The Face

By

George O. Obikoya

My curiosity often seems to land me in trouble. “No problem,” I reassure myself, this time. My eagerness to play down my predicament is an enduring attribute of my tired soul. But then, it also typically heralds its revival. Everything dear to me acquires renewed intensity. I tell myself that I must keep on. It seems irrational to examine the monstrosities face-to-face. Yet, it is inevitable that I confront the mysteries that cloak them. That it is my destiny to do so never leaves me. My efforts to rid myself of this burden sometimes I admit, sadly Sisyphean.  

I have to keep on because I cannot hide from my narcissism. “How then can the duality express itself?” I repeatedly ask myself, the answer, always transitory, and as if on purpose askance, resigned to the folly in tarrying. I remain undaunted, regardless, my confidence that a lasting answer is imminent comforting, even if illusory. Yet, not even the intensity of my optimism stirs them. Again, I wail in my head, but they just chuckle and turn away.

The commonality in us all evident in random actions that sometimes promise to be more enduring runs counter to the diffidence on display with matters so dire. The nature of the encounter itself, from the occasional outbursts of gusto, to flashes of brilliance from which hope wriggles to the surface speaks to the tendency toward the consensus that we all seek. An accord nonetheless remains elusive, but I argue tenaciously, not impossible. They agree, but despair keeps coming in the way. The aspect of the duality that riddles us with pores from which escapes our verve ultimately exhausts us, and renders us victims of our own inadequacies, revealing our failure to appreciate its true nature.

I ask where the contrition is when they remind me of this. They say that is not the point. How one could even wager, let alone see the point when change as the pivot seems ethereal, I also wonder. At least we all ask the question in unison. Then a montage that in just a few minutes tells the story rams in the point. There is quiet as it streams past us. It is as if the spirits of deprivation and sorrow are in a cataleptic procession as we revel in our bacchanal silos. So then, that we are ways removed from epiphany, it seems is truly irrelevant, but whose significance my efforts to make them see yield nothing. I insist that we do not need to accept failure, although I know that my assumption that they also realize the import of the ubiquity of the perceptual sore we behold may be wrong.

I remind them that our inherent ability to grant change is given. They in turn strive to ground me on the virtue of constancy. The dialogue becomes a tussle, each person entrenched. The ensuing chaos seems only to irradiate a more grotesque mosaic. “We must act,” I cried. The cool response to my fervour must fluster, even the most zealot. We cannot seem to agree that we could help and how, to begin with. Our variegated world views bestride us. The argument rages even as the parody of life beams in our midst. From time to time, I feel the need to answer questions on the meaning of the commonality to which we all admit. I welcome the feeling, even as the answers continue to elude me, and I tell them so. They demure, which although conjures tacit concord, is not enough.   

Nonetheless, their reaction inspires hope. It suggests insight, no matter how basic. I take the chance each time this feeling lurks to establish my position even more vigorously. They listen but then nothing changes. They just do not seem to see that it is insufficient to ballyhoo perceptual lucidity. Then, it strikes me that perhaps a different approach would help. I reckon we need to complement the perceptual prowess in which we so much pride. Part of the problem I affirm, is the cognitive myopia we fail to spot, our failure to harness our inner vision to overcome the challenges we cower so much faced with. They muse, and then agree. I tell myself that a little dithering is nothing with which I cannot contend. For me, the journey continues in increments. That is okay for now.

As if the montage comprehends our debate, more compelling reasons to support our potential to embrace change appear. It soon becomes obvious that elements of the montage represent both aspects of the polar chasm we aim to bridge. This makes it even clearer to us the wedge of the dichotomy that handicaps us. The dialogue goes on. We seem to be moving forward faster, albeit still with conspicuous caution. Inside me, my pleasure is bulging to shearing point. It is edifying that we no longer reel in spiritual drunkenness. Our visions, within and without, increasingly converge. Questions now flow quicker and in both directions, answers more focused, yet revealing. No one party is complacent about the subject anymore. Our differences persist but we agree on the major issues.

Even the details start to coincide. Harmony still has not established any hegemony, as the need to continue to dialogue thankfully seems to have. We agree to accept our station in the grand scheme in which we operate, to acquire the wisdom to change it. We also agree to always prepare for the challenges that would rattle us every now and then as we seek and effect change.  At this point, memories of my mentors flash through my mind in shimmering packets, even as the dialogue continues, the exchanges sometimes fiery. This is reassuring, as not being sure sometimes where the dialogue leads, our resort to where it emanates from redirects us.

We all agree to reinforce change. Then, we see its results in the montage. It is no longer crowded with mournful images immobilized in time and space, their faces seemingly engraved in awkwardness. Gradually, the erstwhile meshwork of doom morphs into our faces, then into a face, my face. I shuffle gently in my seat, my gaze still focused, actually on nothing. My spirits are high. The bus driver announces the next stop. It is all abrupt. The dialogue is over, at least for now.