Today, as I put fingers to keyboard hoping for inspiration to come my base way, I found solace in the smooth and curvy, albeit provocative words of Robyn Fenty, (thanks to YouTube). She has never disappointed whenever I found myself blared in both my ears to the max by the speakers of my humble computer; only extra loud headphones will do, thank you.
Having recently moved homes, I found myself ingratiatingly going the extra mile to get my children to adapt to our new environment. So with a hot sun baking above an ever freezing England, we took advantage of the furore the red star has almost always deprived us. In our makeshift fun pack, we had a couple of bikes, a child’s scooter and a weak rubber ball.
As we arrived the overgrown grassy playing field, adorned with the debris aftermath of youthful indulgence in liquor, debauchery, gluttony and filth, I was reminded that our move to these parts was a bold mistake. I knew it was an unwitting mistake, the day we moved in and I had noticed spent beer cans on my drive. Three days later, and I was steadily picking other such leftovers off my driveway. My spouse knew of our error too and has typically (and topically, I must add) reminded me of our social climb down to such grass. Standing in the middle of the weed infested field, I couldn’t help but spot the irony.
A solitary child (aged no more than 12) fervent for companionship and camaraderie kicked his own synthetic inflated cow hide deliberately in my direction and stayed put as he waited for me to return his kick, thereby engaging me in a 10-minute run about. He was obviously desperate to show off his skills, kicking hard, dribbling himself silly and heading the stubborn balloon before nudging it in my direction, (or nearly so) sending me galloping breathlessly across the green filth. All my efforts to reach the projectile before it slowed down came to naught, much to my chagrin. By the time I had had three such runs, I knew I stood no chance of matching the lad’s zeal or stamina.
But feeling sorry for the probably-lone child from my suspected single parent home (or worse still, adopted and heavens forbid fostered to boot) I carried on nonetheless. So by the time my ten minute was up, I had completely run out of steam. I felt bad that I could not continue with the child, but I had my own problems to contend with. I knew I had nothing to offer him, nothing concrete any way one wanted to look at it. I was at the park for my own children and they were screaming “Daddy” at me, demanding my every nuance of attention they could command. I was lucky (or the poor kid was anyway) when two other children about his age sauntered along with their own real leather stitched balls.
As I limped home, cracked in places I had long forgotten I had on my person, I reminded myself I really needed getting out a bit more; that there is more to life than the egocentric family lifestyle I am apt to lead. But it took me back to my current character-in-development, Osha, in Confluence, a despot with nothing concrete to offer the trinity of Utu. As I reflected on it, my mind sojourned far and found a temporary home in Robert Mugabe’s misadventure; a man supposedly educated in more degrees and universities than one can care to list. I can tell you he is not half qualified to drive for Rihanna!
Mr Mugabe, I suspect, had run out of steam the moment he got his first mandate and has taken his people down so many social scales the citizenry are better off living in hell’s strongholds. Like Fenty, Zimbabwe has more class than a fifty-seven Cadillac and Mugabe has had rides better than most limousines have to offer. But while friends and allies of Zim waited for Mr Mugabe to deliver on the promise of the ride of a lifetime, all the world got was more depravity moulded in chaos, encased in deplorable negotiations and packaged as white expulsions. In the past, Mugabe has cajoled and begged for re-election. Hilary and William have been doing the same in remote Zebulon, but now the tide is in and a NO vote is a NO GO.
Somebody please get the keys
Mr Mugabe needs to please
The people of Zimbabwe need to:
“...go, go, go, go...” [©]
If this were not to be
Zimbabwe will explode
But disappointingly not
“...explode, explode, explode...” [©]
Mr Mugabe has one choice:
“Just shut up and drive”
Don’t go for
“...drive, drive, drive...” [©]
I think we all come to a stage in our lives when we are not wanted, and we need the self respect to leave matters be, not necessarily to younger minds, but to people who can take a fresher radical look on the dynamics of an ever changing world continually warped while we blame carbon footprints for the stroke of good luck I had that fateful sunny day
For now, the youth screaming repeatedly for me to Shut Up & Drive, every time I click on replay button on YouTube is solace for me.