A Long Walk To Freedom

He stepped out into the morning sunlight. He had not started, yet his skin was already sweaty. He saw the challenge, the task ahead, a long, winding irregular line connecting the sites of his morning labors. Shovel in hand, music in his ears, he couldn't be more prepared. It would be tough, musty, and a bit malodorous. He had no choice; he had to do it. There were worse ways to start the day, he told himself. With that thought, his mind started churning out scenarios and conversations, anything to numb the hard work about to begin.

After the strike began, his friends returned to their school in Ifè, leaving him alone to engage in the "self-directed learning" his school often preached. Now, it had been enforced in the form of a prolonged strike. As he took his first step, he swiveled his head and found the culprit of his morning task. The bloody animal, with its shameful behavior, had become the master of his mornings. His timer jolted him out of his head, five minutes had already passed. The food was on the fire; he had to hurry.

"You know, you are being very dumb. If we skipped this shitty routine every morning, things would be so much more pleasant for us," he spoke into the warm, humid morning air. The scraping clangor of his shovel on the ground broke the morning calm. He had troubled the neighbors with the noise for so long that no one even cared anymore. There had been shouting at first: "Keep it down o, oga doctor! You still single no mean say make me and my babe no sleep well." His responses back then had been longer and more grating, louder scraping with the shovel. Now, they either slept through it or woke up and grumbled. He didn't care. 

The quiet, black silhouette he was addressing responded with an askance look. "Don’t look at me like that, you great big oaf." He stalked on to the sixth spot, shovel balanced gingerly in both hands. Six down, too many more to go. His timer rang again. Fifteen minutes. 

He went on sullenly, increasing his pace. He knew this task had broken his concentration. His two hours of reading in the morning might have been the crowning glory of his day. After this, he probably wouldn't return to pharmacology anytime soon. No motivation. The shovel slipped. Some of its sand-laden excreta plummeted. He winced before the splatter hit him. His shoulders slumped, and he held back hot tears. "Don't cry, don't cry." Maybe he was trying to do too much in too little time. He trudged out, emptied his shovel, and came back with a fake, hard-to-hold smile plastered on his face. 

It was rough being at home while everyone else was in school. Still, at least there was light. No one who hadn't survived Alexander Brown's super black, 94-day Renaissance fair from before Thomas Edison and Faraday could possibly understand his preference for home. There was water right inside his bathroom. Here, he could lay on his bed at 10 p.m and stare at a working light bulb while he sought sleep. Here, he wasn't killing himself trying to be sauve, warm, stuffy, polite, all at once, all the time. 

His phone buzzed and rang. His nose stung. "Tarnation." He ran inside and turned off the stove. After dishing out the food, he stamped back outside and served the black dog. Jerry Seinfeld had said it: "If aliens are watching us through telescopes, they are going to think the dogs are the leaders of the planet. If you see two life forms, one of them's making a poop, the other one's carrying it for him, who would you assume is in charge?" 

He turned around, took in the expanse of his parents' compound, and sobbed. Ten shits down, too many more to go. Today, this chore was particularly grueling. Today, it would be a long walk to freedom.

Salami Wisdom