Olubunmi Fatoba

Do you live in the hands of another? or in yours? or theirs? Are you fixed in a cloud? or competing with the rain and birds? are you unveiled yet? or locked in a mystery of endless uncertainty? do you believe in trial or chance? how do you react to the sparkling life in the tiny rainbow? will you live or just exist? will you come or depart with the shade? Do you remember the 'boy on a swing? Is he still a victim of apartheid or there's no longer something like such? how about here?  are there still occurrence of tribalism, riot, unprotected protest? is democracy living by its name? To shady hearts, how do we let the grains grow again? and to the future,  is this you that is now?

Literature is beyond society, but preservation of history for the depiction of the present and the reservation for tomorrow. It is a view to the world, things that pre-existed some, before some and would outlive some. Apparently, human is among the ‘some’. However, the extension of influence is a matter of unknown cooperate dependency.  Influence, The anticipated autonomy of lined cravings in a clichéd society. ‘To whom much is given, much is expected’. In a recent conversation with a pal, we widely talked about the effect of influence, what pre-existed humanity. History is what made us, Influence was presented to us from birth, a life that chose us before we could choose which we would prefer, like a nutmeg, it becomes a reminder, a consciousness to our existence and a limitation to following another path. Then, we live in lines of daymares and more mares. We lied to ourselves. Our minds became an alien, we can’t compound what we need, the definition is faraway. Everything seems vague