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Discernible Error

Discernible Error

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Published by Kwesi Agboletey

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Published by: Kwesi Agboletey on Jan 30, 2010
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07/23/2010

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Frederick Kwesi Great AgboleteyStockholm, Sweden
Discernible Error
The Confusion That Is Us
A figment of the collective imagination, an illusive shadowthat walks the fringes of reality, like the shadow retreatingwith the dawn, mirroring the dawning of a new day. Yet notthe awaited arrival of things bright and beautiful. The lightthat dispels the fear of darkness, he was not of thedarkness, he was a shadow of the darkness, an entity thatfound meaning and description not in the light, but thatsignified the creeping dawn. He was an isolated realitywhose existence was denied in one instance and soughtafter with feverish despair to be snuffed out like the softflames of a candle, the next. He was the voice of athousand thoughts; struggling to find expression, heembodied the idealistic and realistic musings of fleetingthoughts in the buzz of frenzied action. He ruminated thethoughts of the masses. Giving voice to the million silentshouts of despair among wandering and wondering minds.He strode with the stride of a wounded tiger; theundisplaced, yet mature anger gave him the cocky stanceof a floating fly dragon, yet he was humility personified. Hiswildness had been tamed to docile civility by the sublimeprocesses of socialisation. But his anger was a self-consuming desire seeking direction of appeal. The casehad been presented, not once, but it has become a tediumthat has lost the novelty appeal of structured conveyance,the first time around. Yet like the mantra of a vestal virgin,the song repeated again, is better than the one just aboutbeing completed.
 
Another day dawns, the light comes very early, as early astwo a.m. the brief darkness begins to unfold and thehorizon beyond the glass window panes assumes darkershades of varied yellow, reminders of spectacular sunsetsin shades of orange. The summer light, this part of theworld, is an abundant overplay of clarity, lighting andheating in a seeming overcompensation for the prolongeddarkness of winter, enough to light, at times even thedarkest of souls.He is a moving ball of distorted emotions on the downsideof life. Uncoordinated rage criss-crosses his fragileemotional zone in non-specific lashes of overlappingmultivariegated shades of off-colour red, filling him, way upwith unresolved emotional differences, that he has onlybarely began to appreciate, least of all understand. Overthirty years of age, brimming with visions and ideas,unfulfilled, with yesterdays lingering despairs clawingtenaciously into today's sorrow.From some infrequently accessed grey brain region,suddenly there spreads unto the memory screen, scenes ofa small tropical island, dry and rocky. Its white houses,seemingly bleached by the ocean waters lapping itsscrawny shores. The graves in its cemetery had the look ofsomething well cared for, but that could benefit from majormaintenance works. Like the neatly painted houses in thepoorer sections of town, carefully held together only by theinvisible bonds of hopes nurtured by hearts bleached ofsorrow. Structures lighted from some extreme artisticviewpoint, delighting in the higher, brighter shades ofprimary colours; the best effort only seems to accentuatethe extremities of poverty. The people, on that little island,they sang sad sweet songs, cracked the big rocks thatlittered the shores into small collections of gravels; the task
 
was pursued by many of the people who lived there, onthat little island, with a consciousness and attention thatexceeded the requirements of the task. It was a taskpursued with the avid determination of desperation. Themeaningfulness bequeathed the task cried of the need fordefinition, a definition of not what it is that they are doing,rather what their purpose to life was, is and going to be. Onthat lonely place, out of time and place, it was a placewhere they sought to give life more than a passing glance,before retreating to the approaching darkness, whereperhaps they will find something that gives peace.
He remembered the assistant headmaster of the famous secondary school he attended in Cape Coast, Mr Bart,reflecting on his path through life "... most of you boys are overeager to be science students, yes, in my days it was no different, the competition was tough, and eventually, I was also one of the chosen few...that was many years ago and hundreds of gallons of coffee and countable hours of sleep. Today, I am an assistant headmaster while some of those who we thought were dunderheads are today heading 'big organizations' and doing well in politics.Maybe if I had also studied political science at thuniversity I could very well be an important government official today, and not just an assistant head . . ." 
Words uttered expansively, captured with vivid clarity bysubtle processes in a far away place and recalled with vividclarity these many years later and in so far away a place.Yet still, he may have overlooked a few things in his favour,by dint of being a teacher in a boys school, he occupied ahill top bungalow and inspired great fear in a thousandboys every passing day of the academic year, not only as aresult of his enormous bulk, but he was quick to use the

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