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FINAL DRAFT
Pass on the torch still brightly gleaming,
Pass on the hopes, the earnest dreaming
To those who follow close at hand.
Pass on the thoughts, the skills, the learning;
Pass on the secret in most yearning
That they may build where we have planned.
- School Anthem, Queens College Lagos
She was Head Girl of Queens College, Lagos. She came first in her class so often it might as well have been reserved for her. She pushed me to get twice as many As as I would have left to my own devices. She loved Patrick Swayze and Kevin Costner, Anita Baker and Steel Pulse.
She is gone.
A case could be made that by some measures, all loss is by random circumstance. Even the deliberate actions of malicious agencies can be said to be ultimately random if you subscribe to the notion that the universe is driven solely by matter, energy and the interactions between the two within the medium of physical law. Their blind destiny, if you will. Accidents? Well, that's just Cause A, known or unknown, leading to Effect B, unavoidable within the cerebral limits of a species aciculated from a staccato progression of non-fatal errors. A drunk driver is a billiard ball, an inattentive one the same. Loss, in the excremental sense, happens.
So why did none of this help when Ijeoma died?
When you lose that which is most infinitely precious to you -- a sibling, a parent, a child, a limb -- the world shrivels to a tiny sunless nutshell of which you are the only occupant. Grief, it might surprise you to note, is the second most selfish emotion in the human repertoire. The first reflex, predictably, is to reach for your chosen higher power, be it askance, be it in supplication or in declamation, be it even in submission. It's not that there are no atheists in foxholes; it's that atheism is never a default response. Believing comes naturally. Importance is something ascribed and yet, in ourselves, we believe it intrinsic. Buried deeper than bone and held higher than ideals, is the instinctual certainty that we and all things that affect us matter.
That would neatly explain why I asked -- no, demanded -- of the sky that it tell me why the sun should rise while my sister lies, immobile, bloated, destroyed.
Perhaps I seek refuge in comforting emptiness. If nothing matters, then I can consign my painful somethings to the same void. However, the same problem arises -- thinking that what's good for the goose is good for the flock. Guess what, babies? The universe does not give a damn, even if you do. Even emulating it, tuning in to the wavelength of its indifference won't alter the singular fact that you are going to die and so is everything you love or even know.
Her achievements, her music, her favourite actors and just barely, her face. These are the things I remember and would rather myself die than forget.
Note carefully how I've gone over 400 words without mentioning her best friend in the front passenger seat. Her best friend to whose wedding they were headed. With the groom in the backseat. The reasons for this are described above, but to summarize: this is all about me.
What is more selfish than grief? Love, of course. You lose a love and you drop right down to second place, your self-importance smashed on the witless anvil of all that is not you, your mutilated ego dangled before your face by unfeeling fingers. You weep and gnash your teeth but you can strike at nothing. You might as well challenge the thunder with answering roars.
Again, despite the second person, this is still all about me. So, too, with you, and all who grieve.
In the humble opinion of yours truly, making your peace with the workings of the world is treacly submission to the will-less almighty. When the Hurricane Katrina smashed New Orleans, how many of the dead went down praying? Do you imagine it changed the outcome for them by the smallest iota? Of course not; if anyone were listening, they'd have prevented the disaster in the first place. If it was part of their divine plan all along, then praying makes no difference. Will your hopes and dreams impede the next one? Not by the smallest ort. Alternatively, you can plan and strategize as deeply as a comicbook detective but Godel will only roll over in his grave and laugh. You can't plan for everything, the black swans and unknown unknowns are forever waiting in the wings. You can at best lower the odds in your favour.
That said, when the aftermath comes, action feels better than its opposite. You still do something; cry, scream, quietly go through obligatory motions. You act and gain some solace within that context. Personally, I find the most valid response is bitterness. Hold your middle finger high and clutch your hate close, even as you tend the barn and slop the pigs and wait for the next apocalypse.
My sister died and I lived. You live until you die and choose your preferred illusion while you wait. Loss? Random circumstance? These are as old as we are, as old as everything else under the sun; we're born to die. In between, shit happens.
The rest is apophenia.
FIRST DRAFT
How many times can one write and rewrite the same thing before they admit it can only be told truthfully? In this instance, about fifteen times too many. So let us begin. [A BIT SELF-SERVING, AND DOESN'T REALLY FORWARD THE ACTUAL WORK. NOW THAT I'VE READ IT, I KNOW THIS WAS HARD TO WRITE ABOUT, BUT THIS PARAGRAPH AND STALLS LIKE IT STANDS IN YOUR WAY AS A WRITER]
I would like to discuss loss today, specifically the kind where there's no one to blame or hate or even rage impotently against, the kind that just happens in the excremental sense. [THE PHRASING SOUNDS LIKE A COMMENCEMENT SPEECH ... CAN YOU APPROACH THAT ANOTHER WAY? THE READER DOESN'T NEED TO FEEL LIKE IT'S AN ASSIGNMENT. HONESTLY, YOU COULD JUST START WITH THE NEXT SENTENCE FOR ALL I CARE AND WHACK EVERYTHING ABOVE] A case could be made that by some measures, all loss is by random circumstance. Even the deliberate actions of malicious agencies can be said to be ultimately random if you subscribe to the notion that the universe is driven solely by matter, energy and the interactions between the two within the medium of physical law. Their blind destiny, if you will. And accidents? Well, that's just Cause A, known or unknown, leading to Effect B, unavoidable within the cerebral limits of a species aciculated from a staccato progression of non-fatal errors. A drunk driver is a billiard ball, an inattentive one the same.
So why did none of this help when Ijeoma died? [BANG! THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT, APPRENTICE!]
See,["SEE" IS A STALL WORD, LIKE "SO" AND "WELL" -- YOU DON'T NEED IT, IT KILLS MOMENTUM] when you lose that which is most infinitely precious to you:[SWAP COLON FOR DOUBLE DASH, THIS IS ESSENTIALLY A PARENTHETICAL PHRASE] a sibling, a parent, a child, a limb;[LIKEWISE, SWAP SEMICOLON FOR DOUBLE DASH -- THIS PUNCTUATION WAS INCONSISTENT ANYWAY] the world shrivels to a tiny sunless nutshell of which [PERHAPS REPLACE "OF WHICH" WITH "WHERE" -- WORD ECONOMY WHERE YOU CAN] you are the only occupant. Grief, it might surprise you to note, is the second most selfish emotion in the human repertoire. [I LOVE THE WAY THIS PLAYED OUT] The first reflex, predictably, is to reach for your chosen higher power, be it askance, be it in supplication or in declamation, be it even in submission. It's not that there are no atheists in foxholes; it's that atheism is never a default response. [GOOD, GOOD -- NICE TWISTING OF THE APHORISM] Believing comes naturally. Importance is something ascribed and yet, in ourselves, we believe it intrinsic. Buried deeper than bone and held higher than ideals, is the instinctual certainty that we and all things that affect us matter. [THE CERTAINTY OF YOUR PHRASINGS HERE IS THE STUFF OF QUALITY OP-ED]
That would neatly explain why I asked -- no, demanded -- of the sky that it tell me why the sun should rise while my sister lies, immobile, bloated, destroyed. [I WANNA HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THE STRUCTURE OF THE FIRST FIVE OR SIX WORDS, BUT READ ALOUD IT WORKS SO WELL]
It could be [WOULD "PERHAPS" GET YOU THERE FASTER?] that I seek refuge in comforting emptiness. If nothing matters, then I can consign that for which I care ["THAT FOR WHICH I CARE" IS NEEDLESSLY LABYRINTHINE, YOU CAN CLEAN THAT UP] to the same void. However, the same problem arises -[DOUBLE DASH] thinking that what's good for the goose is good for the flock. But guess what, babies:[CUTE] the universe does not give a damn, even if you do. Even emulating it, tuning in to the wavelength of its indifference won't alter the singular fact that you are going to die and so is everything you love or even know.[THIS FEELS FAMILIAR TO ME PERSONALLY -- THE SWEET EMBRACE OF NIHILISM, THE GOSPEL OF THANOS]
Her achievements, her music, her favourite actors and just barely, her face. These are the things I remember and would rather myself die than forget. [THE SHORT DECLARATIVE PARAGRAPHS ARE VERY EFFECTIVE]
Note carefully how I've gone over 400 words without mentioning her best friend in the front passenger seat. Her best friend to whose wedding they were headed. With the groom in the backseat. [OOH. NICE ON MULTIPLE LEVELS, INCLUDING THE SUPERSTITION ABOUT BRIDES AND GROOMS SEEING EACH OTHER ON THE DAY OF THE WEDDING] The reasons for this are described above[ADD COMMA] but to summarize,[SWITCH COMMA TO COLON] this is all about me. What's more selfish than grief? Love[ADD COMMMA] of course. You lose a love and you drop right down to second place, your self-importance smashed on the witless anvil of all that is not you, your mutilated ego dangled before your face by unfeeling fingers. You weep and gnash your teeth but you can strike at nothing. You might as well challenge the thunder with answering roars.[HELL YEAH, GO APPRENTICE! THAT'S SOME SENTENCE WRITIN' FOR YOUR ASS!]
[ADD PARAGRAPH BREAK FOR EFFECT]Again, despite the second person, this is still all about me. So too with you and all who grieve.
Finding your peace with the way the world works is, in the humble opinion of yours truly, treacly submission to the will-less almighty.[WAIT, WHAT? THIS SENTENCE -- WHILE CLEAR ON THIRD READ -- COULD BE A LITTLE EASIER TO DIGEST] When the last Katrina [THERE WERE MORE KATRINAS? DO YOU MEAN "WHEN HURRICANE KATRINA ..."?] smashed New Orleans, how many of the dead went down praying? Do you imagine it changed the outcome for them by the smallest iota? Of course not; if anyone were listening, they'd have prevented the disaster in the first place.[HERE'S A HOLE IN YOUR ARGUMENT -- WHAT OF THE "DIVINE" AND "INEFFABLE" PLANS? GOD WORKING IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS, NOT COMPREHENSIBLE TO MERE MORTALS? I DON'T BELIEVE THAT CRAP, BUT YOU'LL HAVE TO FACTOR IN THE ARGUMENT THAT COULD BE MADE] Will your hopes and dreams impede the next one? Not by the smallest ort.[ORT! HILARIOUS WORD CHOICE, I LOVE IT] Alternatively, you can plan and strategize as deeply as a comicbook detective but Godel will only roll over in his grave and laugh;[RUN ON SENTENCE, SWITCH SEMICOLON FOR PERIOD, INITIAL CAPITALIZE NEXT WORD] you can't plan for everything, the black swans and unknown unknowns are forever waiting in the wings. You can at best lower the odds in your favour[MISSED A PERIOD HERE]
In the aftermath on the other hand[CLUMSY -- PICK "IN THE AFTERMATH" OR "ON THE OTHER HAND," BOTH TOGETHER AREN'T WORKING], action feels better than its opposite. You still do something; cry, scream, quietly go through obligatory motions. You act and gain some solace within that context. Emotionally, though, I find the only valid response is bitterness.[WHILE I UNDERSTAND AND PARTIALLY CONDONE, THIS SENTENCE SEEMS FACILE] Hold your middle finger high and clutch your hate close, even as you tend the barn and slop the pigs and wait for the next apocalypse.[THAT PART I LIKED]
My sister died and I lived. You live until you die and choose your preferred illusion while you wait. Loss? Random circumstance? These are as old as we are, as old as everything else under the sun; we're born to die. In between, shit happens. The rest is apophenia.[KILLER ENDING]
Notes from Editor Hannibal Tabu
Wow.
This is the second assignment so personal that it shook me, and with similar arcs to the stories. Whereas Rumond's was a whirlwind of emotion, your piece is a symphony of language -- the difference between the Los Angeles Times and The New Yorker. Note I said "difference" -- not better nor worse, just different, and equally fit for sale or mass consumption, just to different demographics.
It's funny, because I kind of believe the same thing I said to Rumond in his piece -- your emotion is hiding. With him it was behind discretion and obscurantism, with you it's behind your incalculable brilliance. You get into your sister's existence somewhat but lack detail (what was her music like? which actors did she prefer and why?). You distract with Katrina and language instead of plumbing the depths of first your love for her -- why she meant so much to you -- and then the emotion of her loss.
Yes, that would suck to relive and be horrible to examine in that detail. It's also where some of the strongest writing is.
Don't get me wrong -- you could use this as an op-ed in thousands of publications as is (with copy editing of course) and it would be superb. The only problem? I know you, Chinedum. I know you can do better.
Prove me right.
AFTERTHOUGHT: switch "Ijeoma" and "my sister" in their first instances. I think that'll hit harder. "So why did none of this help when my sister died?" and "... why the sun should rise while Ijeoma lies ..."
What the heck is this assignment again?
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