This World Is Not A Safe Place

WE CALL IT HOME ANYWAY

You guys don’t know this, but apparently I slipped into depression. Why? It roots from some business mistakes I made which I am willing to share out in a different post if you guys fire up your patience nerves. I had the option to seek refuge in Valium but I walked into hospital instead. They recommended Talk Therapy and we are doing just well. There is an interesting turn however. That the fact that you guys don’t know about it. Plus it took the girl at the hospital reception ages to believe that I was indeed the patient, is a problem in itself. Psychologists are mysterious people. In those sessions, they get you naked (not literally hehe) and you talk about stuff. Recently I was watching a guy called Guy doing a TED Talk on mental hygiene. He said he used to tell people that he is a Psychologist and they would respond “uhm just a psychologist, not a real doctor.” So he chose to include that on his card. Yes psychologists are this interesting to hang around. Depression is tuff! Find a cooler reason.

Have you come across those speakers who say “moving on swiftly…” I am not that speaker but I want to borrow permission to sound like those speakers. Come on, the year is hitting the last quarter, I might not use that phrase anywhere. Okay, moving on swiftly, this post is not about psychologists. Or about them being cooler people. This post if you allow, is about some random stuff that have a cousin like relationship with themselves and the header to boot. Now I am deviating a lot. My primary school composition teacher would say I am beating around the bush (another deviation. Hold on you didn’t realize this one.) The very last one. You know those jamaas who say “Come on, we might be related. Your grandmother’s aunty was my uncle’s nephew.” That’s confusing, right? Perhaps they have a point. This post is like those guys. It’s not those guys.

A week apart, the night of Monday, my people had a burglar attack. It was barely midnight. Thieves cut the front door open and checked in through the living room. That must have been noisy. That door is made of heavy steel. The girls heard them. They woke up and swung into a screaming spree. Their voices could not sip through the walls. Their throats ran sour. They had no alternative but to fight on. They crawled into the kitchen and resorted to hitting pans and cutlery against the door and walls. It was miraculous. It worked out. Neighbors yielded in to their cries with precision. The next compound guy fired his car siren. It was backed up with a security alarm from the neighbor to the north. Both these efforts compounded the feeble efforts by the girls trapped amidst a cold night robbery attack. Finally one after the other well-wisher neighbours walked in armed to help. The thieves smelling trouble, sped off on a pick up double cabin. They had parked outside the compound and cut a gap through the chain link fence slashing off the Kay apple plants that would have stood in their way.

Mark you, this was as I was told. Personally I was not home. I would have hang on the balls of their ring leader if I was there. I would not have let him go easily. Not when he was leading his boys to disturb our damn peace and tranquility. It would be as easy as, he goes and leaves his balls behind, or he stays own and saves his balls. Luckily for him I was away. I was busy in this city writing down plans of how I was going to conquer the next day. And that alone saved someone’s balls. In my mind I was going to have a busy day. I was going to hit on doors and hold clients hostage in boring boardroom meetings for a Tuesday. Blind to me, some Mongols were crowded in a cave somewhere near home planning to attack the exact home I was giving up everything to make comfortable for us. I went on with my good plans and slept hoping for a successful Tuesday. They went on with their evil plans and executed their heinous act. Luckily enough, the guy in the clouds was kind enough to us for which we greatly thank him. Apart from the front door, which stands repaired, nothing was ferried off and no one was injured save for the trauma that remains plastered in those girls minds. We will heal through. But just in case it refuses to go, and it keeps popping up in sleep, we might be faithful yours to help dear psychologists. And no! You are not just psychologists, you are real doctors for you cure our minds of trauma and depression and agony amidst this happiness starved world. Keep it up.

Missus, she’s a fighter. She fought on. Her, in her heavy condition and another girl and a helpless baby. They fought on and attracted neighbours and that way, the thieves were scared away. They went back to their gutters afraid to face the world in defeat for that is what they deserve these thieves. Satan kiss them in their dark gutters with their satanic plans.

Her call comes through first thing in the morning. Earlier than it’s normally usual. Her voice is nearing a tremble. She’s shaken. I doubt she wanted to go direct to that issue. She wanted to buy time and prep me up but I was so convinced something was a problem. My adrenaline is a record high already. Back and forth my mind is a rush with worst case scenarios. “Is the baby okay?” I ask to open up a discussion. She goes, “I didn’t really want to involve you, but we were attacked at night.” I freeze. “Wait is everything okay once more?” Asking that, I assure her that there was perfectly no problem in her letting me know of the happenings back home because they are my people. She goes on to narrate the above ordeal.

Hanging up on that call, I suffer a repulse. I lose on the progress I had made since I started hanging out with psychologists. I feel like I am staring death in the eyes. It starts to feel like the world is rounding me up for execution like the way hungry lions will round up a helpless antelope for supper! I want to put up a brave face but I tremble from the knees. It goes without saying that everyone can easily tell that trouble has marked me and rounded me up. I can’t even function. I pick up my phone and cancel up all my plans for that day. I want to take a break from earth and check out if burglars attack in the night on Mars. Of what help is it to continue chasing this dream called life if some zombies can check in in the cold of the night to carry all your hard work behind a double cabin!

Firing my data icon, I roam all over and settle on the streets of Facebook. Come on it’s a matter of seconds, I would be part of statistics as a homeless urchin. Perhaps I would end up on the Facebook Street. Who knows? The first notification is from her. She had shoot up a post about how she saw God’s own hand in the night. I want to comment and write “How does God’s own hand look like? Does it have hair? Is it an African hand or an American hand?” but the joking gods are a sleep. A few people have commented and liked and moved on with life. I write nothing.

My mind flashes back to about the same time last year when my brother was visited in the cold of the night with a gang of blood thirsty youths. He was alone in the house. His wife had gone visiting at our mothers place. Maybe she would have screamed her mouth wide open and they could have inserted their dirty hand through her mouth and plucked out her spleen those thieves. Let’s just say God saved her spleen that night. No, he saved her life! God himself did that by directing her to our mums before the attack. Apparently, my brother didn’t scream, he says he thought he was dreaming. And in his dream someone was breaking a door and that door was not his. So in his sleep he turned to face the wall perhaps to avoid the sight of the door breaking scene. He slept on. Someone cut his skull. It was no longer a dream. It was plain reality. They shone light in his sleepy eyes. They wanted to cut again. He shielded with a pillow. The panga cut into the pillow and missed his head. Blood was already oozing from the previous cut. He had to let go of the pillow. They cut again in the head. Then again, he blocked with his hand and sustained a deep cut that separated his thumb from the other fingers. He could get hold of what was happening henceforth. In between they took off, some goods in tow including a television set. Some random neighbor, who happened to know our sister who happens to be a trained medic called her about the sad issue. She acted with precision checking in with a driver who ferried our blood socked brother to hospital as soon as she had performed basic first aid. His life was saved. He was marked for death. He leaves with the scars. He relives the ordeal in a way that doesn’t sound terrifying anymore. Time has passed. Thieves are bad and heartless. They are not humans those Mongrels!

Talking of thieves, and as a sneak preview into the story I am to tell you about in paragraph one, over the weekend, I got hold of a thief single handedly in some ghetto. I feared for my life. It was a terrible ordeal but the fact that I am writing this is proof enough I came out with both hands intact. This boy turned thief, was once an employee at our magazine start up. Yes I had scouted him, and wanted to help him save his situation by helping us. Unfortunately he belongs to the city. And the city has this this pull him down mentality. I am thinking he belongs to some gang, which none of us had wind. They conspired to take off with our assets and some stocks. It dealt us a huge blow! It’s been a whooping year apart! He went into hiding. I tried all I could to no veil. Police, right men, friends. Nothing yielded. I took a break from it and focused on other stuff. Life moved on. I stray into that ghetto, and guess who I meet? Our boy turned thief is right there hanging out with his boys. All dangers glaring, I chose to venture out and confront him. There is this unnatural energy you ooze when you have been through pain.
At the police station, they only make reference to an earlier OB we had recorded a year apart and his case is marked as “Action taken for robbery”. Curtains close right in front of his eyes after a full year run. He joins his truly fellow law un_abiding citizens at the underground police cells awaiting court appearance from today.

On that Saturday evening, it’s back and forth finalizing with the case logistics to seal his fate. Shipping in witnesses. Writing statements and so on. The room from which we take the statements from is an interesting enclosure. It’s a myriad of cases. Of people full of pain. Of mothers and daughters and sons and fathers giving recounts of crimes committed against them. It’s a theater of citizens seeking justice. The quest for justice starts from such places because justice itself is elusive. It’s sought after like the way a bachelor boychild would sought after a girl who keeps feeding him double blue ticks.

There was this girl. She had a handkerchief for a bandage on her left palm. She was in sneakers and an oversize t-shirt; the types our mothers would call five-year-plans. For her that was style. The oversized t-shirt not the handkerchief on palm. She had been beaten by her boyfriend. She was flanked in between her mother and a boy who was the witness. I think witness that indeed she was beaten; not necessarily that he was there as the girl was beaten and he did nothing but watch. May be he’s the first boy that girl went to open up to about the punches yet she’d been feeding her on blue ticks. Girls in this town though! I wanted to stop my count and go ask him “Do you beat your girlfriend?”

Another guy was giving a recount of an attempted car jack. That ordeal was terrifying. Deadly scene. So he talked of how some boys blocked him on the road and their leader swayed his way gang ready for action and he was this terrified. He jumps out if the car into the hands of waiting gang mates. He struggles lose and rolls beneath his car. He feels the cold of the gun on his head. He was near his gate. He rolls from the other end and takes off. He jumps the fence into his den of dogs which were barking the hell out of him. It starts to sound like a scene from ‘rolling with the brothers in law’ staring Ice Cube and Kevin Hart the height man. I want to laugh but he has this torn shirt. His confidence is also torn. I feel sorry for him.
Domestic violence is still something to ride home in 2018. I am surprised! This lady says her husband punched her over and over. She told her mother about it. Mother felt sorry for her. She needed no one to feel sorry for her. She needed someone to take action. Punch the niga? Perhaps. She’s come to report to the police. Apparently, she has no witness. Her witness, she says is her mother. Her mother, unfortunately resides upcountry and according to this lady, she can witness from upcountry on phone. The police are this pragmatic. They want a real witness. Not that her mother is fake. No. real here, means, someone who can walk in physically and say yes, I saw that nigga punch this lady blah blah. As it stands, this case can’t proceed. This lady feels disheartened. Her world has closed on her because she is about to go back home. She will be beaten. She will have no witness. She will come back to report and they will send her back for witnesses. She stares my way like she wants to say “can you be my witness?” I stare away quickly.

Our very own case, we are locking up a kid who literally ran down our start up. He has affected the financial food chain up and down together. He has affected fellow employees who were innocent as newborns. He nipped from the bud a dream that was just sprouting. He has faltered hopes and strained relationships. And that has sent him on a run for a year now. A self-inflicted slavery. Here he is staring at the long arm of the law.
Our very own security case is wanting. We are coming from years of political assassinations un explained. And countless cases of citizens harmed and murdered mysteriously. Then there is the unique case of some girl tracing back to a power related love story. She was found murdered and dumped in a thicket. People talked about it on social media. Her unborn child was buried in between. Some governor gave a presser flanked amid his family as another family down mourned one of their own. Life moved on.

Our attention keeps flying in between stuff. From some guy who says rivers should be moved and buildings spared because buildings cost money and rivers cost only the will of God. To a finance minister who fresh from breaking lose the borrowing ceiling record of his predecessors combined in a record five years, announces a 16% fuel levy VAT. To a president who slashes that by half to come with an 8% fuel levy Tax. To an early morning TV breaking news of a one Taj (renamed Airgate) being demolished by the famous Sany. For a fact, riparian land has been said a zillion times. Bottom down the economy is hearting and people losing jobs. Even if you don’t lose yours, the chances of your office having sat on riparian land fifty years on are highly probable. Rather the surprise of your boss being lined up at an NYS saga will humble you. It will dawn that all along you have been working at a fictious company that has been siphoning the broke government dry. And it will be very bad. Come on, there still is the possibility of a block falling on your neck from a random building under demolition. There is trouble looming loosely.
There is this day some pastor at church said we are all thieves only that some us have not been presented with an opportunity to steal. This was around the same time chaps were being lined up in connection to the NYS Saga baptised as NYS Season two. Yes he had a point but I think it boils back to how were raised. And the peer groups we got sipped into.
Today morning social media has been awash with news of a guy we went with to the same school a year apart. A baddas drawing artist and footballer extraordinaire. This chap as is been told complained of a headache. Went to KNH and breathed his last while there. I had seen him like my post on instagram recently. May his soul rest in peace!
As a way of healing and partly as a distraction, I read zillions of dozens of content on depression. I am motivated to want to know how people are coping up with this monster. When the gods of time allow, I delve into the statistics and end up at YouTube University. Lately I am reading a lot from and about Elon Mursik of Tesla and his electric cars inventions and space explorations. Elon Mursik is battling depression. He says he does weed a lot. The world stares him from the big stage admirably. To many he is a genius. Internally, he is a mess. And that’s the thing with depression. There is a day he went to twitter way into the night and tweeted stuff about his publicly listed Tesla Company. This caused panic stock sales that hugely affected the stock share.

The area of mental health hygiene needs stable conversations because I doubt we will ever have the world stable. It’s human nature to hurt and be hurt. We hurt and heal and when we are about to celebrate healing, we hurt again! It’s the reality we are living in. the only effort we can put in enormously is to keep working towards sustainable solutions. This world is our home.

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