For love, even love of country, is a fragile thing. One so easily contaminated, corrupted, defaced and diluted by the pain of serial disappointments, moribund hopes and existential fears.
By Napoleon Esemudje
Here is a truism for all who have dared to love. We cry twice; first with joy and then with pain. We are afflicted it might appear, by these contending tugs of emotions regardless of our love interest including, as in this case, our country of birth. Though many would deny being susceptible to such sentimental concerns, one could argue that with the possible exception of hapless babies delivered amidst the wartime fury of gunfire and bombardment, many of us arrived wide-eyed and with eager hearts, beating with affection not just for our parents but also for this sprawling, new land of our birth.
For here in this country, in several acts of childhood, was the scene of our first conscious thought and where we first found our voice with our first language. Here was the sanctuary of our first home and neighbourhood. Here was the edifying ground of our first school where we played and made fast friends. Here was the venue of our first songfest and our first dance. Here, perhaps was the setting for our first crush and our first fight. And here too, to the sounds of marching bands and the fervent cheers of compatriots, was also the arena for our first patriotic anthem and dreams for our country. Dreams and hopes so lofty, they were filled only with images of grand victories, giant heroes and winning possibilities for our country. Yes, those were the years of innocence and the age of hope in a seeming era of goodness, when all things appeared possible and difficult times were simply moments of adventure. But now those times seem so quaint; with memories so faint that playback is often in fading dark colours.
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For love, even love of country, is a fragile thing. One so easily contaminated, corrupted, defaced and diluted by the pain of serial disappointments, moribund hopes and existential fears. Because for all its worth, living in a country where leaders care less about public trust and more about vain ambitions steered by a floundering moral compass, generates streetwise reactions of visceral cynicism and morbid endurance. These are the symptoms of our communal broken hearts, the aftereffect of a people suffering from the unrequited love of country. A country with so much potential, but where so many have so little of the basic essentials of life. To love a country like this is hard. To love its flaws and failures is harder. But to see it beaten and broken again and again by rapacious villains is the cruelest of heartbreaks.
Even so, true love is a stubborn thing and despite the heavy burden of aches we carry, many still love this country. From the mangrove wetlands to the coastal lowlands, from the forested hinterlands to the central grasslands, from the hilly borderlands to the shimmering deserts, and all the natural goodness that lies in between. We inhaled life in these lands and the love for our birth land never truly dies. For no matter where we go, how far we turn and how deep we hide or bury them, these first memories of our country will forever stay with us. It is but the pull of our ancient bloodlines to remind us of what is yet possible. And though we will cry still and bicker more with every beat of our broken hearts, we remain hopeful that someday, we will rekindle this love of country and our hearts will heal.
- Napoleon Esemudje writes from Lagos.