RAMBLES BY THE DUMB

I went to the gossiping center today.

Photo Credit: Google Images 

My hair had become a recalcitrant boy that needed to be disciplined. He soon found his fate being decided by his teacher, the hairdresser. She took her time peering at the poor child and possibly wondering what to do with him. At first she went gently, admiring his good features. The richness of his texture. A true African, she said. Other times, she was harsh.

"If only you didn't spend all day playing with a bonnet. If only you bathed more often. Why didn't you make friends with the conditioner, " she asked?

Then she gets angry and lashes out on him. I screech and remind her. He is only a child - barely eight. A mother will always be a mother. However stubborn he is, I will not let her kill my boy.

When I wasn't too angry, I listened to the teachers' conversations. There were two others in the classroom, each with a child. The children didn't seem to be enduring the kind of ruthlessness my son was subjected to by his teacher. In fact, they were a bit too chatty for students being disciplined.

Photo Credit: Unsplash 

The salon is a classroom. It draws all kinds of school children to it, particularly the unruly ones.

So when the government agent in charge of collecting shop taxes came in with her daughter, we knew she was not one of us. Her daughter had the finest texture I've ever seen. And the most tamed too. The kind that makes you think of expensive perms. No child has ever escaped its wrath. The woman reminded me of the biblical Jewish tax collectors. The more I admired the beauty of her child, the more I wondered if she doubled the taxes. Or tripled them.

Photo Credit: Pixabay

I didn't wonder alone. When she left, the conversation changed from the truancy of my son to the government. My son's teacher was angry.

"The taxes are too much, I am barely making any profit." She said.

"What about other rents? House, electricity…abi they will also pay them for me?" she hollered.

Tsk! One of the parents hissed.

"All these government people. They are all bad. That is why I won't bother voting in this election. But I will still get my PVC. It helps me jump queues, especially at police checkpoints.

On election day, I will cross my legs and sit at home. Las Las dem go still rig am."

Photo Credit: Pixabay

At that moment, a unanimous agreement was reached.

I felt something close to sadness. You see, I am only a convalescent recovering from the throes of depression. When I sleep I face my worst fears. I dream of prison breaks and church attacks. I see blood, worthless currency, guns and bullets. Not even my midnight prayer sessions douse the shivers that travel down my spine every morning. 

I met my therapist yesterday. For the first phase of my therapy, he made me swear not to talk about the topic again. He said to avoid everything that will make me worry, which was why I brought my boy here to be disciplined. I didn't want to got through the horror of doing it myself.

When his teacher was done taming him, I took my son and left without a word.

Photo credit: Google images

This is a gentle reminder for you to go collect your PVC. Voting is not for a class of people. It's for everyone. 

People rig by taking advantage of empty ballot papers. Don't just complain. Go vote out that bad government. Be the change you desire. 

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to say nothing -Edmund Burke

To every Rose that grew from Concrete; Blossom!