The Shadow

By

George O. Obikoya

In the shadow of another he lingers on faith, in one who dares him to thrive on empty rhetoric, as he hears his missive is, in days he admits perhaps it should be clear, confident of a lack he dreads resultant otherwise.

After much reflection, in which he says he indulges periodically not just as pastime, he concedes the agony rummaging a seemingly infinite cloud for answers to terrestrial trivia drowns. He says he realizes at last the fecundity of any such effort being dismissed as mundane in a grand scheme whose enigma transforms his worldly plane in ways he struggles to comprehend.

Nonetheless, he continues to pursue the shadow, reprocessing dated notions, stuck in a muddle, an elephantine mess whose formative soon clouds his reasoning in what he perceives admittedly paranoiacally which, simultaneously though, seems mitigating, attributing his perceptions to the shadow that plagues reason to him in ways he struggles to explain.

Yet, he listens. He says it is the closest to what he needs in a milieu of choleric scalage inaccessible to reason, defined in innumerable terms that further complicate any attempt to grasp the shadow. He claims it helps to do so for his emotional integrity to make sense, as the enormity of the mystery he pursues tends to tear him into bits.

Since many years he says he remains unconvinced about his contrapuntist tendencies. In as much as he funks to embrace grand narratives, the relativism inherent in cacophonic multiplicity he says also flabbergasts him as the mass of confusion it often sires that he also says aggravates his angst depreciates, he laments, his existence.

A lifelong desire for nirvana seems about to end in an epiphany that his contrarian bent would perhaps relish even if momentarily as probably, not even an avowed skeptic of his ilk would likely deem reminiscent of an inner perception of the shape of the future what he beholds. He knows the shadow remains in view, as it is, an ephemeral he covets for reasons he craves.

At first, the responses to his queries seem to make sense he admits, to the clear delight of another who seems thrilled to be seen as the guru, the all-embracing repertoire of intimacy shrouded in kaftan, ready to render the words he so openly seeks, to ease, he says, his insatiable urge for reprieve of sorts in a dire of yore, responsibility for which he accepts, more so now that the goat he says approaches the Rubicon.

The perfunctory nature of the declared demise of his faith in the shadow that follows though seems to surprise even his guest, which is perhaps indicative of the revelation that would help him approximate his spiritual thirst in more rational ways to enrich his troubled soul, or drown him further in his quest to figure his angst, the elusiveness of both of which however, his apparently surreptitious glances in the direction of his guest would not only imply but also likely unsettle any.

With the abrupt departure of his guest, he is soon on stage, and the shadow, back, right before him, he says, this time even more cryptic, its edges clearer defined to expose, presumably, its interior, which however, is more fluid, contorting the clarity that bears it, in an eternal flow spread in countless dimensions, leaving him more befuddled than ever. He admits his faith must not die, that he would rather be content, be laden with guilt, and be contrite about his nature, hoping the beast in him would tire with time, than for him to deny himself the truth, and lay bare his soul, devoid of faith, regardless of the pain he bears to make the shadow go away.

His audience claps, an applause he says muffles his spirit, which he says breeds conceit, something he clearly abhors, and says does not help his cause, being tired of the mutabilities it bears, which only seem to exaggerate the contortions of the shadow, in seeming fits of rage that an inexplicable veneer attenuates to facilitate the penance from its sting.

He gathers his counsel in desperation as the day nears its end, one he dares everyday to reveal his angst once and for all. He listens, even as he drives back home in patent tension, the aura of perception that mortifies him evident in the real, even as the shadow lurks in between creating the assemblage he so much wants to tease apart, to relieve himself of what he often describes as a sardonic tribe. Yet, he listens, to its counsel.

To chatter, gobble, and be merry he says no longer suffice to soothe his angst. He insists that he has to hear more, what his guest tells him, now and again, just another of the mysteries he hopes someday to unravel, and be free. He says that counts, but laments he may never be free, his oppositional inclinations, admittedly obsidian, which he says counts even more, the visualizations of pieces of his soul the window he longs so much to open to himself, as he wishes others also do for themselves.

Moments later, he pulls over, stares vacantly for a while, and smiles. He mutters to himself, briefly looks in his rear-view mirror, and smiles again as he shoulder-checks and drives off. He says he sees the neons differently now, the hurried assault on his mind by predatory ballyhoos of an array of presumed bounties that negate the reason to understand, let alone explain the shadow, now relic of the grand narratives he shudders to query, flustered.

He says the shadow is gone and he is fine now, which it seems puzzles her. He later apologizes for his words being apparently substitute for the usual welcome peck. He is soon talking about it though, at the dinning table, occasionally casting seemingly curious glances at her, about which she is clearly uncomfortable.

“Another one of those epiphanies?”
“Yes, yes. Another one.”
His abrupt interruption of the silence that follows, seems to her even weirder.
“No, the real one. The real one, this time, the real one,” he roars, apparently transfixed.