Change

By

George O. Obikoya

It is almost as if the plan would work. The tide recedes momentarily. They stay up late and wake early to work on it. They say they deserve it. The kerfuffle does not seem to bother them. As long as things go their way they say. History matters little too. Nor does being unidentifiable as they claim mean much or being called different names. Some even boast openly that they enjoy the stealth. All agree that they need it.

Angst seems more pervasive though. In private many concede danger looms. Harvests have been poor for consecutive years. The less initiated clamour for action openly, apparently oblivious to being so pelted.  They invoke self-censure, their adversaries clearly unimpressed. Everyone discusses it albeit as their public face. They also discuss the nearness of another season, palpably of draught this time laden with promise of a new dawn, which seems the scary part.

Meetings drag on resolving nothing but crooked facial contours bespeaking gloom slightly differently, still contours nonetheless. Some even claim the deadlock is part of the problem, in so far as grand narratives trump. Alignments of other sorts are in perpetual motion, some argue over nothingness, the meat rotting in tandem by the way. It seems though most high up worry about other things, which somehow permeate beyond the gentry in the end, anyway.  

Yet, they concur on the need to act, to keep up the face, not hide it in shame. So, the shenanigans rumble on, as everyone professes they should, motion that tells all else the running is well underway. It takes a surreptitious move to keep the nays going too, as the smile belies rancour within, as those, the declared bona fide faceoff their entrenched brethrens.

For days now nothing changes. The hierarchy of lineages wait they say in vain. The descent speeds up in camera they claim, as even then chain plays the game before them to see. The bosses remain the face divided many insist, based on bickering channels to the same. This, the nays remind the others is the name of the game they seek to change from within, but to no avail, to which the mute response many contend speaks loud enough to what the people need, enough of the game.

They pray for rain everyday in the media. It seems no one listens to anyone anymore. Here too dissension is rife it seems, the language though ever the same people apparently flustered, say. They add that something has to change, before it is too late, that someone has to think differently for a change. But all that is talk, even among them voices say. The bottom is for real it seems for now others argue, given the periodic talk of change.

Those watching it all from the sidelines say they have nothing to say. They claim no one listens anyway, or even wants them to say that they know what really obtains. In some quarters, that muscle revels in darkness is ominous of the imminence of change. Everyone seems to agree, except on what change there needs be made.

News arrives one day that their cousins across the hills now plead for support from whoever has enough to spare. An emergency meeting of the leadership fails to convey any help but support that they share fate the same. What they decide to keep from the missive is they agree known anyway to all their kin. They also say that their cousins must bicker, the same as they do to ease the pain.

Some thank their resolve to stay the course for the shame that seems at bay, never mind they insist their cousins warn the tide flows all ways these days. They continue to claim to have the answers that they need to make all happy again. Brighter days loom, they say. Patience they claim roots for the lame. The lame though seems to think otherwise the nays remind the bunch, only to be pelted again with needing fuller inside credentials to gain.

Then word spreads that someone is squealing again. The pointers the ayes say are at the nays. Somehow there seems no dispute even if they all agree it matters little nays or ayes. They agree the family lays ruined anyway, no matter who spills the game. All that needs be is for all to jazz especially now that music seems so far away, they say. They agree to keep the face alive, for the game to stay the same. 

But the leak goes on. And so they patch to save the day. The sideliners remain silent it seems, although it speaks more than words can ever say. And the bosses hear them too they claim, and they want to do the best they can to make the change. They agree that their folks deserve better than that, change being what they need and not just want, although on what and how much to give they dissent as ever again.

Many on the outside say they wonder how they arrive where they are. Others wonder aloud why they do, and argue matters are inevitable how they were to be where they are. The leaders say they hear them loud enough to contend what they say, that what their cousins do determine how others are. They say that is why they work so hard to change their cousins so it pervades everywhere again.

So change must come from without they insist, for same to happen within. So they wait, in the sidelines again, for change they claim may never come their way. The bosses meanwhile also wait to save the face they claim. So they keep the game the same, until their cousins, change and it spreads their way.

Before long the wait abruptly ends. It seems clear to all that the plan is not going to work, after all. The leaks continue. The patches no longer hold. The tide recedes this time unabated until it is all dry. In its wake lie suits all around the powerhouse. No one seems to swim anymore. That there is nothing in which to swim is evident. And that the sideliners now know change has finally come their way also too.