UNFETTERED…….

Unfettered. That’s the word. The only one that came to mind. A mind filled with skirmishes of the present but more of the past and much more of the future. Unresolved; these skirmishes are. But unfettered they remain. Unfettered they want to be. Like chained slaves of the South American extract. Django Unchained was fun.

Unambiguous. That’s the context. The context in which the present wants to dwell. The context in which the future covets to hold sway. In a limbo of psychological and physiological needs. Both of the Maslow’s pyramid but at opposite ends. But that’s being pedagogic.

Grimace. That’s the expression. Plastered to your face. As you realize once again that plan B seems to materialize than the plan A ever does. Anecdotal. But that’s your story; time and time again.

Misdirected. That’s your anger. At nothing in particular. But at everything. At these decisions. At these implicit things. You didn’t expect to be understood. You are hardly understood. You envisaged disappointment. That’s what you got. You expect more. But a place was won. In your heart.

Dissapointment. Again. Different circumstances. Perfection is what you didn’t expect. But some level of native intelligence was what was claimed or promised. You were wrong. On both counts. Clouded judgement. Or maybe vague descriptors. Some mystery this is shrouded in.

Letters of anomie. And anomaly. That’s what the season is fraught with. Tempted you were to write a long one to all concerned including self. But stuck in cerebral limbo the letter remains. It wouldn’t make you any happier. Or so you think.

Happy. Is what we say we are. Happiest people on earth is what they call us. But happy, is what you reckon we are not. Denial is what we live in. Of our actual circumstances. Of our subsistence. Faith is what we have named it. In higher powers of extraterrestrial intervention. Believer of the word or not.

“One Day I Will Write About This Place”. That’s the book you read as the year crosses into a new one. “It reads like nothing I have read before…..”. That’s what one reviewer had to say. You have the same opinion. Only a tad less positive.

You had read a few more books than the preceding year. You had grown the small library by a few paperbacks. You fell in love with a new African writer. Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani. Author of “I Do Not Come To You By Chance”.

Adaobi didn't come almost made. And she has just a book out yet. But she makes reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie overrated and a tad less impressive. You actually believe that Adichie is overrated. Books. One day you hope to write one.

Time. To move on. That’s what you mutter as you stop typing. But stuck you felt. Somehow.

Happy New Year folks.

Foye.