Bimbi's Mind

For how long have I dreamed a dream I have heard of men, who spent their life dreaming a dream for how long will I live in the future afraid of breathing the stale air in the present the air smells and I, cannot accept that which labels me as a peasant afraid of claiming this life as my portion my real life exists somewhere near, in the future it smells like apricot and  freshly cut grass in a field of white roses, where pink pelicans fly so I put my face and my back into my work As I toil to do the very things I hate, as a necessary way of achieving that which I love The days pass and I fail to grasp the essence of life. My youth withers away as I toil on this barren land. But I do not notice, because I have my sights set on Utopia. with every step taken, utopia turns dystopia I have had priests filling my ears with the speech that they preach proclaiming the dream that I dreamed is out of reach, because of the sins that I've sinned I suffer fr...

       You remember the first time you heard that jazz. That obnoxious boy with the big pimple on his nose was playing it repeatedly at the night class you always go to, usually for solace and quiet. Nobody could tell him to stop, everybody minded their own business and that jazz started to creep up on you like a thief in the night.      You leave the class in annoyance in the middle of the night because that jazz snatched your peace and quiet, your golden opportunity to study for that test you have tomorrow but you find yourself humming that jazz. You find yourself craving to hear it once more because if you do not, you would never find peace. You brain convinces your legs to walk back to the class and ask that obnoxious boy with the big pimple on his nose to send you that jazz. You notice the way he lights up when you expressed interest in that jazz, like you understood something only he could understand. That jazz was speaking, and only bo...

"It was a pleasure to burn" was the first sentence that opened Fahrenheit 451. A book set in a dystopian world. I read this book simply because I am going through a dystopian craze and every book of this genre that I have read has given me a new outlook on life. The concept of Dystopia is being afraid of losing something, and painting a world where what you don't want to lose doesn't exist, and the implications of its absence on the world. In this -- books were illegal.       Ray Radbury saw the gradual death of reading in society and he wrote a beautiful book about it. In the eyes of Guy Montag, a fireman, in a world where firemen burned instead of putting out fire. Killing and arresting people who dared to own books He went from taking pleasure in burning in his ignorance to risking his life for what he believed books stood for. All he needed was a catalyst in a 16 year old girl who aroused his curiosity. I won't spoil the experience for anyone that plans on...

     I used to pride myself with the fact that I had never seen a dead body before. The time that I almost saw one was when my father died. He had an accident on his bike, the bike which he used for his business, to ply that Incompleted road the government had been constructing for six years. They said it happened in the middle of the night, his bike was hit head-on by one of those local trucks that didn't have headlights. I could imagine his body mangled up covered with sores and cuts. I didn't go for his burial, I didn't cry for him.      My father drank too much with the little money he made, rather than going for his burial, I chose to go to school. That was 3 years ago, I have since dropped out of school. I dropped out because I hated the place. I hated the teachers telling us we would not make it, I hated it when they called us animals whenever we made noise, maybe we would have been quiet if only they took the chance to teach us well. The...

        Welcome to Nigeria, where class is as important as the food you eat. Welcome to Nigeria, where your class in society determines the quality of air you breathe. Welcome to Nigeria, where your class would determine how you would be treated, and spoken to. Welcome to Nigeria, where the classless do not get jobs, where CVs are just formalities to avoid unnecessary questions. Welcome to Nigeria where traders tag different prices depending on how you are dressed. Welcome to Nigeria.            Mr A once told Bambi about his experience sometime ago in a western state. He parked at the side of the road and tried to open his door when a middle aged man who was walking past was hit by the car door. In a dramatic western fashion as they are known for, the man stops as Mr A tries in futility to beg him. He turns squarely at Mr A as he asks him in rhetoric that "was it illegal for people without cars to walk? Can I ...

In a third world county deeply rooted in culture as nourishment, where we carry our culture on the satchel on our neck the way a freshly harvested tuber of yam carries humus sand. We see culture as what differentiates us from the white man. It does not necessarily make us better because deep inside, we envy them, we envy their progress, their precision in behavior and hygiene, the colour of their skin and even their hair. But we, because of culture, we feel we stand higher than them in the hierarchy of morals. And we revel in it. We revel when they come to our festivals and as a result, we put on more of a show. Our masquerades flog harder. Our women move with more vibrancy. To show we take culture more seriously than them, and to rub it in their faces, that they have no culture to call theirs. The same culture we revere has left us behind the rest of the world in the usual fashion. We have witnessed struggles for human rights over the centuries. We have witnessed the figh...