The Paradox Of Talent

It’s alarming how suddenly life can lose its meaning. One moment you’re sky-high, the next you’re so deep down you wonder if you’re drilling.

    So much for dreaming….

Life cannot be all smiles, for how can rose be rose without its thorns?

True that, but sometimes, don’t you just feel some celestial force picking on you?

Picture this

You lose your job, sprain a wrist while clearing your desk, knock down a pregnant woman on your way out of the medic’s, and getting to the car park, find out your car’s been stolen?…

          Just another bad day?


Or just plain ol’ bad luck…

  Whichever suspect is finally indicted, there’s no denying the fact that there’s indeed some “force” behind it.

But how can we be sure that the villain behind bars is responsible for our sojourn down this wrong turn?

If life is this challenging, then how do some manage to find a haven?


Vic’s got a Rolls, and Nel’s got a Jag’,

My ford is from the 70’s and I have a crappy job, so I can’t keep up with the fad…


I peek around my shoulders, watching out for debtors, while every other chap smiles to the bank;


All my friends have houses and I’m still a tenant,

Sarah sings, Vanessa’s an artist and I’m the one with no talent…


So many sad stories from many promising youths.

After numerous massive failures, can we really start anew?

Our throes and trials in this age are colossal, unnerving and, almost impossible, but from this gloomy perception, is there really another view?



Sometimes to be all you can be, to achieve your lofty dreams, you just have to be you…


They say success is measured by fulfillment, but how many of us actually pursue our interests?

Some are born great artists and thinkers, poets, teachers, dancers’ bankers and singers…


But still, we drown in this melancholic sea of emptiness and recluse,

With no sense of direction, like a falcon lost from its aviary, with powerful wings, absent rectrix…


True devotion comes from the heart…So how can talent blossom, in a society where our insights are considered trash?

  How can history be history without the facts?


It appears, that in this age, a sub-conscious persecution of self is regnant.

Where talent is sidelined because of a rapacious desire to blend and fit in..

That ominous horizon where gifts and proficiency become a burden


The bitter truth remains, that life is a gestalt of good times and bad. The trials and woes we face can be likened to daily jogs of long distance athletes, or the many swing of lawn-tennis champions.

If waves do not siege a ship, how can its resilience be adjudged?



Stars will never shine without the emergence of the dark skies of night,

How can human essence exhume refulgence if not tested by the storms of life?


In the end, it’s all a state of mind. If we can all try to see the lesson in every strife and conflict with the seemingly sinister phase of life, if we can understand that everything, good or bad, happy or sad, happens so we can learn.

Every thorn has its beautiful roses. If we endure till the end, our heaven will definitely sprout out of this present hell.





Life for me has continued to evolve…I’ve continued to change, sometimes for the good, sometimes for worse. But I kinda, tend to lean to the bad side more often than I’d like to admit . I am often confused, who am I? What do I want from life? What do I hope to leave behind?

Questions of this sort, many times rephrased, plague my ever-growing, but still young and frail mind.
I am not the man, I set out to be. Not the man I think God would want me to be, but happily, I can say – anytime the thought crosses my mind – that I am no failure. No, mate, I’m not that screwed up…



Imperfect speech, impaired vision,

Incoherent ideas, distorted mission,

Underachievement, lack of self-worth,

Gloomy phrases that have somehow become part of diction.

A land of promise, flowing with milk and honey,

Now a desert, void of all but slain dreams, with members still rotting,

A life not so well lived, heights not attempted to be reached,

Gaps not assented to be bridged…


A beggar’s bony hands waiting to be filled,

The fertile land that was never tilled,

The truths that were never believed,

And lies embraced with glee…

Alone in desolations planet,

Feeding on failure’s diet,

Envy and pride, laziness and instant gratification,

The list goes on, and there’s no mention of greed or philandering yet,

A sorrowful end, a bitter story… the tale of an inchoate talent…



“Where are you now?” I said.

“I’m at S.U.B, just got back from town. And I’m exhausted” she replies.

“Er, ok, chill, I’ll meet you there, just give me 5minutes”

“No, don’t worry, I’ll meet you in your room, just wait for me”.

As the call ended I pictured her face, fair and graceful, invaded now with what are sure to be induced wrinkles of stress. I walk back to my room – or should I say our room? I share this cubicle with four other blokes – ok our room and set on to change my sheets. They fumigated the hostels earlier today and my bed smelled like nerve gas- totally uncool.

                She came just as I finished laying the bed. She didn’t even say hi, just jumped on the narrow bed – like Phelps on course for his next medal. Well then, swim on babe, swim on – attestation of her weary state. I soon join her on the bed, and she recounts her day’s events. The long story of her search for a house came to an end with “…And the house he brought us to was Jeffrey’s house. We’ve cleaned the house, washed the bathroom, and Jeffrey helped with the windows”.

                As she talks on, I picture the said house in my mind. The room she paid for happened to be on the side of the compound that wasn’t fenced. They’ll be needing some heavy curtains there. It wasn’t the best around but it would have to do for now, until she gets a better place next year. As I return from my sojourn, I’m greeted with an overwhelming whiff, the unmistakable mixture of aloes and olives. The signature scent of her hair. It’s so powerful it resurrects memories from the grave-yard of great times past.

                Now it’s my turn, she listens as I speak, her eyes sparkling in rapt attention. “We’re almost done with the site, we’re starting the report this week…” I finish by telling her about the agent I called. The man promised to return my call, but apparently he forgot, or found something more engaging than reconnecting with a potential client. So much for business ethics.

                We go on chatting about other random stuffs, about classes, about hobbies and friends. It’s almost 8:00 pm and we’re still talking, still have a lot left to talk about. It’s funny how we it still seems like we just started out dating, when we’ve been together for more than a year now. I look at her, taking in every detail, every smile, every subtle shift in gait, the rhythmic rise and fall of her pouty lips, the cadence of her clear tepid voice. I remember Emeli Sande’s words “you will never find him where the rest go, you’ll find him next to me”. That’s where I am right now, next to her, next to happiness, next to the best thing I’ve ever had to call mine.

                We drift on to a dreamy sleep, in a reassuring hug that knots in our entwined fingers. I somehow manage to stagger close to the door and bolt it in place. It’s never too paranoid to be cautious. I still value our laptops. I wake up to the sound of knocks at the door, finally somebody’s back. As Mikolo walks in, I drift back to bed, ignoring everything else around. Ann awakes with a start, rights herself and then mutters, “I think I should be going now”. As if in a trance my hand reaches to her and I manage to stutter “Stay” in a voice lacking clarity. She understands though, and begins to rejoin me on the bed. I’m grateful for this, the last thing I want to be right now is lonely. We’re soon engaged in another phase of gists and yarns as we steadily drift back to sleep.

                We both wake up to the sound of rats at about 2:00 am. I reassure her the cretins won’t dare to climb up. She complains about aching all-over, about the bed being too narrow, about me having to sleep on my side so she could be more comfortable. She really cares about how I’m faring. It’s all I could do not to shed a little tears as the emotions from this realization threatens to go out of control.

                I’m not thinking straight now, I suddenly want to be a better man, able to put a roof above our little heads, meet the needs of my family. To be responsible. Words refuse to form, and the ones that manage to dissolve in my throat before my lips try to pronounce.

                I take her face in my arms, I smile in the darkness, she can’t see but somehow she knows and she smiles back. Finally I conjure up words, they’re not the most eloquent, but the message is clear, “This tells us, my dear, that we can never be poor”

                Everything seems to come to a halt as she laughs. The tone of her laughter is laden with understanding of my words. It’s affirming, prompting. And then I realize then what I have to do.

                We drift back to sleep, in each other’s arms. This is going to be a night of blissful dreams, on this lean, narrow bed.


Me: Don’t I deserve better?….
After all I’ve suffered, why is my success still deterred?
Even with the trials and throes,
My life is still, sorrows prose…

Jesus: Dear, dear Simon… dear lad…You have not learned enough…
Your sight is still bleak…. I show You a sea,
And You only see a Trough…..
Son, I know the road is rough,
but You see, Simon, I built You tough
…So then, dear Simon, when You Hear my voice in hard times, reassuring,
Do not rebuff….

Me: How can I not?…
The trials I understand, but You never Said that they’ll spring out without Cause?….
And with such force?!!! … .
The future is so far away, I can only Dream about how bright it’ll be….
But You sound so sure….
Pain is a must, but why is mine always so strong?…..
You said I’ll make it,
So what is all the circus of throes for?

Jesus: Simon, how can you not see,
I made you perfect, to be all you can dream,
If only you’ll just believe,
You’ll move every mountain your eyes can see…
Breakdown every wall and trample every gate with your feet…

Me: We’ve all made mistakes,
And our whim is to blame…
But why should my life be a chronicle Of disdain
Pain after pain…day after day,
Season after dreadful season,
After the scorching sun,
Comes the flooding rain,
Woes in continual,
Sorrow and futile efforts in everlasting connubial…

Jesus: Look past the stumbling stones,
And gaze on the horizon of hope,
The still land lies fallow, until tended by hands before the sown seeds grow,
Trust, Simon, is all you need to show,
Israel thought all was lost…moments before Manna came like snow,
Doubt only begets grief…
In this fertile heart of yours, do not let it grow…
The land is a desert?
Even Israel turned to crafts of gold just before I made fountains out of stones…
Patience is a virtue, seek it and you find fulfillment’s abode…
The torrents of rain, whose goal is to cleanse,
I send with Love, and tidings of fairer times ahead…
The fiercer the fire, the finer the steel,
There’s always a lesson for every pain you feel…
With the battles you fight, I will make you bold,
I wrote your story, and it’s a triumph over woes,
I await you, Simon, when you’ve fought the good fight….
Do come home…..


Sober, bewildered, docile  swain…

A fair maiden lov’d, but lov’d in vain…

Warmth of sea breeze, cooled by sycamore’s shades…

Mind turned to pressing thoughts, and all time seems to halt…


Will you die unpitied, and unheard?

For all thy fair affection, is this unkind callous gesture your reward?!!…


Now even nature stirs in response to your gloom…

The sun disappears, with all its specter of radiant light…

The clouds follow suit,

               The bright skies dissolve into a shady hue…

The rustling leaves with his thoughts conspire,

They unsettled by wind, and he with fierce desire

But how much more is it to sustain,

Such affection, certain to end in disdain?


Trust not your heart to that enchanting face;

Beauty’s a charm; but soon, the charm will pass…


True, dear Stella,

For some, life is like a wine cellar,

Bringing only forebodings of fanfair, so it seems,

For them, life will only get better,

But be vigilant, ma’ Cherie,

              Nothing Lasts forever….


Add up your woes and

Stretch out open arms,

Fear not , fair one, the world can do no more harm,

Good tidings have arrived,

        Your blessings in essence confirmed,

And even if hell confers,

None of their antics will ruffle, or compel,

Thee to enigma and fear,

Well, well, Stella dear, it appears heaven doth care…



On this threshold where family wrought woes, and

You are wounded by a friendly hand,

Move on from this sinking sand,

Look afar to the horizons, and hunger for the new lands,

The world is a large vase,

Like the potter,

                    Erase the unmoulded past,

You’re in control, make your good times forever last,

Cause pain to be a phantom of the past….



Fair one, Angel of Bhermount,

Be blind no more… For once see your own worth…

Let them alter your course,

No cause for alarm, ma’ Cherie,

When you’re home, you can never be lost,

You’ll outshine them all,

Its fate Dona, and no one can alter its course…



Your smile incites nostalgia of Eden’s waterfalls,

The cadence of your voice, an angels lullaby,

Folklore says, there was a feast in the heavens, when your form was conceived,

How then ma’ Cherie can you assume less of thyself?


How can you embrace caves, when you’re a maiden of manors?

Why should you fall, whilst your wings docily wrap around you?


How can you think less, of what heaven made fair?

Why do you not see the perfection with golden hair?


Why ma’ Cherie, let them have their brawn,

Seek it not, lest beauty goes before a fall,

This is your banquet Dona, a tribute to you,

Sound the trumpets, address the invites,

This is your tale,

                So we’ll let  the fairies deck the halls….