Where could this exodus be bound with palpable anxieties of varied makeup written all over their faces when cockrels are still domiciled in their pens as they ring out the break of dawn? This is no time for practised strides but awkward strides betraying desperation. Their yearnings are multifarious, anchored in blind faith.
The rabbit comes out at noon not out of pleasure; and it is 5am; a daily routine that makes the Sabbath day impotent. It takes seven days worship to keep the Devil at bay. So, in their faces many yearnings spew out. Could it be the seed of the womb, in need of a wife, husband, job, money, contract, good health, the headache of flaccid manhood, dried period, weak or dried sperm, divine revenge, etc? What exactly could they be looking for this dawn even though they will still go to work? In haste, seven times a week, they never shy away from the synagogue, come rain or shine.
The synagogue? It's like the proverbial market where the gods call out for patronage all over the world. On the pulpit, the prophetess blares out the scripture and good tidings. She's the messenger of God; the guardian of the Heaven's Gate (The Pearly Gates). And her shrine spills over as her customers stand outside in adjoining canopies to get the Word from her. Isn't she the only God ordained seer taking a peep into the Heavens on behalf of her customers? So, at dawn and dusk, they troop out in droves to get solutions to their life-threatening 'challenges'.
But do you blame the 'gullible' customers?Aren't we all stranded on earth and hope or seek for a flash of light wherever it is promised? So, in mad rush like the seer wouldn't bless the sluggard, they rush down like shepherdless sheep. But I give it up for the determined lot who wake up daily before dawn, synagogue-bound before going to their respective places of work, and like the road that leads to and fro, would come back at dusk.
Isn't it all fight for survival?
THE PARADOX OF TRIBUTES.
When the turbulent or mild wind blows, the green and brown leaves fall to their rot, and we are reminded that what goes around comes around - doesn't the sun shine on us all? But the illusion, the mirage of life persists still, and we erroneously think we live. If only we knew the primordial riddle being played on us. So, those who take their willing and unwilling strides 'home' tell us we all meet the dog's end after the whole strife of life.
But when a loved one takes an irrevocably eternal bow out and we stand tall like Mark Anthony pouring torrentially the tributes of Caesar for a loved one, is it a noble, elevating thing to do? When we remain mute out of grief-shock, unable to string a line of tribute for a lost loved one, is it impoliteness, discourtesy, inhumanity? But the question of privilege, luck arises of an individual who towers tall to rain down tributes on the dead lion - who are we to be thrust with such responsibility? In what way am I a better person to keep breathing while singing the praises or tributes of a Leviathan? It is nauseous and nauseating!
Society most times rids the individual of his peculiarity or individuality. Many a certain code must be played by an individual otherwise he becomes a misfit. Tributes, tears, grief-distorted face are telling signs of sympathy, empathy - expressionless visage betrays cavalier attitude or outright callousness.
When a loved one dies, one shouldn't make love, have a tryst, eat the best of meals, drink the best of refined or exotic wine. But 'there's no art to know the mind's construction in the face'.
Appearance is deceptive in some cases - but reality? In things of life herd mentality or the bandwagon mentality is norm, take a divergent stand and face crucifixion! So, we grieve in many ways. The mind works in many interpretations from societal experiences. The enigma called life has left man with innumerable ways of reacting to life experiences - adopt yours and inwardly stay guiltless. We all die in another's death.
When a loved one dies, one shouldn't make love, have a tryst, eat the best of meals, drink the best of refined or exotic wine. But 'there's no art to know the mind's construction in the face'.