Six Minutes
The world is dying.
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Dear Bolu,
The world is dying, I have the timer set to six minutes. The host says there’s a coup two letters away from home, and she’s going to tell me all about it. She says I should sit back, relax and refrain from touching the dial. She’d be gone for a minute or two to pay some bills and lubricate her wheels, which is fancy speak for a commercial break, and I can’t do anything to stop her. She returns with the voice of a guest in my ears, and I follow most of what he says. He uses big words like quagmire, kleptocracy, and thalidomide. I’m not sure I hear the last one correctly because I can’t fathom why a discussion about a coup would warrant the mention of thalidomide. As I also can’t hit rewind on my pocket-sized radio, there’s no chance for re-validation so I pretend to make sense of his words. Coups are usually bad news, and yet I’m occupied with more curiosity than concern and filled with more questions than sympathy. What comes next? A counter-coup? Embargos? Blockades? I’m interested in the power plays that ensue. I’m excited about the ultimatums that’d be given by well-meaning nation-states and the debates that’d follow, and I spare no thought for the families now living in constant fear and uncertainty. The host reads a statement from one of the generals involved in the coup and I gather that a curfew has been put into effect. To tell an adult how to live—when to wake up to smell the coffee and turn in for the night—is to spit in their face and no one likes that, well, at least not openly. But it matters little to me how the citizens cope. I just want the latest update on this unfolding story and the host is gracious enough to oblige me. In the same manner, news of ongoing wars draws my attention only when there has been a new tactical manoeuvre, a barrage of freshly-baked trade restrictions, an inspiring avowal in the middle of a rousing speech to see the war through, or a revolt within the ranks of one of the warring parties. The death toll rises and it matters as much to me as the price change of the stock of a Singaporean startup. I can’t make sense of the number. I can’t understand it. The world is dying, and my curiosity is getting the better of me.
The world is dying, I wonder if six minutes is long enough. There are ten new platforms for communicating with people on the Internet, and I don't need eleven of them. Each newly deployed product comes with a different promise and leads me to question the utility of already existing ones. Do we need to talk so much? Do we always want to be heard talking that badly? Do we want to hear from people that loudly and frequently? Is that like from a teenager in Cincinnati worth that much? Is that repost worth the peace of taking unencumbered dumps? As more messaging apps hit our devices, my desire to message at all wanes. I can't rationalize the inverse proportionality, but it exists and I'm part of the constant in that equation. There are only three people I want to text; two that are alive; and one that would text me back. And there's you, of course. There's always you.
The world is dying, there are four minutes left on the timer. Everything is debatable and reaching a consensus on the most basic matters comes with the risk of cancellation, defamation, and persecution. The woman says she fancies other women, and although I don't understand it, I don't rain on her parade. She's free to live the life she chooses and I try not to judge her. The next moment, she says she's a man and insists I treat her as such. She tries to define a man but she can't quite articulate it. She is what she feels, and she invents new words to mask this inadequacy. He legislates that I call him by his new name, which is my name, and I'm punished if I don't. He can’t bear my name because he can’t be me. I can’t bear it so I pray for rain on the day of his parade. The princesses I rescued as a child also now have different colours. Their straw blonde hair has given way to long black braids and although braids are the hairstyles of angels, I'm not keen on rescuing anyone anymore. I want new princesses and not different princesses. The world is dying, and princesses may soon become princes.
The world is dying, the timer slowly creeps over the three-minute mark. I see a naked woman brazenly walk into a temple. Is it a dare? Is she hypnotized, deranged or high? For someone without balls, she sure has balls. She may very well be bold, but she lacks courage. Courage is a virtue, and nothing she's done is virtuous. I don't get mad at her. I don't feel angry, no, I laugh instead. I find it funny. Nothing is sacred anymore except our individual liberties to the extent that our speech is conformist, and I find it funny. The world is dying, and I'm having a good laugh.
The world is dying, there are two minutes to go. I have eight questions left to answer, so I hurriedly tick a random option for each of them. Outside the hall, I hear the supervisor say the rumours are true—my tuition fees have increased six-fold. Mother can’t afford it and I've just fumbled a scholarship exam. I make my way on foot to a bar, contemplating the sorrows of young Werther and myself. I order a bottle. On the TV, a girl on low-cut hits a wondrous half-volley in the top bins to secure knockout qualification for her motherland. It's a goal as clean as the referee's whistle. One half of the stadium is stunned into silence, and the other into delirium. There are tears in my eyes as I see her teammates sprint with the spent air in their lungs to celebrate with her. She takes off her jersey in the euphoria of the moment to reveal a sports bra underneath. She's chocolate, and this is pure bliss. She's living all our childhood dreams, and we're proud of her. After the game, she says hers is the best country in the world. It's not but she says what she knows can be true. How could we not adore her? In all these, someone finds fault in her jersey pull only because she's a woman. The world is dying, and we're arguing over sports bras.
The world is dying, there's one minute left on the timer. I know it's a short time. I can only afford a short time. The lady of the night is skin, bones and silicone, and I don’t mind. She makes quick work of my urges and my carnal mind is blown away. On my way out, I bow my head in shame and walk into the store at the end of the broad path. I fall in love with the left-handed girl at checkout. She always wears a knitted beanie, even when the heat threatens to scorch her skin. She writes, in a ledger behind the counter, of each new sale but I dream that she writes instead in her diary, about the old man who never remembers her name, the little kids that sneak out a candy bar without paying, and the short black boy with nappy hair that only ever comes to buy peanuts.
The world is dying, and the timer stops. The microwave dings and I welcome the warmth of grandma's vegetable soup. I wash my hands and devour the entire bowl, wondering half the time about my place in this world and whether AI did my homework properly. So what if the world dies? It's not my world as Tony Montana would have you believe. I don't want to change the world. I want to be at my nephew's graduation and surprise Father with a visit on his birthday. I want to read the great books my friends write and tell them they suck at football when they miscue a goal kick. I want to star-gaze sober as I tell the girl at checkout I write her letters in the afternoons. The world may die but I want to live, and this is the way, dear friend.
Fin.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy
And yet I was reborn after reading this in less than six minutes 😁Thanks for writing