DEAR MISS VULNERABLE,
I’m beginning to love art, not for the beauty of it nor the inspiration that births it but “Art has privileges! It is the only thing made by man and for man that is allowed to be flawed”.
Just like my childhood at Olorunsogo Molete, Ibadan.
I can vividly remember how our lives (the kids in our compound) was a platter of gold itself. Just four flats in one building with a gate, an epileptic tap and a well surrounded by “face me I slap you” apartments doesn’t define privilege; not the boujee kind you thought I was going to paint to you but having more than one car in the building, attending one of the best private school with my Muslim neighbours, free ride in their dad’s ‘Alfa Romeo' was a privilege though we never saw it.
But this privilege of ours isn’t a lasting one robed in flawless definition. I envy Art now because it’s privilege goes deep so much that with its flaws and reasons to be left on the artist wall, it still gets priced and taken home to be admired or used to mark time and hold memories.
What happens to you, Miss Vulnerable?
I feel you’re living the life you chose with abandon that its recklessness isn’t reckless enough to hide the thoughts of life. “Is this worthy of my life?”
Life, is life itself perfect?
I better not be damned but how can we say an existence that turns our emotions like whirlwind is perfect?
Just one day, Tobi came visiting to Unad on his way to Ilorin. It was getting dark and like the privileged kids we were in our childhood apartment, he stopped to spend the night with his friend and dropped by to see his childhood neighbour. He knew how I loved Peak milk so he gave me two out of the ones he had while we talked about life after school, how we would visit Olorunsogo some other day as the 1% of kids who used their privileges well. And then, he was gone. No! taken.
Just remembering him now, I’m tempted to say “Death is your part of life’s injustice to men”.
Miss vulnerable, I don’t have words for you.
But, I do hope you always remember that if the account of your creation story seems true, I meant the clay and mud through God’s hands and His breath becoming you then your life itself is a privilege because you don’t have to die under the weight of seeking perfection.
Rinse your hands and minds of slothfulness, seek improvements and growth. You see that perfection? Leave it to people that has broken the codes of life’s existence.
By the way, what’s your price? I’m damn interested in this piece that you are.
If only you’re a confirmed Nigerian, you’d reply “E go be ✌”