Image by lny∆lny∆lny via FlickrIt’s four in the morning, crack of dawning and I’m sleeplessly yawning. The TV’s on and the big flick on S.T.A.R Moovies is the NOTORIOUS B.I.G, a touching story about a 300 pound big African-American baby rapper who’s got the same problems everyone in the world’s got – the world is not enough and never will be but he wants his bit. And he’s got the rainbow lyrics to prove it.
The narrative is as old as the tales from around the tribal fire when storytellers told stories about the creatures in the forest and the lakes, the rivers and the mountains and the deserts. Those with an abundance of bones never talked about them, just as rich folks dabble in non-sequesters about poverty, the average Orji in the street talks about money he doesn’t have and never will. But he’ll talk about money he’s never had. Human condition is pathetic to the point of being silly and good golly miss jolly, guess what? It’ll always get your back – predictability sells just about as well in life as it does in the movies.
But what’s the use? It’s like them romantic ballads hard rockers churn out when they’ve had enough of the jugular vein - notorious indeed, with more than a dash of repetitiousness, regurgitation and relapse becoming the three holy Russ. Plastic vows, powered promises and oversized oaths nobody could carry become the order of the day. The belief is gone from within the yoke and weight of fear and uncertainty.
The lie is obese and obnoxious.
The question comes forth - “How many Parops does it take to make a deal?”
The answer lies transparently looking opaque “2 dealers and 9 witnesses. 11 Or two to make the deal and nine to take care of the seal.”
And then comes the masked queries trying to pry open 2500 years of fear and fatigue, rules and regulations. The lies pile up in the stockade, exploding into random blockades. The bullshit builds and stands so heavy and thick you can’t move it with a Caterpillar. It’s a freeze, its an immobilizer. The roles reverse. It’s the bullshit that’s now in-charge of all the horse shit, goat shit, chicken shit and whatever shit’s emanating from inside those hidden and suppressed thoughts. You are effectively incapable of telling the truth or of identifying one.
The living lines are dead. Everything is a blur. You put up with the empty rhetoric ‘coos that’s what you must do. The gutters now matter. And lying is how we make our compromise with the world and sell out. The deceit does a lot of doom and garners gloom whoever you are and wherever you’re from no matter what you do. Everyone can see it, hear it, smell it and sense it before it’s even dropped, carried or displayed as clearly evident in the Three Monkeys’ Gestures.
But masked and anonymous, we parade on the charade. Love, honesty, strength and honor become mere hollow bellows. The juice inside is dried up. We start early with the parental and societal Do’s and Don’ts and before we can even say “Hey” we are going “Okay”- with reminders to “be like mike”.
Living in a safety net is still a net, like the fisherman’s web. Entanglement comes next, with a possible fishbowl career in some vanity spot where your presence is being bandied about wrapped in the nicest of ties.
“Is it a goldfish?”
“Yea and I got it from my aunt who died of cancer. In her last days, this goldfish, whom she named Ms Dolly, kept her company as she rotted and waned.”
“Oh! How nice!”
It’s a bloody fish and it probably belongs in the ocean swimming about freely and on its own terms. The bullshit’s also made whiners out of us. Look at the double standards. A bull’s shit is actually the dung, a pretty harmless drop of odorless pooh, (nothing but burnt grass) which cannot do battle compared to the shit we bring– ladies and gentlemen, take a finger poke at your arse and smell it…that’s how stinky the lie is and please leave the bull alone, along with the horse, the goat and the chicken.
The surrogates have to die, because we are already dead and we don’t even know it. Its like what Tony’s mother says to Montana’s sister in Scarface as the family reunites in the kitchen table, “He was a bum then and he is a bum now.” There certainly was no lying in her.