The Race The Ruined Us" "My Country" A Poem And A Short Story By Kwaghkule Aondonengen Jacob

Every night is a night of dreams to the poor. And as soon as day breaks from the shackles of Dusk, it is only the rich who go in pursuit of realities.

"The Race The Ruined Us" is a short fictional story that empahsizes on the issue of racial discrimination, pertinent to say, an African man and it's effect in the African societies and abroad. The story reflects the hardship, subjugation and reference to as a second.

It depicts the dreadful fate of an African men and women as they tread the earth searching for greener pastures.

THE RACE THAT RUINED US

Every night is a night of dreams to the poor. And as soon as day breaks from the shackles of Dusk, it is only the rich who go in pursuit of realities. While the poor man goes dancing to the cacophony of the ugly rhythms curated by poverty. The poor man always befriends the stinking sweat streaming down from the ocean of those smelling sores in his armpits.

In this modernity still, if duty calls you a visit to Fanan's village, you will understand the nostalgia in his tired head. His father's compound was situated by the path that led to the 'Aloko' stream. It had few dilapidated thatch houses that circled themselves. The spear grasses used are now worn-out and looked frowned into the skies. The 'Ate' where his great-grandfather first sat with the white man in negotiations of his elder brothers' hands in slavery had long been destroyed. And their compound look more like a desert now...

In the nineteen nineties, when Fanan first sailed across the storms of the Atlantic ocean in pursuit of a foreign culture, things were not the way they are now. He remembered in vividness and astonished amazements how his tradition had unified them in days buried in past times and even challenged them to even wine and dine on the same table.

It dawned on Fanan in his twenty sixth years of staying abroad without any tangible thing to be boastful of. He became tired of living in a land that revered money like a god. He wouldn't had gone to enjoy hell on earth, he thought. But he had left his ancestral home because the white man had preached true love that vanishes on his lips. The love that he thought was genuine and was meant for all...an unconditional love.

"If only I had known the type of love Mr Hopkins was ranting about, I wouldn't have come to London in the first place" Fanan lamented in a cold tone of anguish.

                                                             *        *         *        *

The wind of time blew those fruitless years into the stomach of history and Fanan has made up his mind. He has taken a well defined resolution to go back to the Federal Republic of Takuruku, his motherland, where he belongs, where he shall be measured by the content of his character and not by the blackness he wore in the name of a skin that spells crime to the world. At least he was alive and determined to right the wrong he had committed by leaving his father's grave to be surrounded by overgrown grassess and uncovered rat holes... "I must go back." He resolved.

The day that Fanan stepped his feet on the sands of his fatherland remained a misery beyond the interpretations of all soothsayers in the history of Tiv nation. No one needed a Joseph nor a Daniel to understand the frustrations and depressions written on his forehead. It was as if he beared failure in his own name. Many sympathizers who listened to his tales across the ocean wondered when a Tiv man will be elevated. Some people even hated been called 'a Tiv man' to avoid hatred attraction from outsiders.

At the Ala market square, a marketer had toned to Ashiwaves Radio Station. After the morning news was broadcast came the announcements and jingles. The announcement invited some suitably qualified candidates to the application for the position of a general manager at Averku Hotels, Katsina-Ala.

With the euphoria of coming home still fresh in Fanan's veins, he hurried home horridly like a mad man not being conscious of the beatings from the rays of the beaming sunlight. All he was after was to get home and dust off his papers and set to the Hotel square. However, he couldn't make it because his entire village could not have anything like a computer center where he could photocopy his documents. 

The next day was Tuesday. The Amaafu market day. Fanan left as early as the first cock crew to announce the breaking of the new dawn. He did it to escape the catastrophy that may have befallen him if he would have waited and allowed the road got clustered with passengers. He boarded one of the first commercial vehicles that loaded from Zaki-Biam to Katsina-Ala that morning and was certain that he could reach before sunrise.

"Driver na here i de drop o" Fanan screamed from the backseat of the 504 Station Wagon.  "Okay, ret (let) me crear (clear) load (road) first" answered the driver.

As quick as he alighted, he headed straight to the Hotel's receptionist office. "Welcome sir"  the receptionist welcomed him pleasantly. The girl was in his late twenties and was always wearing a smile on her face as her job demanded. She looked more europeanized than Fanan that had been to London. "Why must one appear in suit when working in such places like this. I have traveled a lot but I haven't seen a white man on any African attire. Why are we selling our culture to them?" Fanan mumured angrily with some words choking in his throat.

The next week after his interview had brought another disastrous news in Fanan's life. The Management had called that early morning to inform him of the outcome of the interview. "Sorry young it is sadly unfortunate that we can not employ you to work here. This is because your tribal marks make you look primitive and as such you can not work in a national hotel that entertains our fellow guests from the white man's land." Said authoritatively the Management spokesperson.

On that fateful hotty day, Fanan returned home dizzed, staggered, drilled and drained. He was exhaustively tired and as he hopped home like a grasshopper he christened himself "A Professor of Failure." He wondered why he could not succeed abroad and not even at home. He rained curses on the race that caused his race inferior. He hoped to ask the creator why he created some people with more might than others...why other races ruin others in this race of life that run us.

MY COUNTRY 

I have a tailless tale to tell

Of a far country of mine,

Suffocating in sufficiency

Yet, often, even & always

Her dear men and women

Starve in plentitude of plenitude

While we sweat in quietude

Burying our eerie songs

In the secret of our silence.

Our scars are like scarlets

In the sores of our future history,

But when do we get it ridden

If not before the new dawn?

BIO

Kwaghkule, Aondonengen Jacob is popularly known by his pen name "Mr Kvip". He is a poet and a short story writer. His poems appeared or are forthcoming at, Praxis Magazine, The Best of Africa Magazine, Poemify Magazine, Sub-Saharan Magazine, Active Muse, Nantygreens, Eboquills, Ninshart Art including many local and international anthologies and elsewhere.

Currently, Kwaghkule Aondonengen Jacob is a penultimate student of English and Literary Studies at Federal University, Wukari, Taraba State, Nigeria.

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