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Paradise

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Paradise

I am walking down the street with a bag of shopping on my left arm.

There is a homeless young man asleep curled up in a blanket with his work boots placed beside him. He has his back to me. From the color of his skin I would have guessed North African. Or he could just be a well-tanned European from his living in the open.

A few feet away a gentleman is taking the picture of his lady partner in front of a Dolce and Gabana store. It’s the high street and shops on both sides of the long street beckon on you to come and buy expensive goods. Just before them a group of well dressed friends are chatting on the sidewalk.

No one seems to notice him. Acknowledging his presence would awaken the human conscience that results in guilt, so it’s easier to pretend he is not there.

Phil Collins/Genesis (song) “Paradise” comes to mind.

Sadly, I am no different: I walk on in search of the Roma Cathedral.

Sept 3, 2014. 8:40pm.

A Night in Nairobi

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A Night in Nairobi

“Kenyans love to have fun. What are you doing later?” That was John. One of the people I was working with at the bank
“Oh. Back to the hotel.”
“You should go out. See the town a little.”
“Thanks. Maybe. If I am not too tired.”
A text came in. My driver is outside waiting. I say goodbye and head out.
We spend an hour and a half in the traffic going to the hotel.
The driver says in case I want to go out later, I should let him know. He’s on duty all night.
I get to my room and stretch out on the bed. Nothing much interesting on the TV and the night is still young. I should call “Cee-Cee”. She’s faraway: an hour behind but probably still in school.
I called the driver and ask him to pick me up in front of the hotel in thirty.
A quick shower and I was ready.
“where do you want to go?”
“Somewhere not too far away”. I say.
“There are a few places around. It depends on what you are interested in. There are some wild places as well. Some of the msungus (not a particularly nice name for typically white people from the colonial past) like to go there.”
“Thanks. Somewhere a little exciting. But not so exciting I get into trouble” i say with a smile.
“Which one would you suggest?”
“Gypsies or KlubHouse”
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.
“KlubHouse it is.”
It’s a relative big compound with several big “sheds” under which seats were arranged around small stages and a bar. The driver goes off to find a place to park his car.
Something was obviously going on in the nearest one. I turned in and found a seat. A lady on the stage was just introducing a band. They came on stage to loud applause.
The band was quite good. I ordered a bottle of some light stuff. More people drifted in. Soon there were very few seats free in the place. A group of four who seemed rather animated ended up on my table. They ordered drinks.
I think they know the band. Because their applause after every song was louder than everyone else in the place. Besides they spoke a mix of Swahili and English. I could pick up some references to the band leader’s name from time to time.
They didn’t seat still for long. Back and forth. Sometimes with their drinks, sometimes not.
After a while, three of them went to hang out at the back of the place with some other friends I assume.
The fourth I guess decided to seat for a while and take the load off her feet.
Our eyes met a few times. I was just thinking the polite thing to do was to say hi when she said “Mambo”
I didn’t remember the correct response so I said “Hi” instead.
We both smiled.
“You should say poa or sawa.”
“Thanks. I couldn’t remember for a minute there.”
“You don’t sound like a Kenyan.”
“No. I am not. I am a Nigerian.”
“Cool. How do you like Nairobi?” She at least didn’t mention “Ebola” which was nice.
“Lovely city.”
Light banter.
Off and on while we Listened to the band. We somehow got around to talking about how busy the city, the traffic and the population. Family sizes, and so on.
She: “Do you have any siblings?”
Me: “Yes. Three boys and a girl.”
She: “Not a lot.”
Me: “What? I think we are too many.”
She: “That’s not many. There are fifteen of us! A football team.”
Me: Wow! Not from the same woman?” (I couldn’t help myself)
She: “No. Two women. Eight from the first wife and seven from my mum.”
Me: “Where are your parents?”
She: “My dad works in Uganda and my mum has gone to visit him.”
Me: “And the first wife?”
She: “She’s somewhere around.”
Me: “How many kids do you want to have?”
She: “Two or three. This generation can’t afford to have more than four.”
Me: “I think even four is too much. Two or at most three. You have to feed them, clothe them, take care of them, love them, etc. It’s a lot of work.”
Me: “How is it raising a kid on your own?”
She: “It’s hard. Especially if you are a woman, and there is no man to help and it’s difficult getting a job.”
Me: “True. So how old is she? Is that her picture on your phone.”
“Yes.” She said as I asked to see the picture.
Me: “She’s pretty like her mother. How old is she?”
She: “Thanks. Five years.”
Me: “What’s her name?”
She: “Shantel.”
Me: “Nice American name.”
She smiled.
Me: “Where is the father? Doesn’t he help?”
She: “I don’t know where he is.”
Me: “How old are you?”
She: “Well I was eighteen when I had my daughter and she’s five now.”
Me: “That makes you 23”
She: “How old are you?”
Me: “Make a guess”
She: “27?”
“Not even close. Add more years. Many more.” I said laughing.
Finally I told her my age.
She: “Stop lying! Why are you lying?!”
I assured her that’s my true age.
She: “You don’t look it at all.”
Me: “Thanks for the compliment. I am an old man.” I said laughing.
Me: “So how much schooling did you do.” (I tend to ask this question when I think “Childhood: interrupted”)
She: “I completed my secondary school. But I was very heavy during my exams.”
Me: “How were the results?”
She: “It was ok. But not as good as I would have liked.”
Me: “Yeah. It couldn’t have been easy.”
Me: “Any plans of going back to school?”
She: “Yes. When I have money. I would have to stop working to do that and right now I have to work to pay my rent, take care of my daughter, and so on.”
Me: “So did your parents kick you out when you got pregnant?” I said with a smile to lighten the mood.
She: “No. I decided to move out after I had my baby and get my own place.”
Me: “So what do you do now?”
She: “I am a stylist. I like fashion. You know, clothes and materials. And I know how to put them together. The group performing are my friends. I style them. I have also just decided to start modeling. I am putting together my portfolio (of pictures)”
“Are they on the internet yet?”
“No. Not yet. I found out I have to take between 300 and 350. I am getting a friend to take the pictures so I don’t have to pay.”
A text comes in. It’s from my driver. I had told him two hours. He’s my get out of jail free card. Time flies when you are having fun.
I was ready to leave but thought I should offer her a drink at least. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.
“I have to leave. Long day tomorrow. Nice meeting you. Would you like a drink.” I asked looking at the bottle in front of her which was almost empty.
She says thanks. Indicated another bottle of the same light beer she was having would be nice.
I called over one of the attendants and paid for the drink. I got up to leave. One last waive and I was out in the brisk Nairobi evening.

I will call “Cee-Cee” when I get back to the hotel. She should be back from school.

Some “FaceTime” would be nice.

CYBORG says Oscar not a member

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CYBORG says Oscar not a member

In other news, the organization known as CYBORG (CYBernetic ORGanization) has distanced itself from Oscar Pistorius. In a press release by the organization’s spokesperson who goes by the alias “A.I.”, the organization said, “Oscar has never been a member. When we are ready, we will take over the world. Not go around killing innocent women under any guise.”
The complete press release is available online at: http://illumination2.wordpress.com/2014/10/23/cyborg-says-oscar-not-a-member/

That’s the URL of the page you are reading. That’s the complete story. Lol.

A sink full of plates

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A sink full of plates

I had been eyeing the pile in the kitchen for a number of days. But unfortunately by the time I get home I am too beat to do more than eye it again, take a drink from the fridge, and go lie down on my bed.

But despite the fact that I got home late last night, with my cousin’s visitor in tow, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I was tired but I just decided enough was enough.

The title may give you an idea of what I am going on about. When you have three working-class guys in the same apartment, some things are definitely going to slip under the table or remain in the sink until they are well and truly “ripe”.

Once I got on a roll, I couldn’t stop till I had done justice to it. I decided to tackle the plates in the sink and scattered all over the kitchen first. Most of them had little bits of soup, oil and left over food on them. Not too bad, I started throwing stuff in a big black refuse plastic bag: in goes the half-drunk plastic soft drink bottles after emptying their content into the sink. Followed by bits of food scraped off several plates. It was all going relatively well until I got to the bottom of the pile. One plate face-down on another. On opening it, I was faced with a decomposing mixture of cooked yam and fried eggs about 3 or four days old. The smell was something else. I managed and went on. A couple of pots with charcoal in them from someone burning whatever they were used to cook. Those went on the floor with water in them to soften the burnt stuff. Probably half a dozen dirty plastic food containers. Got as much of the content into the waste and stacked on the floor. Washed maybe another half dozen.

Since I had to finish what I had started, I dug around in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. Electricity is a still a curiosity in Nigeria. I gingerly opened the covered plastic bowl containing what I knew was  catfish pepper-soup. I almost gagged at the smell of rotten fish that had dissolved into something slippery and mushy.

On the gas cooker was a pot I was almost sure had leftover cooked rice in it. I took off the lid and was confronted by a smelly slurry of something – the grains were no longer discernible – just a slowly flowing smelly white mess. Then there was the plastic bowl holding the leftover mixture of garri, milk and groundnut someone had left in the fridge for several days. The milk had of course cuddled, it smelled bad but not as bad as some of the earlier stuff I had encountered. Then there was the egusi soup and a separate bowl of stew that was more or less a waste of money because nobody ate it. They had been OK until the previous day or so when there had been no electricity (as always) and we hadn’t really put on the generator long enough to keep the stuff in the fridge cold. I was loathe to throw them away. I opened the egusi bowl first and sniffed at it. Couldn’t really make out any off smell, but it looked as if some of the fat had congealed unto one side of the bowl and thinking of the fact that it had spent a day or so sitting in a warm fridge, I guess it would be a dodgy affair to eat any of it, so into the waste it went. The soup was next. Still looked OK, but I was almost sure I could perceive from the odour that it was slightly off. So it followed the egusi into the waste as well.

I still cannot understand how people cannot finish a 50CL pure water sachet. That’s the stuff of booby-traps over here. Half sachets litter the whole house and even in the fridge: “keep your laptops and receipts off the tables or they are bound to get a dunking”

I emptied several half sachet of pure water into the pots that needed soaking. Managed to go through the plates, several plastic bowls, practically all the cutlery in the house and most of the cups as well. Well, the kitchen was looking decidedly better. I had offered the cousin’s visitor dinner: “Sorry for keeping you. Work and Lagos traffic. There is egusi soup and maybe you can make eba”. He gratefully agreed (he had been travelling all day and had to then wait for me some ice cream outlet for probably three hours or so). Note that this was freshly made equsi soup (separate from the one I had thrown in the waste) from a nice little homely restaurant in Ikoyi called BC Gardens. In fact, Nneka showed up with who I guess must be the love interest (some other artiste I believe) while I was there with the cousin. The place is in the home of the late Ben Enwonwu (a renowned artist). There is also an arts gallery there that you can peruse before or after your meal. It’s not so large but some interesting artworks were on display. Check out a couple of them below.

IMG_8986 IMG_8987
IMG_8985
The picture above reminds me of someone I know very well. Who can guess? 🙂

So now the kitchen was looking somewhat respectable, I thought I had better put some water on to boil for the eba (garri stirred into hot water). Tried all four cooking points a couple of times – nothing. Bent low and sniffed at them with the gas knob turned on, no smell. Hmmn. Went outside and adjusted the control on the top of the gas cylinder thinking OK, maybe just this once, someone had decided to turn it off. Went back in and tried to light the points again. Nothing. Ok. This is getting serious. Went back outside again and lifted the cylinder. It was as light as a feather.

Went back in. To the fellow’s room and told him about my dilemma. “Em. Sorry. There is soup but unfortunately no gas. I have never tried boiling water with a microwave though. Maybe you could soak garri along with the soup?”

The fellow said not to worry. That he would eat the following day. He was almost asleep when I went into the room anyway so I guess he probably was just too tired to bother.

Went back out. Tidied up some more in the kitchen. Went to my room, took a shower, got the last can of malt from the fridge and settled down to watch the last quarter of a movie titled “Coherence.”

Which finally leads me to my encounter with the mouse.

I had almost stepped on the little critter in the dark (note that I had seen him around the house several times). There was some frantic squeaking and so I put on the light in the kitchen.

There he was sitting on his haunches, looking up at me, his mustache quivering violently and his two paws together. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming because he jabbed one finger in my direction and a sequence of squeaks of different length streamed out. Well, I couldn’t help laughing for the life of me. I didn’t speak “mouse” or “rat” but I could picture the thing going on:

“Big bruv. Watch where you place those over-sized feet would ya?”
“How about a little something something for the little fella?”
“Oh? It’s like that eh? It’s like that?”
“There you are throwing good food away and I ask you for just a morsel and you stand there laughing at me huh?”
“You fur-less son of a gun!”
“So that’s how it be? That’s how you wanna play it?”
“You stingy hairless son of a whatever you are!”

After that it turned its back on me, raised up its tail and dropped one solitary scat (dropping). It then turned around again, looked at me balefully and said “Take that you! It’s on bruv! I tell you, it’s really on!”

And since I am not one to back out of a challenge (obviously when size is in my favour), I responded with “Bring it on bruv! Any time, any day!” and with that we both turned our backs and went our different ways.

*********************************************************************************

But I am so gonna get that rat!

16-Oct-2014 (10:34PM)

The very first ghost

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The very first ghost

This story is (not) true. This is probably the most ridiculous ghost story ever written. But still, it is how the first ghost came to be.
The ghost himself (or itself since in all reality Ghosts can not procreate but then since they still have their personalities and history, I guess it’s ok to ascribe sexuality to them).

Long long ago there was a relatively quiet man that died when he was middle aged. Which is really equivalent to people living to their eighties now if you consider that people died relatively early in those days due to a host of factors from disease to war.
This man died and was buried by his relatives in the village’s big burial ground.

The burial was low key, he was mourned for a month or two and people went on with their lives as should be: it’s just the cycle of life. Time heals all wounds and brings forgetfulness.
But while this man was alive he had a particular cousin that could talk the hairs off a live dog. For some strange reason, while the deadman lived, he had been the only one that seemed able to abide the other fellow’s nonstop chatter. The truth was that because he was a blacksmith which was more or less solitary work, he had not objected to the chatter-mouth cousin’s nonstop talking while he worked. The fellow appeared to require no responses and they seem to have arrived at some arrangement that suited both parties to the relieve of all the other people in the little village.

The talker somehow acquired news and scandals happening in the little village so people didn’t mind going to the blacksmith’s workshop to listen to him for a while before moving on. This probably benefited the blacksmith a little because with more foot traffic came additional business.
*****************************

Well, after the blacksmith died, the cousin was the most miserable of all. He himself couldn’t have explained why he missed the blacksmith so much, but the truth was that it was the acceptance of the blacksmith he missed. He had a place to go and practice his “art” with at least one human being who at least didn’t seem to mind his nonstop talking even though he secretly believed the blacksmith wasn’t really listening to him (which in reality was the case).
******************************

So after a couple of weeks of wandering around the little village and being chased out of every house and shop when the occupants could no longer stand him, he wandered across the village cemetery and decided he might as well pay a visit to the grave of his recently departed cousin – the blacksmith. Well, he soon made himself comfortable and started talking at the headstone which had a bust of the blacksmith as if he were actually addressing the real person. He went on all day and only went home when the moon came out.
The following day he tried a few places and after he got the boot, he headed to the cemetery.
By the end of the week, he didn’t even bother with the townsfolk anymore, he just headed straight to the cemetery where he talked and talked and talked.
******************************

Now it is common knowledge that the dead have no awareness of anything. Which is true. Death is like a permanent sleep.
Well. The blacksmith might have been asleep but at some level the continuous droning of his live cousin six feet on top started filtering into his subconscious if you can call it that.
He literarily started turning in his grave. In reality, it was his ghost that started turning since the body was mostly decomposed. After several weeks of this semiconscious discomfort he suddenly became aware. The first thing he heard of course was his cousin’s voice. The man had succeeded in disconnecting the cord that binds the ghost to the deceased’s body.
The ghost who could no longer sleep found itself drifting to the surface where he of course found his cousin holding his one-man play of unlimited words. Not fully realizing his state, he tapped the cousin on the shoulder and the latter literarily fell off the grave. But after seeing that it did not appear that the ghost would hurt him, he was soon welcoming the dead cousin on his return from the dead.
The ghost wasn’t impressed.
“You know. If this goes on much longer I am going to have to find another grave. Your continuous chattering is wearing on my nerves”
The cousin was shocked and hurt.
“I thought you didn’t mind!”
“Well. Then I didn’t. I had other things to distract me. My job for example. But here, all I can do is wait for judgement day so I can have everlasting peace at last ”
“When is that?” He asked the dead man.
“No idea. Just go away and do no wrong.”
“I do no wrong already.”
“Good for you. Now go away and you are all set!”
“But I don’t have anyone to talk to in the whole village! You are my only friend!”
“Well. I wouldn’t exactly say we are friends. Relatives yes, but friends might be stretching the truth a little.”
But after a while the ghost relented and agreed to a visit of a few hours everyday. He considered that it couldn’t be too bad and it was something to do besides sleeping perpetually especially now that he was awake. He had looked in a few of the other graves and the occupants were still fast asleep and he was loathe to wake them up.
*******************************

The arrangement seemed to work out well for the two of them. Everything went well for quite some time at least from the point of view of the ghost. But then over time the live cousin started to get dissatisfied with the allocated time. He still wanted to talk whereas the ghost kept time like a clockwork. One day after such a session, the live cousin he a little bit away and sat on another gravestone while grumbling to himself. It suddenly hit him that he could very well repeat the same steps he did with his cousin on any one of the hundreds of graves in the cemetery.

He thought he would have better luck with the recently deceased so he hunted around for a fresh grave. Soon he was seated and chatting away to whoever was “down” there.
The ghost soon noticed the cousin wasn’t as eager as before to hang around once his time was up.
It wasn’t long before he “woke” up the occupant of the new grave.
He of course told his new “friend” about his dead cousin. When he showed up the next day, he found the two of them hanging out together. He in effect had the same amount of time with them as he had when it was only his cousin. He decided to cast his net wider. Soon he was visiting about five graves per day.

But same as there is a grumpy in every seven dwarfs, there was at least one grumpy occupant of a grave in the cemetery. He took offense at being woken up. He complained about it to all the other ghosts who were up before him. He complained loudly over and over whether or not anyone was listening. He was going at it one such night when a couple of people happened to be passing by. When they came face to face with him and saw his transparent form, they ran away screaming. He was perplexed at first but then he repeated it a few more times and got very similar results. That became his past time and his disposition soon improved.

Time passed and the cousin grew old and was buried in the same cemetery. His friends soon came to wake him up. Apparently ghosts can’t wake up unless someone or another ghosts wakes them up.

To end this long winded story, the grumpy ghost soon introduced his favorite past times to the others and in the absence of anything better to do, more and more ghosts started scaring people. Over time, the reason for scaring people got lost and now ghosts just do it.
******************************

Note: I don’t believe in ghosts.
22-Sep-2014

Make your stand

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Make your stand

Make your stand
In the rain, in the cold, in the light, in the shadows
before the wickedness wipes it all away
A gladius, a dagger, a thing with an edge

Make your stand
Young Alex passed on his way
he left behind his name?
What of Gaius Julius Ceasar?
Octavian? Julia? Brutus too
The Khans, the Huns
The sands of time

Make your stand
The ides of March are past
But they will come again
Knives through the heart
Scraping on bone
Let me hold your hand
Till sleep shuts my eyes.

Make your stand
Heaven above
Hell below
Pain and despair in between
What is time made of?
Sorrow upon sorrow
Everyone has a portion

Make your stand
Your demons are at the door
Dogs of war; dogs of destruction
Unlisted numbers – no difference
One by one, we all lay down

Make your stand
Salvation is hard-work
Perdition is no easier
The gods are dead
Embrace the nothingness or
Make your stand

One at a time

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One at a time

They say people don’t remember their early years. Especially before the age of four or thereabouts. But I remember mine. I remember the blood. Can’t really say I remember the pain. But definitely the blood. It was everywhere.
I had cut my hand on a large kitchen knife. How that came about was straight forward enough. I had watched my mum cut all sorts of things with that knife. I was fascinated to say the least. Some of those things I had tried my baby teeth on so I was surprised to see the ease with which she sliced them with the knife.
I had been warned off it a few times until she decided I had better learn the hard way under her watch.
So some day when I thought she wasn’t paying attention, my curiosity got the better of me and I had sneaked into the kitchen and grabbed the shiny knife. I looked at it in amazement then decided to see of I could split some vegetables like I had seen her do with it.
Something went wrong.
All I remember is the blood. It was red. It was everywhere. It was hot.
She rushed in. There was the trip to the hospital. The doctor. The big bandage which stayed on for a couple of weeks before the stitches were removed.
That was the beginning of my fascination with knives.

I guess growing up it was inevitable I would end up in a profession where I could use knives.
I did work as a chef for a while. I enjoyed it but the pay was not worth the hours spent roasting slowly in front of big gas-powered cooking ranges.
I also tried my hands at one of the abattoirs. I found out that though I didn’t mind the blood, I couldn’t stand the repeated task of killing literarily defenseless far animals over and over everyday. Before you jump to wrong conclusions, I love red meat. In fact I am glad I didn’t enjoy it, otherwise it could have been an indication of psychopathic tendencies.

*****************************
I can’t tell you exactly how I ended up with a knife in my hand and a long list of dead people who might still otherwise be alive (but no guarantees of course. They could just as well have been run over crossing the street).
But that’s beside the point.
Death comes to all. Some get to pick how, some don’t even realize they are dead and well, some leave when people like me say it’s time.
Of course nothing is for free, I guess I enjoy it so much I could probably do it free half of the time – the other half to pay the bills.
Since the profilers have decided with adequate real life of people misbehaving badly in the throes of passion (think revenge, think greed, think spurned love) that using a knife implies a deep personal connection, it plays nicely into my MO.
Because it’s nothing personal to me. It’s just a job. So while the cops are looking for someone close to the deceased, someone who has an alibi cast in granite which even a truth serum can’t shake loose because the individual can’t reveal what’s he or she doesn’t know because I won’t take a commission when you are desperate to have it done – that’s the stuff mistakes are made of – costly mistakes that can land one on death-row or at the least a few decades in some high security jail with no guarantee you won’t leave in a six foot box. Guess what, the cops can’t be farther from the truth.
But don’t get me wrong, I go to church. I pay my tithe. I read the bible. I believe.
It’s against the law. What I do. I wouldn’t choose as a career if I had to make a conscious decision.
But sometimes life hands you a knife or a lemon or both and you don’t make lemonade without a few choice cuts, do you?
The commissions I take are bad people. Only their family would miss them. As it is said, no matter how ugly the monkey is, it’s loved by at least one person: it’s mother.

So I am doing my social duty. Ridding the society of evil: one scum at a time.
It’s not personal.
It’s business.
It’s just got a sharp edge.

Bobby Ray

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Bobby Ray

What will we do for little bobby Ray?

He did as he was told
He carried his bag in the cold
A little figure: he was bold
All the way with the ticket he was sold

Billy Blanks was no longer a lad
But just as always he was sad
A little help: he wouldn’t have been bad
But everyone thought he was a cad

What really happened no one can tell
But Billy Banks should go to hell
For Bobby Ray: they rang the bell
Because the police found a shell

So I shed a tear for Bobby Ray
Oh. He always had a lot to say
Last I saw: he was all over the bay
What a little soul to slay

Billy Banks was put behind bars
He won’t be stealing any more cars
No one will miss him: send him to Mars
Up in the sky shines Bobby Ray’s stars

LOSS AND EFFECT

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LOSS AND EFFECT

It’s Sunday.
The double doors were open wide. I went in quietly and sat at the back.
The service was in full swing.
The pastor was in form as usual. Today is probably my 10th visit. I like the fact that they don’t do that “let’s recognize first time visitors” thing.
Anyway it’s no longer my first visit though I guess I am still strictly speaking, a visitor.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The service has ended. But I make no move to leave. I have business with the man of God.

I sat there and watched him hold court at the exit as the members filed past. Judging by the way he greeted them, it was obvious he knew everyone. Shaking each hand, a few words here and there: “How is the family; it’s been a while; The little one is growing really fast; I haven’t seen your husband in church in a while; You should come for the fellowship during the week; The men’s group is meeting next week; Don’t be a stranger now. …”

I have heard it all before. From him and many others just like him.

I know he holds a brief counseling session after each service when most of the parishioners have left except those who want to see him for one thing or the other.

He will attend to all comers for the next hour or so. Today’s not particularly busy. There was only one other person beside myself in the church.

I watched the old lady go into the little room. Thankfully she didn’t stay long.

As she walked towards the exit doors, the pastor stuck his head out the door and gave me an inviting smile.

Well. It’s time.

I got up and walked up to the door.

He greeted me warmly and offered me a seat.

“Hello sir. How are you doing this fine Sunday. I have noticed you during a couple of our services. It’s always nice to see a new face. You have probably noticed our church is not so big. I know almost everyone by name.”

“But forgive me. Can I offer you something to drink? But I am sorry we only keep soft drinks here. I keep the strong stuff in my quarters.” He said with a conspiratorial wink.

I smiled back and said no.

“Ok. So what can I do for you sir.”

“I am a sinner.” I said.

“Ain’t we all”, he interjected. “That’s why we have hope in the redeeming blood of Christ who has paid for our sins.”

“True. True.” I nodded in agreement. I let the quiet settle between us for a few seconds. We both appeared contemplative.

“So I have always wondered if all sins are equal. Because I am having issues treating them the same.”

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Well,” I said. “Let me give you a couple of examples. I do business and a lot of times I need to grease the wheels of progress if I am to succeed. It’s either that or I pack up and go hunt moose or backpack across Europe or something. If you understand what I mean.”

“I also don’t see any harm in indulging in a little of this and a little of that. If you understand what I mean.”

“Well, I could say I do son. But can you be a little more plain on the second example.” He asked.

“Well, you know, a little weed from time to time now that it’s legal. A few pills to get in the party mood sometimes.”

“Ok. Well. I must say we can’t allow our standard to be the law of this world only. Some things are naturally wrong and our conscience convicts us accordingly if only we would listen.”

“What if I feel no pangs of regret afterwards nor any mental discomfort during the act?” I asked.

“I am glad you said that. Let me read something to you out of the bible. 1 Timothy 4:2. You see, we must let our conscience become seared.”

“But I don’t think my conscience is seared because I do get those mental anguish when I do certain things.”

“Such as what?” He was somewhere between inquisitive and exasperated.

“You know. This and that.”

“Well. I really don’t know. Can you tell me plainly son.”

“Ok. But I think we are digressing a little sir. My actual question was if all sins deserve equal punishment.”

“I should think so. In fact that’s the case. There are no little sins and no big sins. All sins will be punished equally unless the sinner repents. Let me read a couple of passages to you. Romans 6:23. You see, the wages of sin is death and God commands us to repent and sin no more. In John 8, Jesus commands the woman he saved from being stoned to death to go and sin no more. Otherwise she would appropriately get death as the wages for her sins.”

“But I am still not certain. Let’s say I slap someone in anger and never apologized though I am wrong even though I think I am right. I personally don’t think that’s a sin if the person was acting the fool. But I guess a better example would be the young man that jumped ahead of me in a queue. I asked him quietly to, you know, step back in line but he had a mouth on him. So I took a brass-knuckle to his face. He didn’t die but he thought he did for a minute or two and I am sure he wished he had the following day. Now that I think about it I could have handled it differently.”

“Eh. Young man. You seem to have a violent bent. But violence never solves anything. It just escalates matters.”  The pastor was visibly becoming worried.

“Not really. With the right level of violence you will be surprised how quickly you can bring a matter to a satisfactory close. Of course not always satisfactory for all concerned. But you catch my drift.”

“I am really getting concerned about you son. I think we need to say a little prayer at this point.”

I humor him. He grabs my hand and went on for a couple of minutes. I said amen at all the appropriate places.

His hitherto discomfort seemed to have abated a little.

“Now young man as I was saying, violence is not a solution. But you were saying?”

“Oh yes. I was saying I don’t think all sins are created equal, but you are taking an opposing view it seems.”

“My point is this. Take the fellow I took the brass-knuckle to his face. Granted his features were never the same again, but at least he survived. I even heard he found a lady that could stand him enough to be his wife. Good luck to both of them. I guess that was a sin.”

“Do you think I should hypothetically speaking, suffer the same punishment for that as for shooting some fellow who was abusing a little kid in broad day light. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t kill him. I just shot out his kneecaps. He’s been in a wheel chair ever since. I think it’s a sin that I did that actually. Because I took something from him that I could not give back. But I got rid of a greater evil with a little controlled temporary evil.”

The pastor was looking at me with a strange look in his eyes. His jaw was slack. But after I stopped speaking he realized where he was and quickly regained his composure.

“Young man. You do lead an interesting life. So much violence! You know the psychologists would say you are compensating for something. Was there abuse in your childhood perhaps?”

“Actually, no. I couldn’t have wished for a more adjusted and happy childhood. But we were discussing whether all sins are worthy of the same punishment.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” He said hurriedly.

“So what sort of punishment do you think those two sins will command?”

“The bible is clear on that point my son. The wages of sin – all sin – is death. Except the sinner repents of course.”

“Death is not such a bad thing.” I countered. Didn’t David say in the Psalms that there is no remembrance of anything for the dead?”

“True but that’s the Old Testament. It’s been overtaken by the New Testament. “

“So why do we still bother with it then?”

“Well the whole bible is written for our instruction and edification. You see there is no present without the past, so it would have been incomplete if we were handed down only the New Testament.”

“Ok. But if I may steer you back to the crux of our discussion.”

“Some matters son, are a little dicey you know. For example, you could have reported the child molester to the police. He would have been punished appropriately by the law.”

“Yes. But he would have been back out on the street in a couple of years. And who knows what he would have done next? You know crimes of that sort just get escalated by the perpetrators with every round that goes by. I think I put a stop to that.”

“But still. …” He was trying to marshal his thoughts.

I cut in: “You know you already said we shouldn’t limit ourselves to just the laws of this world. Now that I think of it, I believe I was executing God’s judgment on that chap. Just like Herod was consumed by worms on the spot when he ascribed God’s glory to himself.”

“Son, that’s a little different. A different regime and a different time. And an angel smote him if you remember.”

“Can you really be sure I am not an angel, pastor?”

“I am sorry son, but highly unlikely. Given the vices you listed earlier.”

“True. I am not an angel. Just following that line of thought to see where it might lead.”

“So pastor. As we were saying. Or as I was asking, I really do not think all sins ought to deserve the same amount of “reward” but of course I can’t claim to be a bible scholar which is one of the two reasons why I am here.”

“Which reminds me. A little side story. I used to be in the military. I left after I came back from my last tour. Because I realized I was fighting for a cause that was of benefit to only a few power hungry individuals in high places. But not only that, it was the atrocities we committed under the guise of liberating the country from the tyranny of its previous rulers. The problem was that in the paranoia of the war, it was difficult to know who was friend and who was foe. As to be expected, a lot of innocent people paid the ultimate price. People see some of the results of the carnage on their TV screens and cringe, but I tell you, living through it; actually being there; participating in it – you couldn’t even begin to imagine the horror.”

“I came back disillusioned and for a couple of years I was lost and haunted by the eyes of those I had killed. Time truly heals all wounds. Because with time those eyes faded away and I could begin to function properly in the society again. But I wasn’t really the same person that went to war. I had lost something. I guess you could say it was my innocence. Coupled with the fact that I couldn’t get any reasonable job after I returned, I just drifted into what came naturally.”

“Which was? Sorry. Is?”

“You know. Do for people what they are too scared to do for themselves.”

“Like what?”

“You know. Every – thing.” I put emphasis on the word.

“Sorry. That went over my head son. But it sounds illegal. Is it?”

“Well. I guess it depends on whose point of view you are looking at it from and also whose laws. If you catch my drift.”

“Em. Huh. I am a little confused as to where this is heading. Not sure you are really here for counseling. Are you?”

I think he is trying to get rid of me.

“Well. True. How did you know? You are truly perceptive.  Must be the training. You know, a man of the cloth such as yourself.”

He beamed a little despite himself. Flattery does wonders.

“Which of course leads to the second reason I am here.”

I leaned back a little. He followed suit.

“So pastor. Certain people in your congregation despite how small the church is, believe you are a stumbling block that’s preventing the church from growing.”

“Now I am not a man to take an assignment lightly. I do my own research and only accept a commission when I am convinced of the merits of the case.”

“Pastor. You have been dipping in the church till. If it was only a little here and there to tide you over, I wouldn’t even bring this up.”

His face was starting to take on the look of a trapped animal.

I continued: “But you have been really naughty. That condo by the beach. And the Maserati parked in the garage.” I shook my head from side to side.

“Not to mention Angela who is neither your wife nor your staff but lives free like a queen on the regular anonymous (you think) transfers you send to her. There are at least three people in the know now – you, Angela and myself. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, you have been coveting some of your parishioners’ wives under the guise of spiritual guidance. That one, only you, myself and the ladies concerned know about.”

“But I guess you are still wondering where all this is going.”

At this point, I sat up, slowly brought out my gun from my jacket and placed it on the table. His eyes brightened with fear. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. His eyes were fixated on the gun.

“You see I am in a dilemma. I have never killed a man of the cloth before. And while it should just be another job since you have aptly demonstrated you are a man as fallible as any other, there is still this little part of me that screams out in protest against what I have set my mind to do. That bit in the bible that’s so often misquoted and taken out of context comes to mind: do my prophet no harm. But luckily, you are not a prophet by any stretch of the imagination. But that still leaves me with the fact that you have a flock to look after spiritually and I see you haven’t done too badly there. You know that saying – do what I say, not what I do. That’s what you have been preaching and really, you have helped quite a few of your members you know.”

He nodded eagerly. Maybe he thought that might be his salvation.

“I was almost decided in my mind, but you have truly helped me. You have put my mind at ease now. Really. Because if all sins are created equal, and the wages of sin is death, then you deserve what’s coming to you.”

I got up. Cocked the gun and leveled it at him. The scope was dead center between his eyes. I know the path the bullet will take – in through the front, straight through his brain to exit at the base of his skull. Even if by some earth-moving miracle he survives, he won’t be in a position to do any finger-pointing or do anything for that matter.

He first began to whimper and plead for his life. Then he was literally bawling with snort running down his face.

“Pastor. You have committed a great sin. And I have chosen to be the punishment of God unto you. If you had not committed so great a sin, a punishment like me would not have been sent to you.”

He cried even louder.

“Ah. Pastor. I am disappointed. I expected you would take it like a man or better still; take it like a man of God. Here we go.”

I fired two shots. Everything went silent. I walked out the room and shortly thereafter I was out in the sunshine. It was a bright day – it was a good day to be alive.

I really should stop doing this. Someday someone was going to force my hand and things might turn out ugly. There are real bullets in the gun. But was I really ready to go all the way?

Behind me I could hear him in the church. His distress was audible in his voice but the only thing he kept repeating was “Dear God!”. I could picture him on his knees rocking back and forth in front of the beautiful cross above the altar. I hope I had scared him straight enough to change his ways or at least enough to lose the robe.

I brought out the little book and put a little tick next to his name. The list was still long. I won’t be back in this church for a while. But I will be keeping an eye on him – that is, if he remains there.

I walked slowly away. Little children were running after butterflies in the park a little distance away.

It was so long ago. On a day such as this. When I proudly uttered those same words as I brought carnage and destruction, and some said the hordes of hell, to the lands of the east. Like Herod, I thought I was a god and so I would announce to my conquests, “I am the punishment of God. If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you.”

Now I have been cursed to wander the earth until the second coming in order to atone for my sins.

You see, my name is Khan.

Kublai Khan.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

NOTE: the “punishment” quote was actually made by Genghis Khan, Kublai Khan’s grandfather.

Dealing with God

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Dealing with God

It sounds blasphemous right? But there are lots of examples in the bible of people who made deals with God. True, deals are generally made between equals or at least between people who have something (the other party wants) to bargain with. Ideally we have no chips with which to bargain with God. But this shows you how magnanimous God is. Once he gave us free will, He automatically gave us the chips with which we can bargain.
So on some level He has elevated us to be equal to himself. After all, he made us in his own image (“And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: “, Genesis 1:26)
Sometimes the deals are initiated by God. At other times by men. Take Abraham for example. God said he needed to relocate to some foreign place and He (God) would bless him (Abraham). Well, that’s a deal right there. Abraham could have refused. He could have decided where he was at that time was the best place to be and not some unknown distant place where he would be among belligerent strangers. He could have exercised his free will contrary to the will of God for him. That wouldn’t have changed the end game: God would just have done the same thing through another individual.
Just to clarify our terms of reference, a deal is an agreement with terms and conditions usually involving an “exchange” of some sort (that’s without looking it up in the dictionary :-).
Fast forward to Lot? God was going to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. (Genesis 18). But then Abraham politely asked what would happen if he could find fifty righteous men in the city. God said (even though he knew the end already, He decided to humour him) he would spare both cities. Well did it end there? Nope. The gentleman went from that to forty-five to thirty to twenty to ten. If that’s not negotiating (with the purpose of striking a deal), I don’t know what it is!
Let’s skip forward a little to Samuel. His barren mum finally gave God a condition. “Give me a child and I will return him to you!”
(1 Samuel 1, 10-11: And she was in bitterness of soul, and prayed unto the LORD, and wept sore. And she vowed a vow, and said, O LORD of hosts, if thou wilt indeed look on the affliction of thine handmaid, and remember me, and not forget thine handmaid, but wilt give unto thine handmaid a man child, then I will give him unto the LORD all the days of his life, and there shall no razor come upon his head.”).
Now notice that she only asked for a child. But upon fulfilling her part of the bargain (the deal) God blessed her with other children. Because he knew despite the fact that she was finally able to live down the stigma associated with her barrenness, she would definitely want children who would grow up with her and who she can show around the community and not have to explain to all and sundry that she indeed had a child who was dedicated to serving God in the temple. So while you should count yourself lucky if a human party completely fulfills their end of a deal, one can see that God will go beyond the terms of the deal to do more and above what He needs to do within the terms of the deal if necessary to satisfy our yearnings especially if it’s in line with the grand design (which of course we are usually too involved in our immediate situations to fully comprehend – not that we are able to anyway – “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.” Isaiah 55, 8-9).

Let’s skip forward a little, shall we? And we hit one of the greatest deal makers of all time: David. Not only did he get fulfillment of his desires from God in his life time, he managed to secure his lineage as kings forever. Yes, it’s true that God had this planned from the beginning of the world, but it didn’t necessarily have to be via David. He could have easily lost out various times. When Saul was after him, he could have renounced his claim to the throne for safety. When he took Uriah’s wife and had him killed (2 Samuel 11), and Samuel came to chastise him, he could have turned a deaf ear like many kings before and after him. Jesus Christ would still have come to redeem us, he just wouldn’t have come from David’s lineage.
What about Job? He could have cursed God at the height of his despair and died as his friends and wife advised. But he made a deal even if he didn’t think of it that way: he nether cursed God nor questioned him. The ending was that God decided to bless him with much more than he had before his trials and travails.

But we need not constrain ourselves to the Old Testament. What about more recent history a la the New Testament. We can start with that old chap that made a deal with God to live Long enough to see Jesus born. God stayed the hands of time on his behalf. I bet you he still had 20/20 vision when he held Jesus in the temple: all the better to see the child with!

And what about Jesus Christ himself? He could have sold out to the devil when the latter offered him all the riches of the earth (Matthew 4) or chickened out in the garden of gethsemane and saved himself from crucifixion (Mark 14).

So you see, humans such as you and yours truly have been striking deals with God since the beginning of time. So don’t be afraid to follow suit.

And having spoken (or written) thus, let me put my money where my mouth is by taking a shot at making a deal with God right now. Here goes:

“Dear God,
There are a couple of things I need to discuss with you. I am going to do it sitting down on my bed with my eyes open. I am sure you don’t mind.
Number one, you see, there is this g…”