The Lord’s Will (Part 3)

Hello Friends,

Here's the concluding part of our inspiring story. (See Parts 1 & 2 of the story here and here).
Thanks for following....

The heat of the afternoon sun seared Kemi’s eyebrows and she felt the discomfort of blackened, sticky sweat forming all over her body. She winced, grunted and cussed inaudibly and clumsily adjusted her fake Gucci handbag as she waited with other commuters in a long queue at Oshodi ‘Under Bridge’ for the next BRT Buses that was taking forever to arrive. 

She itched and impatiently glanced at her wristwatch.  But Kemi was not a box of firecrackers waiting to explode; her mind was a vast blue ocean of the unknown.  Inside her, a turmoil of emotions surged and raged. All at once, she felt joy and anger, love and hate, hope and regret.

But her muddled mind had nothing to do with the ill-mannered ticket girls that would hiss and throw her N1000 note back at her for not having the right change for the journey; or the annoying cluster of local market women with chattered loudly and cackled endlessly.   

No, Kemi was angry with someone else. Yes, she was sure of it, she was angry with Femi. Or maybe, more correctly, she was angry with herself for letting her chance slip when she had the chance seven years ago. But then maybe, maybe now, she could make amends. Maybe there will be hope after the regret; a faint ray of hope, no matter how small it might look now. But hope, all the same.  

Finally, the loud engine sounds of a BRT bus laboriously slowing to a halt interrupted Kemi’s reverie. She finally found a nice ticket girl, paid for one and hopped into the bus. She made for the back of the bus and sat at the extreme end where she could stare out of the window, shut herself from the world and indulge in a nostalgic trip down bitter-sweet memories. She rummaged through her bag, fetched an earpiece and plugged the speakers into her ear. Then she scrolled through the music list on her budget smart phone and played Rosanne Cash’s ‘I Still Miss Someone.’

At my door the leaves are falling
A cold wild wind has come
Sweethearts walk by together
And I still miss someone

I go out on a party
And look for a little fun
But I find a darkened corner
because I still miss someone

Oh, no I never got over those blues eyes
I see them everywhere
I miss those arms that held me
When all the love was there

I wonder if he's sorry
For leavin' what we'd begun
There's someone for me somewhere
And I still miss someone

But the song, rather than heal her, damaged Kemi. The lyrics overwhelmed her; every word, every verse broke her and her eyes welled with tears and sadness. She dabbed her moistened eyes with her handkerchief let a tear or two trickle down her soggy face. 

She could barely make out faces or voices now; every figure in the bus was blurred, every sound muffled. She rested her crossed arms on top of the seat in front of her, buried her face in its cushion and let her mind wander free like a caged eagle newly released into freedom. Her memories flitted and floated to seven years ago when she was just 23, young, innocent and prim; and Femi was 28, energetic, enthusiastic, green but promising. 

Kemi had reconnected with Femi after a casual Facebook chat with a friend.

“Bae, you still remember Femi? When did you hear from him last?” the friend typed.  

“Oh, Femi? Lost contact with him a long while ago after I closed my account and opened a new one. Funny you still remember though…  I haven’t heard from him since then. Six or seven years now, I think” Kemi replied, trying to conceal the sense of nostalgia her friend’s words evoked in her. 

“Chatted with him just yesterday. Femi, ever still his smart, chatty self!”

Kemi’s heart missed a heartbeat, then two. And her hands became unsteadied on the computer keyboard. 

“But I’ve searched for Femi Adewunmi several times on Facebook and never found him. I thought he had closed his Facebook account…” She managed to type with her now wobbly fingers. 

“That’s because he has Anglicized his name on social media. You should search for ‘Phemmy,’ not ‘Femi.’”

“Anglicized?”

“Yeah, maybe that’s because he just returned from the UK. You know, he’s now a ‘T-O-K-U-N-B-O’ and you won’t believe it, he’s also so well to do now.”

Kemi died inside. Femi was now a ‘Tokunbo?’ So Femi had been ‘The Tokunbo,’ her own ‘Tokunbo;’ the guy that was supposed to come from overseas and become her husband. So ‘the Lord’s will’ had also been her own will and yet she couldn’t see it? 

Besides, he’s now also ‘well to do;’ the exact words Prophet Samson had used seven years ago… He had misled her… or not? How can someone be so wrong and right at the same time? 

“Hello…. Helllo… Are you still there?” her friend typed in the message box.

But Kemi’s whole body was now shaking with emotions and her eyes were clouding with tears. She hurriedly left the computer and slumped on her bed and shed a good cry.

……………………………………

Two days later, Kemi type ‘Phemmy’ in the Facebook search box and sent him a friend request. Then she checked every other hour to see if he had responded. By the third day, Femi had seen Kemi’s friend request and accepted it. That morning, he was online and she was online too, so they chatted. 

They were both overjoyed to reconnect with each other. They bantered and had small talks about the past and the present. Then they exchanged numbers and he invited her over to his place the next Saturday.

That Saturday, Kemi arrived at Femi’s home at exactly 9am as they’d agreed. “You shut yourself against the world,” Kemi accused Femi tongue-in-cheek after she was seated on a sofa in his decently furnished apartment in a high-brow neighbourhood in Ikeja, uptown Lagos. 

“No; I should say that of you instead. As for me, I simply evolved and moved on,” Femi answered, pouring himself a glass from the wine bottle he had reserved for the visit. He filled Kemi’s glass cup too. 

Kemi stole occasional gazes at him each time his attention was momentarily consumed by the football match on his wall-mounted 40 inches LCD tv.  He was plump now and round-faced and spoke and laughed in slow, measured notes like rich African folks often do. 

“So you’ve been to the UK recently. You are a ‘Tokunbo,’ eh? You are a big boy now, see,” Kemi said and giggled pretentiously, every word piercing her insides with pain and regret. 

“’Tokunbo’? Oh, you mean ‘been to overseas’? That’s the common slang peeps here use. Me, big boy? Please don’t flatter me. My company just sent me on a professional course training. Then I worked for a year in the UK headquarters and was transferred back to Nigeria after then to head the corporate communications department,” Femi recounted modestly. 

Kemi adjusted clumsily on her seat. She grew ever so uneasy. It was like his story was taunting her. “What company is that?” she asked, now only half interested in the topic. She had still not touched her glass of wine. 

“Aircom. It is an international telecom company that has just invested in Nigeria,” Femi said. His phone rang and he spoke with the caller for some time. Then he went into the kitchen to check on a something he was barbecuing in the microwave oven. 

The phone backlight was still on. Kemi finally had the chance to look closely at his iPhone 5 lying on the centre table, as she had been itching to all morning. When she looked, she saw he had put the picture of a beautiful, young African woman as his screensaver. Kemi’s heart deflated. 

When Femi returned to the sitting room, Kemi’s demeanour had become sombre. “The lady on your phone, she’s your friend, eh?” her voice trembled a little. 

“Err…, Yes…” Femi said and hesitated. He too was getting uneasy at Kemi’s sudden switch mood and conversation.

“A friend like me?” Kemi’s voice was wistfully sharp, like he was reprimanding him for betraying her.

Femi said nothing. But Kemi knew him well enough to pry out what was hidden underneath those eyes. She looked at him intently and knew his answer was ‘No.’ 

Her whole body shook now with emotions and her eyes clouded with tears. She hurriedly left the house and flagged down a taxi before Femi could stop her. When she got home, she slumped on her couch and shed a good cry.

The War on Terror: How About a Different Kind of Weapon?

The civil world virtually fell on its knees in grief and anguish, furiously pounding a giant fist of rage in the air. From Paris in France, to Bamako in Mali and Yola and Maiduguri and adjoining villages in Nigeria, blood-thirsty terrorists visited citizens, residents and visitors going about their normal activities with sudden death, destruction and tears. 

The fortunate few who were at the spot of the carnages in this Black November but escaped the unforgiving nozzles of the terrorists’ guns are scarred forever from the shocking memories. Even watching the sheer bestiality on tv or even writing about it sends down a chilling shiver down the spine!

Whatever shall the world do now? How is it that with the ultra-sophisticated guns weapons and nanotechnologies of the world’s superpowers, they have not been able to rein in this new scourge of the earth? Yes, the US, France, Russia and Germany and their allies have only been successful in momentarily subduing them or keeping them at bay from certain territories, while these blood-suckers strategize on the next city or town to strike.   

In the aftermath of the coordinated attacks that killed 129 people in Paris, a livid French President Francoise Hollande vowed to crush Isis. Less than 24 hours later, some 10 fighter jets pummelled Isis-held city of Raqqa with at least 20 bombs.

  

“The need to destroy Daesh (Isis or Islamic State)… concerns the entire international community," he told lawmakers, who burst into an emotional rendition of the La Marseillaise national anthem after his speech. The French president has also held talks with Washington and Moscow for a coalition in a unified effort against Isis and other terrorists. 

Before then, a Russian plane had crashed in Egypt, killing all 224 people on board. An Isis-affiliated groups claimed responsibility and an infuriated Vladimir Putin ordered a bombing blitz against the terror group. 

In Nigeria, as the nation’s military grapples to contain the strange tactics and seeming invincibility of terrorism on its soil, Boko Haram continued its deadly attacks with a suicide bomb blast that killed 32 people in Yola, and another suicide bomber – this time, a female – detonating bombs strapped to her to claim the lives of 10 people in Kano. 

The world was still heaving a sigh of despair over the mindless atrocities of a common enemy when Bamako in Mali hit the news channels as another group of terrorists, al-Murabitoun held guests hostage at the luxury Radisson Blu hotel. At the end of the standoff, 21 locals and foreigners – including an American – lay dead.

“This barbarity only stiffens our resolve to meet these challenges,” US President Barrack Obama said in reaction. “The United States will be relentless against those who target our citizens.”

Russia also said several of its national were killed in the Friday attack. “The widest international cooperation” was needed to confront global terrorism, President Putin said.

This week, the United States issued a worldwide travel alert to it citizens, urging them to exercise particular caution during the holiday season, and at holiday festivals or events. According to the US State Department, the alert comes amid information that ISIS, Al Qaeda, Boko Haram, and other terrorist groups continue to plan attacks in multiple regions by employing a “wide variety of tactics.”

The same day, Belgium’s prime minister announced that Brussels would remain at the highest alert level for at least another week.

We’re no military experts or war strategists, but we do knows arms and ammunitions aren’t the only effective weapons against the enemy – even mortal ones like Isis, Al-Qaeda or Boko Haram. So, back to our question: How about a different kind of weapon? 

By now, you know our focus is on THE MIND. Here’s our rationale. 

·       1. All man’s actions gravitates around the mind: Yes, not the gun; the hot words or the defiant fist clenching. The mind is the switch; simple. Man may not be a machine or robot, but these are built from the model of a man; so there are some similarities. Therefore, sometimes when a movement is so ingrained or a mass belief is so delusional, you should go beyond coercion or the force of the arm. Look for ‘the switch’ in the central system and ‘tap down;’ although it the process is more complex than can be explained.

·      2. Terrorists have managed to banish all sense of fear of death or the inevitable. …Or they have perfectly masked it. Soldiers are trained to be ready to pay the ultimate price in the defence of their country; but terrorists have taken that defence mechanism a step further. Even soldiers would not blindly sacrifice their lives and would only go down protecting their territory in a fierce line of fire. But become a suicide bomber to prove allegiance to the king, queen, president or country? NO! No matter how much tough exterior they try to project, soldiers are secretly afraid of death in the face of danger just like the rest of us humans too. Terrorists have no such restrictions.

·     3. The promises of a paradisiac afterlife. This is supposedly the reward for their indiscriminate and barbaric murder of people and campaign of hate for those who do not share their beliefs. It is tied to the point above and is the morbid reason they are shorn of fear. The even more terrifying truth? They ABSOLUTELY believe their own lies!

·      4. Religious fundamentalism spawn from a false sense of justice: What else can be more emboldening for an action, no matter how destructive? Once people feel their action is sanctioned by a higher, superior power or being, nobody else’s views matter! And once such a murderous group access dangerous weapons, no one else is safe!

·         5. Feeding on the juice of an ignorance mass: Take another look at their army of recruits and you’ll hazard a pattern: Their hellish philosophy feeds on fertile idle minds; people on the fringes of life, those who have grievances against the ‘system,’ how it works, don’t understand it or have simply lost faith in it; and others conditioned to believe they belong to a marginalised minority.

So shouldn’t high-level communication and military strategists work together more and complement each other’s efforts? Need we say more?