The greater part of our suffering is owed to the notion or belief that we are capable of greatness, that at every turn we ought to seek and awaken the very purpose that keeps us going even if we don’t feel like it. I too am born of the need to transcend current and future dilemmas, my mother once said. But how can I, a misfit, go beyond the finish-line when I cannot hear a single cheer from the stands, when all I see are faces of smiling enemies, every one of them anticipating my downfall?
I’m the embodiment of emptiness, a hollow space on the walls of a destiny I’m yet to fulfil, one which my parents had inventively and hopefully imagined, I thought. I have inestimable potential yet with the possibility to self-destruct intact. Who am I? I battle to understand! Am I black, or it is so because that much has been said about me by those who are just as colour-blind as those who fail to see the vivid spectrum of tribulations saturating my hue?
Who am I? I asked! I am the son of past perceptions and future foretelling, a voice inside me said. Yes, it’s me; son of the soil, he who suckled on Mother Nature’s creative breast until he developed an artistic fever of imagining a life beyond my porous pockets. I am she, the proud daughter of a single mother and an absent father, the bastard who resigned from heavy duty to pursue lighter castles on bottle-rims. You know, the greener side of things! I don’t blame him. He’s hung-over from the many failures that intoxicate his conscience!
Perhaps one day the world will listen to my night cries. Perhaps destiny will be kind enough to save a spot for me in the winner’s circle. Just perhaps! I’m just an unfinished chapter in one of life’s many novels. This is a constant reminder that I have yet a lot to see, to feel, and a lot to conquer. I won’t rest until these critics know that I am blessed, not with plenty, but with another chance to see a colorful African sunset. “I am not done; no at least not yet”. Who am I? I am unfinished!
