NEW PIECE: NOTHING IN MY HEAD
NOTHING IN MY HEAD
By Stanley Ohaji
I had a conversation with a 26-year-old friend and, for more than 30 minutes, we talked about what we would be… I mean, what we would want to become.
“But first…” I said to him “…ideas maketh man”
Disgusted at what I said, the younger man replied “Knowing your purpose for existing maketh man”
Then, for another 30 minutes or so, we shot arrows at citations from notable books and annotations from wise men at each other; digging up heaps of several historical events to buttress our points. Finally, after we’d had enough mud on ourselves, I revealed to him that I was a seasoned psychologist - that when I was much younger, I had this idea of studying psychology and becoming a master in the field so that I could understand how people think, trace out their problems and heal them mentally.
Hearing this, the boy hit me with a gaze that spelled ‘confusion’
“You have a good heart” he said, “but still you need to know who you are” he added, almost feeling sorry for me.
In return, feeling old and wise, I quizzed him “Who are you?”
Lowering his gaze, he replied. “A man’s identity is the most important thing he should know. The title of his identity is his name. A name explains a lot; it explains why he is, who he is, and what he might become. But then, our names were given based on the shadow of another, based on the religion of another, based on inherited expectations of another, based on the unrequested sacrifices from another, on the embedded notion of altering fulfilment and resting after the work is done. Sometimes I believe that they purposefully omit their share of life’s work so we can pick up the leftovers to consume and digest their aspirations as ours - like we would ever be done with our life’s work; like we would ever rest before the final rest; like my imagination isn’t a part of the things I want to fulfil; like the essence of sacrifices is so that we can repay them; telling us we are made in the same image and likeness; a story only the first humans owned. Thus, abandoning us to fall into a bottomless pit of craze, trying to get a grip of how the rest of us got here.”
"Through childbirth” I injected.
“Yes, through parents…” he continued, “…older and usually wise in following the footstep of their ancestors; their ways of life and mentality dating back to an era of young people who are now six feet beneath us. In threatening situations, we’ll ask ourselves; What would I have done if I was Uncle Simba? Instead of forging our own path and choosing our own identity, we choose to take on ideas of people who are now dust. Dust when faced with an existing reality, vanishes into nothing. Who are you when the emotions you bottle up, achievements you’ve planned, thoughts you bore and ideas you carry in your head are of those who are now dust - nothing and gone with the wind? How do we begin to exist? How do we begin to have something in our head? Here I am, present today, knowing that this over-glorified organ I use in pondering would someday return to its original form… provoking the better question; Why do you exist?”
There he ended.
Of course, I attempted opening my mouth to give a quick response but my mind wanted done with rubbing minds. It wasn’t up to a minute when he stood up, promised to visit me next time and left.
Here I am writing, trying not to waste anymore pickle of dust realising that, for more than 20 years, I have carried, in my head, ideas of dead men who are now dust and blossom to nothing in the wind.
By Stanley Ohaji
I had a conversation with a 26-year-old friend and, for more than 30 minutes, we talked about what we would be… I mean, what we would want to become.
“But first…” I said to him “…ideas maketh man”
Disgusted at what I said, the younger man replied “Knowing your purpose for existing maketh man”
Then, for another 30 minutes or so, we shot arrows at citations from notable books and annotations from wise men at each other; digging up heaps of several historical events to buttress our points. Finally, after we’d had enough mud on ourselves, I revealed to him that I was a seasoned psychologist - that when I was much younger, I had this idea of studying psychology and becoming a master in the field so that I could understand how people think, trace out their problems and heal them mentally.
Hearing this, the boy hit me with a gaze that spelled ‘confusion’
“You have a good heart” he said, “but still you need to know who you are” he added, almost feeling sorry for me.
In return, feeling old and wise, I quizzed him “Who are you?”
Lowering his gaze, he replied. “A man’s identity is the most important thing he should know. The title of his identity is his name. A name explains a lot; it explains why he is, who he is, and what he might become. But then, our names were given based on the shadow of another, based on the religion of another, based on inherited expectations of another, based on the unrequested sacrifices from another, on the embedded notion of altering fulfilment and resting after the work is done. Sometimes I believe that they purposefully omit their share of life’s work so we can pick up the leftovers to consume and digest their aspirations as ours - like we would ever be done with our life’s work; like we would ever rest before the final rest; like my imagination isn’t a part of the things I want to fulfil; like the essence of sacrifices is so that we can repay them; telling us we are made in the same image and likeness; a story only the first humans owned. Thus, abandoning us to fall into a bottomless pit of craze, trying to get a grip of how the rest of us got here.”
"Through childbirth” I injected.
“Yes, through parents…” he continued, “…older and usually wise in following the footstep of their ancestors; their ways of life and mentality dating back to an era of young people who are now six feet beneath us. In threatening situations, we’ll ask ourselves; What would I have done if I was Uncle Simba? Instead of forging our own path and choosing our own identity, we choose to take on ideas of people who are now dust. Dust when faced with an existing reality, vanishes into nothing. Who are you when the emotions you bottle up, achievements you’ve planned, thoughts you bore and ideas you carry in your head are of those who are now dust - nothing and gone with the wind? How do we begin to exist? How do we begin to have something in our head? Here I am, present today, knowing that this over-glorified organ I use in pondering would someday return to its original form… provoking the better question; Why do you exist?”
There he ended.
Of course, I attempted opening my mouth to give a quick response but my mind wanted done with rubbing minds. It wasn’t up to a minute when he stood up, promised to visit me next time and left.
Here I am writing, trying not to waste anymore pickle of dust realising that, for more than 20 years, I have carried, in my head, ideas of dead men who are now dust and blossom to nothing in the wind.
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