DEAR YOU; GROAN NO MORE. THE THRONE IS YOURS!- 2

Catch episode One here: www.syllogisticcorner.blogspot.com/2013/08/dear-you-groan-no-more-throne-is-yours.html?m=1


 DY; GNM. TTIY! EPISODE 2

‘KayodeOyero


“In moments of tension; when imprisoned in the detention of hardship; when no one gives attention and the turf unbearably rough and tough, worry less, dark times are never forever.Every rain of pain comes with trains of gain. ‘Every Good Thing Will Come’.” –O.J.O


JOY SPREADS OVERTLY ACROSS HIS FACE. Kunle smiles terrifyingly in a way that the thin slice of flesh that covers his cheekbone almost tear apart. His spirit high like that caused by an intake of Marijuana. The morning is exceptional. It flourishes with renewed possibility of a brighter tomorrow. The message notification not only rejuvenates his dying hope, but also gives him more than an ounce conviction that the word ‘faith’ exists beyond the scope of a Dictionary. It reinforces his belief of the possibility of a better tomorrow. And like a Phoenix re-born from its ashes, he glistens anew with the hope of seeing himself move from the basement of squalor to the magnificent tower of splendor.


Though, he had concluded in the pre-who-wants-to-be-a-Millionaire hours of his life, in the height of enormous anguish that his prolonged stay in poverty was glaring enough an evidence that providence had no earthly smile to beam on him. But in his present state of elation: an unbelievable recovery from despair, he transports himself mentally to the comfort he anticipates from his coming new world. Aworld hinged on the excellence of his performance during the contest. A world with which its realization rests on a sole condition: the leniency of magistrate Luck.


In his enraptured state, he looks up, his eyes shooting in the direction of a circular clock angling on a piece of Tornado nailed on the wall obviously by a past occupant. He could see the short hand straddling between Seven and Eight and the long hand resting briefly on Six. ‘Half past Seven’ he silently interprets to be the time. He abandons the bed standing to his feet. His hands swing up and down as he greets the heavens with wordless halleluyahs showing an attitude of gratitude. His soles stuck, right in the coldness of the nude floor. He desires warmth. Perhaps a tea of coffee or a water-heated bath he thinks remembering how he had seen people do in movies.

*****


THE ROAD TEEMS. It cries with screeches of car horns. Vehicles line up bumper to bumper waiting to receive commands from traffic lights, a compliance molded not really by a sense of sheer obedience but for the fear of not being guilty of a fine. But in complicated scenarios, the wheels resort to the manual traffic directives of traffic warders who sweat it out clearing the road with short top-rounded black sticks.


Asides the sing-song of vehicles and Bus-conductors wooing Passengers guiding them into their moving house with elbowed hands, clatter of shining shoes also sing in unmelodious spasm stamping tarred roads in a hurry attempt to get to work before the conventional resumption time of Eight.Skirts and Trousers scurry from one part of the earth to another in an endless search of daily bread: the Created fulfilling an eternal all-obeying curse of the Creator.


Kids walk with relunctance going to school. The seeming endless spectacle of these uniformed wards whose soft palms interlock the firm hold of their mothers or guardians escorting them to School by foot parades everywhere. Strapped on their backs are cottage-sized bags with multitude of colour elements. The bags carry fascinating sketchy designson its exterior ranging from spider-man to batman and the amusing television foursomes of the Tele-tubbies.


‘The traffic must have build-up.’Kunle voices with sharp precision. A presumption based on his familiarity with the road obtainables in Eko O niBaje City. He yawns stretching out his arms as though a snail tugging outside its shell.

*****


“A BEG, MAK D PERSIN WEY DEY INSIDE DO QUICK. Owuro loja-Na morning be market!” nagged adunni, Kunle’s right door neighbor. With towel wrapped from breast level, slightly exposing her cleavages to the sensuous skin immediately after her buxom buttock, Adunni stands in the fifteenth position on the snake-like queue impatiently waiting to take turn into the bathroom. Dark and dazzling is Adunni. Her breast assumes a cone shape with pointed nipple to match-a feast for masculine eyes. Her radiance beams glowingly not betraying that of a virgin in the flush of her youth when beauty is unmistakably natural. Her beauty fascinates her to an overwhelming number of men.


Kunle had earlier tried his luck with her in the days when his misery was young. In preparation for a flawless proposal, he had rehearsed and perfectly memorized all Shakespearean love lines before making an approach. But to his utter dismay, Adunni spurned all of his pestering no matter how hard he pestles juicing words with the ‘sweetest’ of rhymes. Adunni’s refusal of his amorous advances poured a fatal blow on his maleness making him think he is romantically deficient. But little did it hit Kunle’s knowledge that ‘who-has-what’ emerges winner in the politics of contemporary love, one of which is Adunni’s. Kunle seems not to know that most ladies’ interpretation of wanting ‘a responsible man’ is a man whose bank account is fat enough to take-up their financial responsibilities without grudge or complain since it’s being said that taking up responsibility is a sign of being responsible. He had in his failure lamented the spate at which material muscle has become a pre-requisite to win a lady’s heart.


‘These girls have no sense of the word: futuristic. A guy with television interests them than promising Ones with vision like me.’ He had said conclusively connoting television with money and vision with prospect.


A fruitless Banana tree sheds a part of the backyard. They stand alert beside water-filled buckets shifting it forward once the One In front enters the bathroom. The bathroom, a ceiling-less cubicle constructed with rusty corrugated iron sheets shields anyone performing the act of purification from prying eyes. Beside it is a fly-doused bucket latrine.


To defecate, they climb an elevated stand decked with sturdy planks. On the surface is a circular opening through which molten magma descends into a fairly large metal pail. The aluminum pail with its curve handleis periodically collected by waste collectors depending on the level of ‘food’ it receives from the occupants. Notably, the evacuation ritual is performed daily on weekends but less frequent on week days.


A rump roars infusing the air around the yard with its foul, a pungent stench in the like that of rotten egg.


‘Wu b dat sef wey no fit find beta place discard his rotten rectum?’ articulates a husky half-literate voice from amidst the queue. His use of ‘rotten rectum’ suggests he has little knowledge of good English language.


‘Tru tru. d persin stomak don rotin.’ rants another man reinforcing the position of the former as he raises his right thumb and index fingers to shrink his nostril so as to avoid a further invasion of the smell into his system. And while they express their displeasures over what seems to them an un-courteous release of the offensive odour, an improvised door spined with tiny woods and canopied with corrugated iron sheet squeaks open before them. Papa Julius rolls his pot belly out of the toilet. He clangs the door shut turning a curved nail screwed in the right bar of the latrine in front of the door. He then curves his left index wiping off beads of sweat around his face. Tranquility reigns. Lips dare not part.


Respectful silence greets the yard like the appearance of a Boss for the fear of Papa Julius is the beginning of wisdom for them.


‘A beg wetin Chelsea and Gunners play yesterday’ he asks a matted moustache man occupying the eighteenth position on the queue. The young man obviously a football enthusiast holds a copy of a soccer tabloid, complete sports.


‘Na 2-1.’The man, Obinna by name answers vaguely not specifying who has 2 and who has 1.His blue customized sport wear tells of his allegiance to Chelsea football club. His tongue had not secreted yet another slurp of saliva when he subtly probes:


‘Julius Agahowa, wetin happen, you no com field yesterday.’ His tone carrying respect and genuine concern at the unappearance of Papa Julius popularly called Julius Agahowa on the field, a viewing centre.


‘Ha, yesterday! I go enjoy myself for Eden. I no fit count aw many 17:59 (Guinness stout) wey enta my belle. A fellow of the bar hammer a jackiporrtu (stressing the word jackpot) from ‘golden chance’ lotto yesterday. And you know say I no fit allow d fun to pasimi byyyy (pass me by).’ Tendered Papa Julius as he shoves away in a who-will-ask-me manner discontinuing the conversation. Eden being a popular Calabar-runned restaurant in Isale-Eko (downtown Lagos).


Astonished, the people on the queue search one another’s eye. Papa Julius’ unprecedented cheer and amiable attitude caught many by surprise as he is fond of wearing the no-nonsense faceof a Dictator. He ‘hires’ and ‘fires’ tenants on the instruction of his sentiments.

*****


KUNLE REMEMBERS LITTLE OF THE PREVIOUS DAY’S ORDEAL. Happiness seems to have evaporated all of his misery. He un-trousers himself, making a piece of dark blue boxers short the only surviving garment on him. Mild odour fills the room. A part of his boxers short is prominent on a slight introspection. Dried milky male seedling thickens the manhood area of the short. He disgusts it. And in his irritation got out of it, he then wraps his nakedness with a towel. He knots the upper edge of the towel making it firmly but lightly tightened around his hips. And with chest encased in a black singlet, he reaches for his sponge case. While the lower chamber of the case houses his butter-coloured shrub-like sponge, the upper apartment shelters his tooth brush and aflat half-exhausted rectangle-sized sachet containing chloride paste.


Hastily, he spreads a paltry amount of the paste directly on the left side of his tooth brush stuffing it almost immediately in his mouth. He begins rinsing, moisturizing his teeth with his saliva. He knows cock-sure that the queue at the yard will by now be contesting with that on the road. Quickly, he reaches for his one and only surviving bucket positioned by the left side of the closed door, a location that changes as ‘behind’ anytime the door swings open. He had come into the yard with three cone-shaped metal pails, but de-robed of two in the dawn of his residence in the house. That was in the days of yore when he was not yet customaryto the realities in the yard. For as a norm, possessions are in best safety kept in individual’s room no matter how domestic it is. Pilfering and stealing rules the day.


Kunle progresses to the door. He takes up his pail with a tip of a finger about to make for the well.A strange feeling hijacks his mind. It is rather unexpected. It imports something like a premonition signaling that something ominous lies ahead. Something he’d find out in a second or two; something capable of escalating fear into terror. And as he unbolts the door comes the critical moment.


A creature like a cold-arrested cat bundles right in front of his doorpost burying its head in between its knees. Sex unknown, the creature sits on the cold cemented floor of the passage right in front of his threshold. Kunle’s heart races causing it to palpitate swiftly as his tension rise. He rubs his eyes in disbelief. He seems petrified like a rat mesmerized by a snake about to swallow it.


Things fall apart when the ensnarled creature springs up revealing its identity. Kunle is shocked to the marrow. And like a culprit caught in the act, his face is expressionless. He allows wry surprise to register itself in him by raising his bushy eyebrows. And letting them stay like that for some seconds. Bewilderment makes him indecisive to think about the next line of action. An invisible chain handcuffs his feet to the earth beneath him. Going in seems an impossible option so as going out. He wilts casting his face downward in guilt and shame. No escape-root. Before him is his Tormentor.


Mama Risi stands indefatigable like a rock.Her eyeball is as deadly as an eagle’s talon. Kunle is caught unawares!


WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?


FIND OUT NEXT WEEK IN A SIZZLING EPISODE 3 OF DY; GNM. TTIY!


THANKS FOR READING………


UNTIL THEN;

…Kip da Optimism Alive

From groan to throne

By ‘Kayode Oyero

 

“……Pressure may endure for a night, but treasure cometh in the morning.” –O.J.O

Shorter day, longer night, the sun retreats westward having flailed the earth with vengeance magnetizing invisible waters. Few Skirts and many Trousers of sorts follow suit. Like colony of bees they return almost at the same time from the day’s forage for daily bread. ‘Welcome, welcome and welcome…’ echo the Welcomers: full-time housewives. The Welcomers routinely invest each day in the game of Ludo spicing the sessions with gist about the latest controversy in the neighbourhood. Generously do the Welcomers dole out greetings on a daily basis to the cursed set of beings from Eden. Beneath each greeting is an ulterior motive: one in anticipation for a snippet- a dash. Their greetings become warmer as the month folds its tendril: days the Labourers beam with smile to the bank; days between the dusk and dawn of coeval months.

The sensitive ones among the Skirts and Trousers aren’t disappointing. Like Father Christmas performing an annual ritual of presentation of gift to lads, they compensate the cheerful faces of the Welcomers stuffing Gala, plantain chips, kokoro and Cocoyam chips into the demure palms of their kids: a message their mothers, the Welcomers, understand with precision. ‘E kaa bo-welcome’ yawns them watching the cursed labourers stride in, walking through the narrow aisle that separates the rooms of the face-me-I-face-you bungalow.

 

Kunle is a non-beneficiary of the ‘welcome scheme’. The Welcomers treat him like an outcast. His own ‘E k aa bo-welcome’ takes the form of hisses and sometimes in the form of grimace and resentful looks. Most times, he shudders off the unspoken ridicule of the Welcomers knowing fully that he doesn’t deserve their welcome. He knew the rule: ‘NO G, NO G’: no gift, no greetings

   *****

Hopeless, hapless and helpless. Exhaustion glows in his retina. Dejection engulfs his oval face making it scary a sight for children. His sun-beaten black flat leather file hides in the crook of his left armpit generating warmth. His arm rocks forth and back in a see-saw manner, Kunle ambles towards his room disregarding the hostilities of his un-neighbourly Neighbours, the bias Welcomers.

At the door, he dips a wavering hand into the front right pocket of his trouser. His iron-pressed black-fitting trouser in the morning is relaxed by the day’s hunt turning limp like vegetables lightly steamed to be garnished. The insertion is brief. His left index finger dangles out the key bunch. The keys rioted slapping one other by the sides. Kunle disgusts the noise of the contending keys. The inharmonious sound produced by their dispute disturbs him; a wasp irritation to his already frustrated mind. Quickly, he kill the jingle with a firm grip tauting the keys in his palm. Then, with the collaboration of his right index and thumb finger, he points the searchlight of his internet-disabled phone in the direction of his left hand which lightly holds the bunch of keys. The illumination serves a great deal of help. It saves him from turning the keys into an object of gambling. And on a brief examination of the bunch, he recognizes the silver-coated key that opens the room. A hand-pick, the rest of the key points downwards. He then inserts the atrophy key inside the oily hole of the padlock. The greasy lubricant spread around the bottom of the lock smearing his callused palm. At a turn, a side of the U-shaped lock jumps out, making the other side a bit lengthier. And finally relieving the hinges of the handcuff, the wooden door swings ajar!

 

Inside the room, darkness is in charge like penumbra in eclipse. Though, the Power Holding Company had been generous with epileptic power supplies. But, even if the case is reversed, it won’t change his room from being a tunnel. Kunle’s mind sprints to the non-distant past. He remembers the verdict he faces. Just a forth-night ago, the chief tenant had ordered the disconnection of the cable that ferried electricity to his room. Kunle nods, his chest heaves as a pronounced sigh escapes his hot breath. His understanding that he is outstanding at owing outstanding payments is unmistakable. His eight month old NEPA debt dominates his thought. He bolts the door from inside.

Lying on his metal-elevated bed, staring upward, his gaze is confronted by the de-colourized white paint of the ceiling. And almost immediately, his retina becomes pregnant. And within a second or two, misty tears fall on his lower lash staying there awhile like a passenger on the foothold of a bus using it as a temporary springboard. He couldn’t retreat its coming. A noiseless burst, hot tears snake down his cheek trailing his one-one tribal mark.

The hot salty water on his face had not dried up when he heard a rumble. His intestines agitating for digestion. He could feel the effect of their protest. He could feel them beating the wall of his stomach like an upcoming footballer in gestation whose foot kicks his mother’s womb to make her aware that he has a purpose to fulfill in the game of Soccer. His hunger for food re-livens his failure worsening his bitterness like pepper doused on a wet wound. The futility of the day visits him. His unproductive wandering in search of job taunts his consciousness. The many presents of ‘no vacancy’ weighs his heart turning his chest into a bed of sweltering emotions. Of all the ‘no vacancy’ gifts, one pains him to the marrow. It fills his vision. The organization had chalked the ‘no vacancy’ in an eternal manner. ‘No vacancy today. Come tomorrow.’ His mind reverberates knowing consciously that tomorrow may never come.

“Do I bear a mark of rejection?

Why do fate antagonizes me this me much.” he agonizes romancing the five fingers of his left hand around his forehead to check the invisible mark of rejection. His voice slices through the stillness of the dark room.

In his self-sympathy, hunger calls, binding him to itself. And with the arrow-shooting eyes of a famished lion who luckily spots a prey, Kunle frogs to one of the four corners of his eight by eight meter room. He bends, switches on his phone’s touch light and then roots the tail in his mouth, his phone’s miniature search light provides lighting. From a yellow paint plastic, he scoops an overwhelming quantity of Garri into a blue jug. His action is swift as if he had just received the awareness that he had such granary at home. 

Hunger aggravated by the anger of failure could be fatal. His first scoop was mouthful. The worms of his small intestine jumps joyously. Like famished hen thronged round a poultry farmer in an open-air farm craning thin feather-veneered necks to grab cereals or corn (which ever), they straighten, springing to his throat level in a survival of the fittest struggle. And in less a fraction of a second later, his throat let out a belch indicating the unhindered movement of soaky bolus of Garri along his Adam’s apple.

*****

Uncle moon is out in his full regalia waving its fluorescent cub on the earth. From a visible heavenly vantage, he looks downward with bright harmless eyes, one that soothes tensed bones. Kunle snores; a temporary escape from his predicament. He was thirty minutes into sleep when someone raps at the door. Kunle’s mind jerks back to consciousness. It had wandered afar. He quickly comes out of dreamland.

Another rap at the door, he jolts up assuming a sitting posture on his nude sweat-flattened mattrass. Dizzyiness fogs his vision. And with the back of a hand, he rubs his two eyes brushing from left to right.

Another rap, this time harder and fierce in the form of a bang, he jumps to his feet as though pricked by a pin. Dazed, he stands stationary like an Iroko tree contemplating whether to heed the bang-like knock or not. He looks in the direction of the tattered door. The awry sight of ant infesting it reminds him that he lives in squalor.

Then, a sharp pull-the-tower-of-Babel-down bang. This time, a bark accompanies it. A sharp deep velvety voice squirms inside the room through an unknown channel. Kunle quickly interprets it as elderly and feminine. He knows unmistakably that it is Mama Risi’s, the troublesome commodity trader who troubles anybody and everybody that trouble her trouble. Mama Risi is popular for her Oshomalo way of life. She encourages financially incapacitated people in need of commodities within her reach to buy them on credit and later disgraces them for non-payment or late payment.

“Alakowe-literate man” she thunders. “Damilohun-you beta answer me. Make you no pretend say you no dey inside. Na my korokoro (naked) eyes I take see you waka inside house iseju die seyin (some minutes back).” Mama Risi explains code-mixing English and Yoruba language.

Dazed and confused, Kunle recalls how he had hurriedly dodged-passed Mama Risi’s shed on his way home that evening. He had thought of following an alternative route but had murdered the thought because it was and not feasible. The street being a close has one general entry route. Unfortunately for Kunle, Mama Risi’s shop stands in front of the street’s first house by the right. 

“Owo mi tipe lowo E-My money has long overstayed your bank an investment. Today na today” gba-gba-gba-gba successive ground-shaking bangs attack the door. The resultant vibration terrifies Kunle. His fear increases a tone weightier. He becomes petrified on considering the possibility that the door may unhinge from the wall. And like a group of midnight gentlemen rendered almost powerless at the scene of a robbery attack by the entrapment of an over-powering police anti-crime squad owning superior rifles, he racks his brain in a dubious attempt to conceive a microwave formula to employ so as to save himself from what may later turn out to be a disgraceful show of shame.

“Jade, Onigbese- com out Mr debtor” Mama Risi raises her voice a din higher. The frustration and determination in it interrupts Kunle’s strategy session. Her annoyance stood defiant like a sheep at cul-de-sac as guilt shatters Kunle’s thought process like worms doused by a handful of salt. An invisible handcuff bundles up Kunle as he chew the immortal line by the great Jihadist of all times. Usman Dan-Fodio’s ‘the conscience is an open wound, only the truth can heal it’ he rehearse. ‘To say Mama Risi has not being patient with me is truth a lie’ he thinks, mentally calculating the sum total of his eight month old debt. Having totaled up is outstanding, he finds the sum unbelievable. He finds it difficult to believe how rapid his debt rose as though a yeasted-dough set in a heated oven.

“Useless bookman. O je silekun yii to ba fe feran ara E- You beta open this door if you love yourself.” yells an enraged Mama Risi.

Yet, all was still inside as though a prolonged supposed one minute silence session in action. Inside, Kunle shudders disallowing himself to go jittery. Silence licenses the room like a grave yard.

*****

Outside, un-neighbourly neighbours donate mocking laughs easing in and out of their rooms to the verandah. Their body languages thirst for a retaliation: a face-to-face confrontation between the plaintiff and the defendant, right in a face-me-and-face-you house to be used as a court platform.

Eternity passes. Mama Risi’s protest retreats. Perhaps she had grown tired and had returned home kunle assumes. He relaxes stretching out both hind to allow blood circulate in and out of the veins. Tension gradually creeps out of his pores. And through the window rushes frosty air the way sewage gush out of vandalized petroleum pipes. It soothes his ripple-like collar muscles; a comforting treat of nature. And just as he’s about to lie supine on his bed, Mama Risi’s voice resuscitates thudding harder.

“Ogbeni-Mr. tomorrow is another day. Sa a maku kile ola to mo- don’t dare try to die before the dawn of tomorrow. Aye lo ti je mi lowo, aye kan naa ni maa ti gba- you owe me here on earth and you must surely pay it here.” She declares with a tone of finality that tells that she has adjourned the motion to the morrow.

Unsure of her departure, Kunle summons courage. He decides to open the door for an affirmation. He tip-toes to the threshold and unbolts the door from behind, the door creaks. Lo and behold, he saw the presence of her, not her in person, but her absence.

*****

               

Chilly dry breeze lace the morning. Harmattan is at its peak. Its fingers tear even the oilest of lips. Kunle is trapped at dreamland. His sprawls on his bed like a spread eagle on the altar of sacrifice. By his side breathes his internet-disabled handset. It gyrates noiselessly in circular motion. And with half-open eyes, his right hand gropes to get hold of it. Before he could, the vibration stops making him think it’s an alert from Mama Risi, her Tormentor. He shut back his eyes wanting to loll in bed a bit further before the day’s resumption for job hunt. And like an afterthought, his eyes flickers open. He grabs his phone. On the screen is a notification. A message had strolled in. he checks. Incredulity fills his eyes. An audience participation from the renown television reality show, Who wants to be a Millionaire.

‘God has put my enemies to shame. Mama Risi, come and collect your money.’ He shouts in joy. The thought of sitting on the ‘hot seat’ makes him bounce in ecstasy. And as if he remembers something, stops, then soliloquy: ‘for me to win a jaw-dropping amount, I must:

…Kip da Optimism Alive

DON’T ‘DO IT’ TOMORROW, ACT NOW. YOU MAY NEVER SEE TOMORROW!

“...show me a Time-waster, I’ll show you a Life-waster. Man’s name attains the pedestal of fame should he prioritizes his aim, but failure to accord primacy to his heart desires leaves his most-feared nightmare untamed...” –O.J.O

Little wonder how time flies.....

An experience is phenomenal in my numerous movements by road. Memory, the stores house of past events replays the footage of this experience with acute tact. I recall hearing a loud gurgle of water descend the dry throat of a young man who doubled as my seat partner in a commercial bus. We were both seated on the two adjoined V.I.P seat space beside the Wheel of one of Lagos popular yellow and black branded buses known as ‘danfo’. Unlike him, I was unstressed. It was one of those exclusive Saturdays spiced with the specialty of a social function.

The sound of his gulps was so riveting that the driver gave him a turning neck. Perhaps to gaze at him or the plastic Can that he fastened to his lips. His black shiny one-botton Suit soaked to the hilt with sticky sweats like someone beaten by Rain. And in case you’re puzzled that his outfit misfits a public transport, I'm glad to announce to you that it is nothing of astonishment. In Lagos, men in shirt oft-pay the salaries of men glamourously decked in suit. An eerie paradox sort of!

Still amazed at the swiftness of his gulps, I gaped at his bobbing Adam's apple, transfixed. I was quick to draw an analogy between the warm salty liquid that cascaded his face and the moisture that trickled freely around the plastic can of frosty water he held in his left grip. His situation was not only beyond the control of just a square pair of handkerchief but also competitive in a way that makes it difficult to ascertain which expended sweat the more between himself and the 50cl Can of chilly water in his grip. He had joined the fourteen passenger bus some seconds after I came on board. It was on a summer afternoon: the sun was out in its full regalia. Her radiance was of distinct brilliance. She shone in full capacity magnetizing up invisible waters. Her flaming face heated the earth with no mercy. Her polishing hands painting skins within its reach with black liquid paint, dutifully. No wonder folks living in northern Nigeria have Sun-burnt skins!

The bus fainted slowly to a brief halt on the prior notice of the bus’ second-in-command that a male Passenger was to alight at the next approaching Bus-stop. And as the vehicle jerked back to life, my sweat-soak-to-the-skin seat-partner opened his briefcase which sat shakily on his laps and brought out a diary.

“I’m tired. I’ll do this tomorrow.” he mumbled as his hands stroked one of the outlined plans in an oblivious manner.

Instantly, my gaze caught the miniature diary he held. My meddlesome eyes caught the sight of hand-written words with the head: ‘The day’s commitment’. A meticulous planner, I applaud, thoughtfully.

And swiftly before he could detect my inquisition, I swerved my head from his direction. And in the inside of me goes a silent self-dialogue. ‘Why on earth should he postpone a supposed activity scheduled for the day to another? It’s just noon.’ I ruminated.

Dear friends, a lot of us are like the young man above. We are blameable of procrastination. We are fond of adjourning doing specific obligations under the guise of “I’m tired.” We dedicate serious duration of time to frivolities while we neglect priorities. We snore in sleeps almost eternal. We forget that ‘tick say the clock’. We live as though we know cock-sure when the gate of fate will open-up to make us late. We keep postponing, postponing and postponing!

Frankly speaking dear friends, it is time you started putting your intentions to actions. You need to know that the time between your birth and your death is what is called your life-time. And what shall be said of your life-time if you sleep eight hours each day for thirty years? Haven’t you slept ten years of your life? No wonder people are succeeding and you’re receding. No wonder people are progressing and you’re regressing. No wonder people reap leap while you sleep deep. The ‘No wonders’ are inexhaustible should I go on listing.

Interestingly, Successful people sleep four to five hours max daily. They spend time acquiring Life-changing information. They spend time strategizing, brainstorming, innovating and inventing. So time-conscious they are that describing them as Gurus at time-management is no over-statement. No wonder their names are usually engrave in the sands of times and waters of eternity. Nigeria’s own Aliko Dangote qualifies as an example of such ‘gold names’. A quintessential lion-hearted investor ranked lately by Forbes Magazine as the 25^th richest man on earth and Africa’s richest man of the era. His business tentacles spread across fourteen African countries with a personal net worth of 20 billion U.S Dollars. His business conglomerate spans across commodity trading, to agriculture, manufacturing, textile, telecommunications, real estate and transportation. He’s a night owl!

Though, it’s of no doubt that uninterrupted sleep is a prerequisite for good physiological and mental functioning in healthy individuals especially in its energy-recycling ability, but excessive weariness on the bed of “I’ll do it later” displays laziness. And to put it pointedly, it’s pertinent we shun this slothful lifestyle if we are to maximize our potentials to the fullest. Show me a Time-waster, I’ll show you a Life-waster. Man’s name attains the pedestal of fame should he prioritizes his aim, but failure to accord primacy to his heart desires leaves his most-feared nightmare untamed.

Dear friends, time is an irretrievable asset.  Treasure it. A lost gold may be recovered but not a lost second, minute or an hour. The more you say: ‘I’ll do it later’, the more you pile up straws of duties on latter days. And who knows if you may never see tomorrow. It’s not a curse. It’s a statement of fact! The terminator of all times may call at anytime.

May I drop this on you. Procrastination denies one of quickly reaching self-desired destination. It is a thief of time and a fertilizer that makes difficulties grow. Why postpone what can be accomplished today to the morrow? Why wanting to do tomorrow what can be done today? Stay awake to your obligations. You’re journeying beside a lake called life. Prioritize your aim. Stop paying lip-services to things that deserve your active service. Gather Gold before old age get hold of you. Know what to run from and what to run after. Be regular at your curricular and you’re just a stone’s throw from being spectacular. Remember: If you’re not organized, you’ll agonize.

One thousand good intentions is not as good as one action.

The best time to start is now!

Don’t ‘Do It’ Tomorrow, You May Never See Tomorrow. Act now!

Enjoy your day!

…Kip da Optimism Alive

Let's talk on Twitter: @Imodoye_1