Donation or Rotation?

As a Medical Lab. Scientist, a profession I practice with more than enough grumbling to stagnate a lake, I see life-threatening cases every day. In their different shades and shapes, I see people who disclose pathologically induced discomforts of myriad kinds. This has hardened my heart of some sort, against the usually gory sight of blood and gaping flesh. Yet, I noticed some two days back that the hardened part of my heart is only a very minute dot when compared to the mushy lot.
Just as we were rounding off work at my venue of private practice, in comes this slim young man in his say, late twenties. He sought to see my boss. He was informed that my boss was away briefly for personal issues. He insisted on waiting.
Soon after, my boss walks in and the established familiarity affords them barely heard pleasantries. Afterwards he (my boss) says to me “bleed him”. This in medical parlance means, ‘take some blood from him’. Quantity of collected blood depends on the need. This varies from simple tests like PCV to blood donation that can take as much as 450mls of blood from the donors divinely awarded quota.
In this case, our guest, a donor, had to lose a pint of blood to our expectant blood bank. The problem was he was classed by my boss as a ‘professional donor’. I found great uneasiness at the title. I quizzed myself: how professional can a donor be? Who even made it a profession? We are talking here about losing blood deliberately and someone refers to such as a profession?
Now that the title had triggered my concern, I took the donor aside for a casual chat. He confessed with a good weight of confidence how often he donates and that he does it however with caution.
WHO recommends a donation only as frequent as four times annually. The young man donates ehhhhh……well, monthly! He does this as a remunerated donor, as WHO likes to refer to them- donors who get paid for losing some of what we others withhold fiercely.
I dare not reveal all what he shared with me not only because of how heartbreaking they are but also because of how you might henceforth perceive me.
The bible says that the life of everything dwells in the blood. I understand as a result why a religious denomination does not subscribe to the idea of blood donation. If life is in our blood- donated or protected- and it is, then why should it ever cross our minds to sell it and worse still sell it for less than N5,000? Is it gruesome poverty, plump ignorance or simply the near zero value we place on life?
Has this nation become so poor that the citizens’ trade a bit of their lives to sustain what is left? Is that donation or rotation? I listened again to the memory of his voice and these words are of them all, loudest: “I dey donate sometimes, three times a month”. That much ‘life’ traded for just N1,500 per pint.
Hmmm!

CREEPLING CRADLE

I read with soaring disappointment, the reaction of Mr. Femi Falana to President Barack Obama’s choice to not stop by Nigeria when he visited Africa. He poured fury at the President, questioning his reason, which was by the way, “in support for countries with legitimate and true democracy”. Mr. Femi expressed volumes of dissatisfaction particularly at President Obama’s choice of words which disguisedly berated Nigeria and cited also, the fact that his lengthy speech was empty of words like “reparation and Western apologies, for their connivance in slave trade”.
At this point, I became quite livid at this legal practitioner’s course of thoughts. I’m no supportter of the slave trade era nor do I regard the chief perpetrators of this landmark heinous crime, any less than criminals. However, I have also refused to support the idea of pampering an entire continent.
From achievements to blunt refusal at maturity, Africa can be sadly referred to as the last born of the seven continents- Antarctica inclusive. We have practically waxed numerous albums of how we were the cradle of civilization. It looks from where I stand now, that the cradle got too comfortable and we stayed put. Our whiter siblings grew, advanced and came to ask for our services, with offers to pay our wages on the skin of our backs rather than be dropped into our palms.
I wonder now why anyone should blame ‘Jacob’ when ‘Esau’ gladly swapped his birthright for a pot of porridge that didn’t even come with a bottle of chilled Coca-Cola.
Africa remains the pathetic concern of every gathering of advanced nations. Decades after slavery, we have only reinvented ourselves at best to be free-slaves. Should we still blame the slave drivers? If we have refused to maximize what has been in our custody for countless decades, should it be the fault of those who knew better, earlier?
We dare not compare a country like Germany to ours in the light of natural resources. How heartrending it would be to liken “the sleeping giant of Africa” to a once-barren country like Singapore, whose independence was only a few years shy of ours. Who should we really blame?
The disturbing issue is simply this: No one is a failure until they fall and blame the ground for not being steady enough”. That is why Nigeria has remained on its knees- either begging for forgiveness of debt, or for foreign assistance or seeking seats in UN that would shed more light on our plight.
We seemingly like this position and when are reminded of our latent greatness and potentials, we as a continent and more as a nation, claim that we would have been better had slave trade never existed. It is downright appalling!
Specialists in fabrication of sympathy and exportation of excuses- that’s what we have become. If we seize to see ourselves as the last born of the bunch and undeserving of global sympathy, we will be well on our way to ‘rebranding’. John Maxwell once said that it is easier to move from failure to success than it is to move from excuses to success. I agree, with Nigeria as a reinforcing case study.
Mr. Femi Falana did well to dish a portion of blames to the West for their input in our set back, he however failed in serving Africa the Lion’s share they deserve. And that’s the problem- everyone has excuses, Nigerians just seem to use theirs all too often.

DISCRETION Vs. DIVINITY

I look forward with robust hopes to that day when all- every part- of my life will be controlled entirely by what I hear the Holy Spirit say. No hassles, no objections, just unblemished obedience. As little as whether or not to use a deodorant is included. Well, with the consequences of not using a deodorant, I’m sure someone won’t call that little.
I amidst this hope have a reservation however. I wonder truly where the line should be drawn and if there should indeed be a line. I mean here, the line between what is God’s responsibility and ours. How far should our discretion go and when should human instincts back off completely? It might seem senseless to wander along this thought course but for someone who has ever asked Jesus to be his Lord, I believe we should share the same puzzles now.
One synonym for ‘Lord’ and that which fits the above context quite perfectly is Master. And for everyone who has a master, not much can define him than being a subject. And if we are subjects, what more should we do than what the Master has laid down? Except well, in cases of inadvertent insubordination or outright rebellion! Where this not the case, should our obedience not be as good as leaving the driver’s seat completely for the One who knows the way?
All too often, we Christians seem to have our actions stalled by our “waiting on God syndrome”. Not that this is a bad syndrome, it just seems these days as an effective excuse for inaction. I’m pressured to wonder which actions we should wait on Him for and which we should outrightly execute with more consultations to discretion than Divinity.
For someone who wants ‘Jesus to take the wheel’, I look forward to that day when I would have let all go- steering, throttle, rear mirror, gear and even seatbelt and not be so heavenly conscious that I’m classed as earthly useless.

DEFLOWERED DIGNITARY

Nigeria, once our eye-popping virgin
Beautiful enough to have lured the Crowns of the great West
But now, even her children call her barren
Strangers fondle recklessly her drooping breasts
And her scantiness now mocked by her younger womb-mates

Her rapists are driven by greater forces than testosterone
Armed with more than the expandable Ghana-must-gos
She’s plundered by such greed that can scorch the sun;
By beings with consciences sedated to an overdose.
Worse still, her children scream mutely, and are pacified by hopelessness

True waste is in shredding the recyclable with the disposable
It’s in discarding both the unused and misused
But why does the colorless skin seek for what we have called deplorable?
Could there be fat wealth in our disguised virtues?
Maybe our mind’s eyes are deserving of optical aids!

Strengthen your gaze on this abused of ours
She would discard her limp, if we stare in hope
What’s left might be feeble yet fertile, thin yet a tower
But wouldn’t she glitter if she’s bathed with our compassion’s soap.
Imagine her beauty then! I dare your minds, imagine!!


Who needs crutches more than the frail at feet?
Who needs oxygen far more than the unconscious?
What sane mother longs for her son’s defeat?
What’s clear is that Nigeria needs all of us,
A bit more than hell needs a pail of chilled water.

Outspoken

Every blank sheet deserves two possibilities at best- to remain blank or be deflowered by wise scribbling. I hope this sheet gets the later as I compassionately reap off its blankness.
This weekend has had my young heart panting in wishes and worries. I have felt anemic, deserving of an emergency transfusion of at least ten pints of 20/20 vision.
What can trouble me so? The fear looms larger than a soldier’s on a field heavily infested with landmines. I have had to walk with that much caution lately.
Spoken words-regardless of subtlety- are misconstrued. Imagine then what has become the fate of my actions! If I say I’m certain of where and what next, hmmm! I twist truth. Badly! Even my silence has been violated; it’s intentions replaced by distant and unrelated meanings. But for grace I would be as fatigued as a decade old memory.
Well, enough of the suspense! It’s about my love life or maybe I meant the life of my love. I fantasized of one that would outlive Methuselah, out-dance David, outweigh the Titanic, outclass all of Shakespeare’s love tales and outgrow our boundless hearts. I think the only thing it seeks now is outsourcing!
As is obvious, this mind is unsure about so much. Lest I infect you with unsettled thoughts, I would stop here. I only wonder if my heart still feels young.

SILENCE OR COINCIDENCE?

Walking through these serene streets, I wondered and lusted. I coveted all these- the sky high fences, the eye-popping architectural pieces- in well, some very moral way I hope. Yet above my lust and smoldering desire for the wealth that perfumed these streets, I wondered: why is the neighborhood of rich often so serene? Why does tranquility seem to abide more in their bosom than in those of their opposites?
Are they rich because they are quiet or are they quiet because they are rich? Have they lost their tendency to be noisy to the comfort that escorts wealth or is wealth just a Siamese twin of the restful minds? Seriously! If I’m doubted, take a stroll through the GRAs, the Lekki Peninsulas and the choice, highbrow estates that house this caliber of the ‘careful and courteous’ then, you might grab a feel of what I mean. You might wonder why a cemetery would gulp this much architectural investment. Go on. Take a stroll.
With these assumptions, I’m tempted to think (and I like the temptation) that the rich are far less prone to screaming than the poor. Peace of mind is a lot more expensive than I imagined. Otherwise how can you explain why the vicinities (because I can’t brand them neighborhoods) that are packed with the poor are forever blaring? Even if such streets were called “Mind Your Business Avenues”, its ambience still would bear similarities with the noise that would have come from the sinking Titanic.
I don’t think it’s because these houses are not as soundproofed as those of the rich, I believe rather that the poor might be talking too much, they often miss what gets the rich both their name and serenity.
I would henceforth listen a little more, talk a little less, and visit these streets a lot more. I might just be rewarded someday by their secrets of wealth which I hope would not be buried too deep in quietude that I don’t hear as I pass by.
Hey, I’m not poor, I just prefer these awe-crafting neighborhoods and one day I know I will be writing from the library of these suspiciously peaceful houses.

THE FIRST NOTE OF A NEW RHYTHM

Larry King narrates in his book “How to Talk to Anyone, Anytime, Anywhere”, how his very first experience in broadcasting was. He was literally ‘pushed off the edge’ to get started. I feel my feet at such an edge tonight!

While my mind shuttles between which of my thoughts would splash colorfully on this sheet and from what corners I could make the finest splash, I remember an incidence that caught me gaping almost disgracefully this evening.

As I stared at our aging TV screen, I watched with virgin fascination how a reckless driver sped from his home down the street just to avoid going to church. He drove fast enough to win the attention of the policemen, who also noticed how invisible he was through the windscreen.

He was seven years old! I mean, three years away from being ten.

Even if the car were automatic, how did he maintain the right lane, drive fast enough, when visibility of the road must have been painstaking and bring the car to a halt when he chose to? He’s seven and too short to have his height expressed in feet, for goodness sake.

I remained intrigued up until I chose to write this. I’m just wondering, would I ever have such an opportunity at not only CNN free coverage but also history-jerking records? I definitely can’t be the youngest billionaire anymore. I’m not pessimistic, people have been there already! I wish I had slid into record books as one whose very first article was published in Times Magazine with a title like “A baby Giant Writes”. However if wishes were horses, I will be a beggar right now.

With time, I hope half desperately that my little acts here and there, etch their way up through this proverbial glass ceiling until pop! I’m the first or youngest to have……

I hope more however for three things: that that day comes soon, that I’m not escorted in handcuffs for any reason and that an audience be caught gaping. It would be gratifying fun if my parents are members of this entranced audience.