Did the gods not bless you with nimble fingers? To strum your guitar, to dance Zazuu on their whispers? But when you scoff at their struggle, their strife, you forget, you are but a note in their symphony of life. You now remembers they are lazy and jobless, yet they buy your music and dance to it, even as they usually hail you on the streets.
In the heart of the village, where the sun kisses the earth and the mango trees whisper secrets, there lived two children. One, blessed by the gods, carried a radiant aura, a halo of fortune and favor. The other, unnoticed by the divine, bore the weight of ordinary days.
The first child danced through life, his path strewn with petals. His harvest was abundant, and his laughter echoed in the market square. The villagers marveled at his luck, attributing it to the gods’ benevolence. “He is backed by the heavens,” they whispered, eyes wide with awe.
But the second child, ah, his story unfolded differently. His days were a tapestry of struggle.
He fetched water from distant wells, his tiny hands calloused. Hunger gnawed at his belly, and dreams eluded him like fireflies slipping through his grasp. The gods, it seemed, had turned their gaze away.
One moonlit night, the children met by the ancient baobab tree. The favored child, his robes embroidered with stardust, spoke with pride. “Little brother,” he said, “see how the gods smile upon me. My path is paved with gold.”
The other child, eyes like twilight, listened. He traced patterns in the sand with his bare toes. “Brother,” he replied, “your blessings blind you. The gods favor you, but do you see the hunger etched on my face? The ache in my bones? Their gaze is not upon me.”
And so, they sat, a paradox of fate. The favored child, ignorant of hardship, and the overlooked child, resilient in his quiet suffering. The baobab tree leaned in, its ancient roots drinking stories from the soil.
“Listen,” whispered the tree, “for wisdom flows like the river. The child backed by the gods dances upon petals, but he knows not the thorns that pierce others. His laughter echoes, but does he hear the silent cries?”
The overlooked child spoke, his voice a river’s murmur. “The gods weave destinies, but their loom is vast. Some threads are spun with silk, others with coarse hemp. To be favored is a privilege, but to be unseen is a lesson.”
Given the backdrop of the foregoing proverbial anecdote, it is germane to report in this context that amid the economic hardship faced by virtually everyone in Nigeria that scandalous Nigerian singer, Portable, has proudly stated that there is no reason for the planned nationwide protest.
Recall that many Nigerians, under various bodies, are planning a nationwide protest between August 1 and 10, 2024, following the rising cost of living under President Bola Tinubu’s administration.
Speaking in a post on his Instagram story on Thursday, July 25, 2024, Portable claimed that there is no reason to protest, arrogantly claiming that people who plan to protest are jobless, and warned that no one should ask him to perform during the protest, even as he attributed the development to laziness.
“It won’t be well with anyone who tells me to perform during the protest. Don’t you have a producer too? You should also collect the mic and join the protest too.
“Please, I need money, I’m hustling. If you take your job seriously, you won’t join the protest. Don’t fight for Nigeria, fight for yourself.
“Nigeria is okay, you are the one who is not okay. There is money in some places, you are the one who did not hustle or not loyal to your helper.
“You are the one who doesn’t make connections. There are people who can help, there are jobs. You are the one who is not working. Fight for yourself,” Portable said.
In fact, when I heard about what Portable said, reminiscence of one of the tales which the elders used to tell us then in the village as children by every passing moonlight overwhelmed my subliminal. The tale revolves around a lazy minstrel who suddenly became rich but became arrogant so much that he sees every other person as being lazy.
Without a doubt, it is germane for this writer to confess that when he heard about what Portable said that the tale which revolves around the lazy minstrel came to mind, and hence I was inspired to through this medium remind him that when the gods crack palm kernels, some fall into abundance, others into hunger, and that the favored child dances, but the overlooked child labors. Both are part of life’s intricate design, a symphony of light and shadow.
So, Portable, as they call you, a melody unbound, your voice a river, and no doubt your rhythm surely profound. Yet, oh, Portable, heed this ancient refrain, for the gods have cracked your palm kernel, my friend. Therefore, remember the toil of the Nigerian youth, their sweat-soaked dreams, and their unwavering truth.
Did the gods not bless you with nimble fingers? To strum your guitar, to dance Zazuu on their whispers? But when you scoff at their struggle, their strife, you forget, you are but a note in their symphony of life. You now remembers they are lazy and jobless, yet they buy your music and dance to it, even as they usually hail you on the streets.
Portable, Portable, listen to the breeze. It carries tales of hunger, of unmet needs. The rising cost of living, like a tempest unkind, yet, you declare, “Nigeria is okay,” so blind.
Did the gods not crack your palm kernel wide? To taste the sweetness of success, of pride? But gratitude eludes you, like a fleeting wisp, as you mock the youth who bear life’s heavy kiss.
So here is my verse, my poetic plea: Portable, be humble, for you are not free. Your melodies may soar, your fame may ascend, but remember the gods, their mercy, and their blend.