The muse lent me to Onigba, the inconspicuous time-wanderer of indigenous origins; I beat an ancient ring-tone with a mellow tempo on my gong, Afrosays:
She smiles in the bus, the grayed lady, taking a leisurely stroll, basking in the sunny moments of times past. I look at her and smile in agreement and I’m on to the next one
I’m on a journey for the good old; I’m feeling grand, and clement weather assures me that nature’s feeling likewise. I’m on a journey for the good old days.
I’m the time-wanderer, call me ‘Onigba’.
I guess we’ve had our moments, you and I. Did you recognize me?
No! I’m not that weirdo you noticed under the bridge happily calculating 9D mathematics on the sand in Latin and I’m not his buddy either. I don’t have a fancy wand or carry a moribund hour-glass (although I popularized that look in Nebuchadnezzar’s times). I’ve been around since loin-cloths and cave-cribs, when your kind measured how old they were by how many Yam planting seasons they’d participated in. I saw Socrates make up stuff he couldn’t quite figure out and Shakespeare conduct his low-budget plays. I saw Hitler, Rockefeller and I’m still seeing Babangida. I’m the Rolex and the Omega!
You did not recognize me because I’m one with time. I’m quite the conformist. I wore a suit the day we met at your office, I’ve worn all the cuts of Jeans you’ve worn and I’m still figuring out how to get out of my most recent denim adventure without employing the use of a pair of scissors. Don’t bother trying to look out for me; I look too much like you.
I’ve lived with your kind since the big bang or the big apple, I really don’t care which. I was born the same day as Adam or Australopithecus, and you’ve all come a long way… to vanity. You’ve missed the point. SMH!
Like him, he’s smiling too, smiling at the irony of it all. He’s not sure how he’s come this far on so little. He’s not sure how he’s going to make it through but he’s sure he will. He’s hanging out with the boys tonight; he knows he’s got major issues but he’d take the little joys he demands from life.
Maybe He’d pay the rent, maybe not; maybe he’d get the job, maybe not; maybe he’d love again, maybe not; but tonight, we drink to life, Guy and I.
Like her, she’s smiling too, and then she laughs at the irony of love. He’s home early today and she’s glad. He told her he was sorry for the third time and she took him in knowing his weakness would lead him on yet another tryst. She was just glad to have him for now. She hoped to have him forever.
She deserves forever, so what? Tonight, we celebrate love and life.
Who cares what you want? There’s no Persia or Babylon or King Solomon! There’s just two glasses… what’s our toast?