wife would hurl insults and curses at him, leaving him rejected and in great pain amidst tears. After a while, he ran away, who knows where? Not even a Billy Goat would be left away with sorting, but Kunle no one finds, not even his loving uncle. Not until now have I gotten an answer to my question. Life hasn't played him well, but he did play life well.

Poem:  Rejected not Forsaken

Life is a table that turns,

None of the uncle's kin dares near his fortunes,

Rejected of men

Accepted by divine

Often in pain but persist

That one day could resist

Beaten ones never shy

Beating himself to own his sky.

Let's all learn to treat one another with love, for no one knows tomorrow. His tomorrow is here; the same rejected stone has now become the CHIEF CORNER STONE. For life's a continuum, cycling as the driver's pedals, rolling as the potter's wheel, tossing as the coin, head now, tail tomorrow, as the clock ticks, so we exchange batons, as a marathon race, so we take turns, even as the same mouth that feeds the mouth today, washes the anus tomorrow. So, the table also turns. 

© Barnabas Akindele

July 2022

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