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THOUGHTS AT THE DEPARTURE TERMINAL

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I will soon spread my wings and fly away. Who will come with me? Whom will I leave behind? What will happen when I’m gone? What will they say? Will the sky still be blue? Will the waters still bear sailing ships? Will the earth still revolve around the sun? Will they remember me here after a little while, or will I fade away in their memories like innumerable disappeared friends from once upon a time? But this is behind me now.

Have I broken hearts? Have I healed broken hearts? Have I quickened hearts and brought adventure into other people’s lives, raw new adventure? Am I a burden on anyone? Then we must part now.

Have I wrought damage beyond salvage? Have I done much more than can be remedied? Am I a ghost? Am I a thing of joy? Am I a precious memory? Am I still there? Am I still there? If I go, will I ever return? Goodbye now.

My life is full these days, full of partings and goodbyes. They come in the form of meetings, unitings and re-unifications; but at the end they shed their cloaks and reveal that they always were, from the beginning, another separation.

Farewell, farewell now.

————–
Che Chidi Chukwumerije
————–

SELF-RECONSTRUCTION

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If you of a barren eager day switch on the television, assuming that NEPA has provided electricity, and observe the movements of those dancers called politicians, you will before you know it begin to dance along.

If you of a quiet sleepless night switch on your memory, assuming your heart is strong enough to bear this, and remember the days of your emotional sighs and bonds, you will before you know it begin to yearn again for those things for which you have always yearned the most deep within your heart.

And if you of a broken moment in time, broken open, long again for me, I promise you that I will be there, sweetheart. But you must long from the deepest part of you, the part you kept hidden when you told me all those unnecessary lies. And you will, before you know it, have outgrown me and my poems.

It’s not me you love, my dear, you were merely enraptured by the poet in me – and I am a poet.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

REMINISCING THE CHANGE

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What holds people together and transforms animosity into love, distrust into cooperation, disunity into lively oneness? What melts the old barriers and creates new ones? What overcomes us and flows over us? What ever came over us? What is our goal? What can make us agree where once we disagreed?

A force, like a violent wind, whips us away from the old way and whisks us into the new. All we have to do is try. Things end, things begin anew, old things go, new things come, we shall live if we are ready to change.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

YOU WILL NOT SEE THE SUN YET

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After the Still of the Night, if you are listening, you will notice that the birds have begun to twitter, the dogs have started to bark, the cocks to crow. Looking out the window, you will notice that the sky is a tinge less dark and the stars and moon, though clearly visible still, strangely are fast fading too. You will not see the sun yet, but a stranger within you will tell you that the sun is stirring somewhere over an eastern horizon, and the world is waiting with a heart full of wonder, holding its breath, and every yawn is an awakening not a retiring. A quiet energy begins to brew, like a yearning.

Opening your heart, you will perceive that the heavenly song, echoing still on within you, retreating, has faded quietly quietly away again. And, your open heart still open, you will perceive that the harsher vibrations of an embattled intellectual species, human by name, are surging out once more – through windows, doors, walls and hearts and reawakening chaotic minds, through opening unseeing eyes and resettling restless souls, bodies crashing densely out of bed, self-locked plans and plots in mind, they prepare to explode upon the planet, yes, ready and about to punish a guiltless world again with another day of desperate madness starting now just when nature and the natural world would so deeply like to smile the smile of dawn.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

SAFETY

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What fear is it that colonises us as we advance and infects us with the thirst for safety? Why, how does it conquer us? Why do we yield to the fear of the unknown? Were we always seeking the valley and never the mountain-peak? Was this always our secret goal? Or did we fall somewhere, and hide thereafter behind a smile and a serious frown or the line in-between, shutting our eyes carefully so that the world would not be bothered much by the sight of the decaying of our most cherished dream?

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

BRIEFLY HUMAN CORPORATE BEINGS

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Upon every Passenger that comes my way rests the weight of a wish borne. Some carry with them, over oceans and continents, desires they have nurtured – sometimes unconsciously – from infancy. Yet they must upon a time bear fruit. If I were to consider every one a book, rich would be the language that riddled their many pages with tales of many tails. And yet we say to one another “Good day”, “What can I do for you?”, “Just a second”, and things like that as we drown our entire humanity and history in silence during a moment of business service or corporate interaction.

But once in a while one will come my way who looks into my eyes as though we were both human and, as we address the issue of his baggage, his ticket, his itinerary or some other such stuff, we talk about music, the arts, sports, history, headline news, but never in detail of course about politics or religion. We don’t have to anyway. Little things show one already where and how each person stands.

And then the day will pass and many other customers will come and go, and nothing wrong or below standard will be said or done, but only that one customer will remain in your memory who spoke to you about music, literature, the arts, sports, his family, your history, some headline news, but never in detail of course about politics or religion. It wasn’t necessary. Little things leave the biggest impression.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

BECAUSE OF SOMETHING MISUNDERSTOOD

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Because of something misunderstood, although constantly seen, we fought; we fought against one another. Neither of us was killed in the intense battle, but our friendship died, brutally murdered by mistrust and injured vanity and faults unconquered in you and me.

There was a word we left unspoken. Would that one had spoken it all this time, would that we had broken down the barriers, the artificial barriers, yesterday.

One day too late, yet all we see are smiles. Is it a joke, or a word of comfort, or a tale, an apology, a ruse, poetry or a bridge? Like it was when we started, like it was, is. Secrets sleeping sleep on still in the sands beneath the sea, lapping up the shores of solemn promises that may never be broken, until the sands are wetted and the rigid stances have melted, lest we break.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

HOW CAN A NON-INVENTING NON-PRODUCER BE INDEPENDENT?

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If everything you need for your survival and for your comfort and for your daily living is not made – talk less of imagined, conceptualised and invented – by you, are you truly independent? Or are you dependent on those who invent and manufacture those essentials you need?

If the maintenance of your standard, quality and basis of living is directly dependent upon the fact that there are others somewhere who think out the technology and the systems, and then produce the goods and processes which you then purchase through the exchange of raw materials that per chance exist within the boundaries of your sovereignty, then the very fact of your dependence eliminates all claim of independence.

Because independence cannot exist without self-dependence and self-reliance. Think about it.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

PERCEIVED BUT INARTICULABLE INJUSTICE

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The legal compass of the law cannot always accurately navigate through the inchoate map of human nature; and is often blind within the fine web of subtleties entangling human volitions and actions, truths and falsehoods. A criminal, in the sightless eyes of the law, is only a criminal if he has committed a crime according to the definition of the law, when proven.

The true needle of morality is the intuitive perception, which however has no legal weight of authority within the letter of the law, nor a clear line of communication with the intellect. Guiltless or not, it is up to the accused – or his legal defence team – to provide (or destroy) requisite proof. That’s how difficult, and easy, it is.

Humanity is, by choice, the legal prisoner of an approximation – one with which it has voluntarily entered into a compromise, for fear of having nothing better, nothing more exact. Thus our law will never apprehend every guilty person, while some of those it apprehends and condemns will be innocent.

All we are left with, in the end, are our intuitions and our perceptions; our sense of justice; and our longing for a better and more perfect humanity – a longing which we will pass on from generation to generation, like a torch in the dark.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

An excerpt from "The Lake of Love"

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The Lake of Love: A Philosophical Journey

As he descended the plateau, he exalted in nature. He saw the azure-blue skies stretching protectively above his head, and around him he saw beauty unveiled. The green of the grass was of a tone he had never before quite seen. It seemed to have a restorative effect on him. The flowers were beautiful. Multicoloured, as if a rainbow had exploded in the skies and the little splittings of colour had showered themselves upon the fields. Was this real? He thought back to the world of men. Had he ever seen anything so beautiful? No. Not ever. Not once.

He strolled through these fields briskly. Much as they delighted his eyes and watered the garden that was his soul, he could tarry not even for a single second. His eyes were focused yet detached. Paradise was still in front.

And then there was a lake…

As he approached the valley …. suddenly and for the first time, he noticed a lake that nestled right in the heart of the greens, stretching wide into the woods on either side, but perhaps only about forty or sixty strides across. He hesitated for one second, his eyebrows lifted. He had not seen the lake from the top of the plateau.. He had not been looking into the valley, but only up at the Land of Bliss.

But only for a moment did he hesitate. His strides picked up speed and certainty once more and he headed straight for the lake. After crossing seven seas, amongst other things, a little lake was not going to bother him in any way now that he was so close to the Land.

As he neared the lake, it suddenly dawned on him that nature seemed to have changed. It appeared to have come alive. Suddenly the grass was whispering, but whispering what? He could tell not. The leaves were talking, but talking to whom – to him, or simply to themselves? The wind sang a song, a wordless song, and from the sides of his eyes he thought he could catch the flashy movements of little things. Almost like little human beings. Little human-like beings? He swung his head sharply on all sides…nothing. Only the green, beautifully decorated fields. The enchanting woods.

In him something began to stir. He knew that there was a discussion going on in nature, a conversation, an exchange of opinions…or, wait, a message?
Again Scimarajh hesitated. He wanted to find out what was going on around him. Or, rather, a part of him wanted to – the curious part…or, is it, the cautious part? But the larger part of him, the adventurer who had surmounted high and low, the seeker who had journeyed tirelessly, was impatient.

Move on! The command thundered forcefully within him, borne of a long–persevering hunger, a long-unfulfilled desire. So he tore his attention away from the mysterious, imperceptible activity going on around him and quickly took the last brisk strides that brought him to the edge of the lake.

The lake was silent. Motionless. Clear as the surface of a perfectly-polished mirror. Still.

Scimarajh gazed at it, equally silent, equally still. His mind ticked. A deep seriousness, immense and grave, settled over his beautiful countenance.
There was something about this lake on which he could not place his finger. Something mysterious. Something as yet unfathomed. Unravelled. And yet, why did he get the impression that he had seen this lake before? He looked at the lake and the lake looked back at him with his own eyes, his own face, his own self. Who knows himself? Scimarajh?

But other thoughts than these occupied him. How deep was the lake? How safe? He was not deceived by the apparent calm of the lake. The last months and years of his life had brought him danger in all forms, at unexpected turns, and he had learned to take nothing for granted. Not even a little lake.
He looked about. Nature’s voice had increased in volume. So Scimarajh calmed down. By his feet lay a long, thin pole. He picked it up and, holding it at one end, slowly immersed it into the water of the lake. Nothing. Presently he revolved his hand, stirring the water and all the while peering pin-point sharp into it, tense and concentrated.

After a long time of testing and watching, investigating, checking and waiting, his body slowly relaxed; the skin around his eyes, formerly tightened, smoothened out again and he let the faithful pole back out of the lake, carefully replacing it back down by his feet where it had formerly lain.

The lake was safe, just like any other.

Now that he had become satisfied of that, his movements again became brisk and sure. Speedily he took off his garments, knelt down in the soft, mossy grass and folded them. Then he opened up his little back-pack and gazed with delighted eyes at its contents.

Three beautiful precious stones, his sole possessions and objects of his deep love. He had acquired them laboriously through his long, long journeys. And he guarded them with all his might, for without them he would never make his way into the Land of Bliss. His former teacher, the Master of the Sea, had told him so himself. And he was going to present them to the King of Joy when he finally made his entry into the Land of Bliss.

He could not suppress the cry of joy that escaped his lips as his heart soared in these thoughts. Then he came back to the moment. To work! To work! Quickly, but very neatly, he folded his faithful garments one more time and arranged them inside the back-pack. Then, arising anew, he strapped the pack unto his back and prepared to dive in. He concentrated.

Suddenly he heard it. Loud and clear!

A voice.

“Do not dive into the Lake of Love!” –

Scimarajh started up, whipped his head around, saw nobody. He looked and looked. Nothing stirred. Nature had quietened again. Had he heard wrong? He listened hard and heard absolute silence communing with itself.

The silence filled him like a wave.

His head began to swim. Not for a second did it occur to him to immerse himself in the feeling. To know what it was. Rather he resisted it. What?, he thought. After getting so close?! … No way! …

He shook his head vigorously and sharpened his eyes on the silver-surface of the lake. I must have heard wrong, he told himself repeatedly, remembering the mirages he once used to see in the deserts and the imaginary sounds he once also heard in the forests when tension was high. It must be the same phenomenon, he assured himself, and the nearness of the end of my journey is making me dizzy.

In his heart of hearts, however, a contrary intuition stirred, but he drowned it with the clamour of his thoughts, and his desire.

Bent at the knee … tensed his muscles … breathed in … and dived in …

…

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.