Mayowa, How Do You Feed the World?

Mayowa.

Yes?

Yes? I’m listening.

Good. It’s good to know you’re listening, that’s very very good to know.

Question: How Do You Feed the World?

What?

Yes? How do you feed the world?

Hmm. Hold on Professor. Hold on hold on hold on.

I just got off an ominous call with my father. He just made me aware of the mind-darkening possibility that he might lose his job very soon.

That’s heavy. I also talked with my mother a while ago. She’s not at all happy with the state of things in Nigeria- the country where birth happened to designate as the starting point for my journey of life. She says the prices of commodities are rising, and that civil servant salaries aren’t exactly following suit. That is worrying- that is very worrying.

I haven’t received pocket money from home in about a year. Well I also haven’t asked. And so maybe it makes sense. Maybe that makes sense.

Well the truth is that I haven’t asked, because I am undeniably ensconced in the awareness that there does not really exist any money on the other end for me.

The condition is made even worse with the current exchange rates. Conversion to dollars turns already inconsequential Naira into impotent wind.

Wait professor what were you asking me again? How to what? How to feed the what?

Hold on. Hold on, hold on, hold on. Give me a little more time, please give me a little more time.

Give me a little more time, I’m on my way.

So. My roommate went shopping earlier today. Costco. Apparently it’s an American thing. I told him to get me cinnamon bread while he was at it. I love cinnamon bread. I’ve practically been addicted since he first introduced me to it.

Did I give him the money to buy my dear cinnamon bread for me with?

Nah. Nah, not exactly.

Do I have the money to pay him back?

Nah. Nah, not exactly.

Do I know when- when exactly I’m going to be able to pay my roommate back for said Cinnamon bread?

Nah. Nah not exactly.

Wait wait. What was your question again? How to what? Feed the what? How to feed the what?

The world? How to feed the world?

Ah. Ah okay. Okay I got it. Okay I’m ready now.

You are- without consideration for all of my concerned conditions, suggesting that I put myself up on a very very very very very privileged thinking pedestal. Suggesting that I assume a shoe size that some people- people who other people genuinely, deservedly, feel should be taken seriously, will say is too big for my minuscule self, but Professor there’s no problem, I assure you there is none- none at all, None whatsoever Professor. None, I assure you.

I should be up to the task- I mean, I should, I have to, that’s the point of all of this isn’t it?

Alright.

So.

You know what I’m going to do?

I’m going to ignore the fact that the person life is addressing me as right now, is in stark dissonance with whoever it is that your question Professor, is currently addressing me as.

Cases in Point:

According to Bank of America right now, I am worth negative ten dollars.

And that’s just by the way- there’s still overdraft protection pending.

But that’s not the issue.

The issue right now is the world- the double u double u double u, the whole wide world; how do we feed IT?

 

According to my father right now, do you know who I am?

You don’t? You don’t know who I am?

Ah. Okay. Hold on. Hold on let me do some exposition:

Who am I?

I am the quotidian hunger-stricken boy originating from the land mass of Africa-

I am the nondescript bony prepubescent humanoid reverently, non-negotiably because that just is the way things have to be, clad in hunger pants-

I am a faceless straggler in the eyes of Mister oh-ah-all-of-the-interesting-and-exciting-planetary-progress-

I am a severely nondistinctive individual who, for some incontestably unearthable, cavernously-nested reason-

reason,

reason amenable to intimation ONLY by the perpetually indecipherable overarching intelligence agency of the can-be-depended-on-to-be-ever-elusive divine,

[individual]

has undeservedly, note: undeservedly, been spared some crumbs of omni-benevolent pity by being extricated from the infernal imbroglio of the otherwise inescapable continental snare of concentrated woe.

And that- that, ladies and gentlemen, is who I am.

But of course, all of that does not matter. I have just been asked a question.

And I should step up to the plate:

Mayowa.

Mayowa.

Mayowa,

Mayowa, How do you feed the World?

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Eventuality Theory.

A not-eactly-non-deleterious attitude, is one that insistently compensates self for arguably-optimal decisions, by relentlessly propounding the reification of adversarial eventualities.

An eventuality node: An outcome tributary. An inside-out confluence of outcomes.

 

To be continued.

It’s 12:38 AM. / Grogue is Traditional Cape Verdean Rum.

“——Something something something in Creole—— Supinha?”

My mind reads “Soup”inha.

A tray is before me- in the tray are small cups, each in which some amount of yellow pudding has been poured.

I like the yellow pudding. The first time I had some was just a little short of a year ago. Someone was having a birthday celebration by the beach.

It’s ground corn, boiled into a pasty pudding and infused with tasty pieces of chicken.

Yes I’d like some “soup”inha.

The tray is turned away. I wait for it to face me again.

Someone died.

Someone died in the house.

I’m in front of a door; about ten minutes ago I was a passer-by. Now I’m among the group offering condolences- supplying needed empathy.

There is food.

“How did she die?”

“——Some muttering in Creole—— Cancer.”

Ah. Genetic mutation. Unusual+Unhealthy cell proliferation. Intravasation into bloodstream. Metastasis. Progressive decline in health.

I have an idea what he means.

There’s grogue. Grogue is traditional Cape Verdean rum.

I’m not touching grogue. Not again. Not after my last experience with the drink.

I don’t really know what a hangover is. I’m not really sure.

The last time I had grogue, the following morning had me embarrassingly slide-tackled by trauma.

Post-inebriation misery, that was what I called it. I don’t think that had ever happened to me- not really. Maybe, maybe once, maybe just a headache serious enough not to be forgotten.

But anything even close to the scale of what I experienced on that post-grogue morning, nah. Nothing like that.

There is cake.

There is coffee. And milk. And sugar.

I take lots of sugar. I end up mining sugar from the bottom of my cup with a spoon.

There is couscous.

I saw one man take couscous with butter.

Couscous is interesting with butter. Usually things are interesting with butter.

I think it was butter. Or margarine. Honestly I’m not sure if I can tell these days.

Empathy. Food.

A number of classmates (previous? classmates?) are making some measure of contribution towards finding a cure for cancer.

I recently wrote a Statistics paper- one I felt expressed a novel perspective. One I feel could prove invaluable if employed towards causes like the worldwide battle against cancer.

Writing a paper is one thing. Getting needed feedback from percieved-to-be authoritative audiences is another.

Life was telling me I was probably done with the “Gifted student” phase of my life.

I’m something of a businessman now.

More cake. Just milk now.

The milk is very warm. It’s a chilly evening- warm is welcome.

More couscous. More couscous with butter.

A number of experiences are commonalities across the cultural human spectrum.

Death is one.

Premature death, is one. It doesn’t have to be.

It doesn’t have to be?

I don’t know.

I’ve been encountering a lot of difficulty working to think on a scale far larger than myself.

I had a recent conversation with someone who I used to consider a guardian of sorts.

She mentioned that usually people just want to be safe. Have a job, have money, have some sort of a safe comfortable space in which to exist.

I did not know that.

I legitimately did not know that.

But the issue then is, there are mishaps that’ll never be eradicated if every single person insisted on a perpetual implementation of staunchly self-centered thinking.

I’ve been working with Nash’s equilibrium- Working to live a life that’s best both for myself, and for society- on whatever scale it is I feel is appropriate.

How well is that working out? It’s considerably difficult to say.

Does it make sense to apply Nash’s equilibrium as a life directive, if it is almost certain that the preponderance of people will be virtually entirely self-oriented individual(with some room)-minded thinkers?

I don’t know. I’m not sure.

They’ve replenished the cake.

More cake.

There’s red wine now.

No wine Mayowa, no wine.

Get juice this time. Get juice this time.

A woman in one of the rooms is crying. Maybe not literally crying, but she’s expressing sorrow. Number of people are consoling her.

I do not know who died.

I do not know anybody here.

Whoever it is that died, once walked through this passageway in which I now stand.

If I was standing here, at this same spot a number of days ago, she would probably have bumped into me at some point.

Probably.

Probably.

I’ve been thinking about outcomes recently.

Outcomes. Outcomes of events. Outcomes, and events.

Outcomes, effort, aims, anticipation, and how powerful of a variable outcomes-aimed-for, are in determining future emotional states.

Events, and how powerful of an entirely unexpected blindsider they can constitute.

Recently I’ve not been wary of events as much, not really. Not really.

It’s people that bother me.

People, and the intensely bothering fact that some some people, for some extremely annoying reason, are somehow capable of harboring adversarial intentions towards others.

It’s one thing to be blindsided by an event.

It’s another thing entirely to be blindsided by a human being.

It is another thing. Another thing entirely.

I’ve been having childhood memories come up in my head.

Vivid. Very vivid. Very very vivid childhood memories.

I’ve left the bereavement group.

I’m in front of some club at Terra Boa now.

I got lost on the way home.

I’ve been getting lost like a blindfolded puppy recently.

Sometimes I find my way back home. In the dark. With very little visual aid.

And that feels great.

But sometimes I get lost. Sometimes I get very lost.

Like the day I found myself in front of the island prison.

The prison is so far from anywhere else on the island.

I do not know how, in the name of the sneezing King Solomon, I found myself at the prison. That’s one of the most isolated buildings in this place.

The watchman who drove me back to civilization’s subordinate here, told me,

“You were very lost”.

I did not disagree.

I got lost again today.

Lost right now, relative to the building that happens to currently serve as home for me, that is.

I’m pretty sure if you gave me a map I could point out my location on the surface of the earth with reasonable precision.

Yeah map. Well done. Mister Compass. Mister intuitive navigator.

Like a map will save me from this cold right now.

Somebody stole my phone.

I’ve been thinking about attitudes recently; attitudes and the effect differences in attitude have on individuals’ life paths, consequent of the inspired reactions to upheaval-effecting events.

Somebody stole my phone.

How should I react?

I could feel sad and indignant and cheated and not do much else.

i could heap a mountain of curses on the person.

I could plead with God to heap a mountain of curses on the person.

I could buy another phone. I could work towards- make concrete plans towards, buying another phone.

I could let it go. I could tell myself these things happen for the better, and that something more desirable is coming my way.

I could get pissed, and stubbornly insist that I be upset and uncomfortable- I could employ the anger and discomfort in tracking down the thief and collecting my hard-earned valuable from him.

That was what I did for my MacBook Pro.

The thief was some tiny human being like that.

I’m a big guy. I’m something of a big guy. I’m gradually becoming aware of that.

I don’t know about my phone. It’s been a while.

At what point does tenacity become baggage?

At what point is it more profitable to just let things go- to let things slide?

I don’t know.

It’s 12:35 AM.

I think clubs are another commonality across the cultural human spectrum.

I wish I had internet connection. I wish I had maps. If I had maps I would not not be having any problems right now.

But somebody stole my phone.

In my perspective, letting things go is difficult.

Letting things go is very difficult. I do not know how people do it.

Like honestly, I do not know how other people do it.

It’s 12:38 AM.

Miscarriage.

Is it not difficult enough- the tensive endeavour towards becoming a thing, is it not?

Is it not onerous enough- the ever-present exertion consequent of not exactly having a forerunner?

Consequent of not exactly having an already beaten path facilitating calm treading?

Facilitating an attenuation of otherwise ever-present oppressively overbearing exertion,

is it not is it not Is it Not?

 

Then what is to happen- no honestly, what is to fucking happen- what should the reaction be, when upon a hard-earned- upon an extremely hard-earned encounter with some measure of progress, an adversarial external variable- a variable that is not even supposed to exist in the mind of the concerned protagonist, swoops in from nopwhere to steal said progress- what the caterwhauling fuck is this life even, somebody please tell me.

 

Defence is needed.

 

There is the quiet elation borne of the having to require defence- there is the quiet elation.

 

Elation because defence assumes to be the case, that a thing has been become. That one has become? A thing?

 

I do not know. It’s tricky, it is- it really is difficult to say.

 

Nested loop?

 

Self fulfilling prophecy?

 

Maybe. Who knows.

 

Random thought- I miss being in love.

 

There is very little available for succour.

 

There is the hunger. There is the flunctuating assurance every once in a while inspired by the prescence of a plan- by the prescence of planning.

 

I miss being in love. That is not a random thought.

 

Miscarriage.

On loss, setback, misery, agony, direly-hoped-to-be-productive unrelenting self-loathing, and intimately valuable progress lost to the east wind.

 

I miss being in love.

Conversation with Salihu.

It is early evening.

Man A and Man B are seated by a wood fire.

Every five minutes or so, Man B stokes said fire. Man B is the Fire Continuity Ensurer.

Man A is staring into the fire, amused by the flames and deep in thought.

 

Man A: Man B Man B!

Man B: Man A Man A!

Man A: How you doing? You good?

Man B: *looking sleepy eyed, maybe to minimize exposure to smoke*

I’m good, I’m good.

 

Man A: I have a question.

Man B: Hm. Okay. Ask me your question. Ask me, I’m listening.

Man A: Okay great. Here’s my question: Where was all of this firewood obtained from?

Man B: Ah, Espargos. The other man- you know him, he goes to bring the firewood from Espargos.

Man A: Ah, Espargos. Ah.

Man A: Another question: Many other people go to procure firewood from the same location do they not?

Man B: Yes. Yes that’s true.

 

Man A: Alright. Good. Now please take a look at the pieces of wood currently fueling this fire.

Man B: Okay. Okay, I’m looking.

Man A: Great. Question: About how long will it take for these pieces of wood to burn out completely?

Man B: Hmm. Hm, about fifteen minutes thereabouts. About fifteen minutes thereabouts.

Man A: Good. Very good. Now another question: How long did it take for the same pieces of wood, to grow?

Man B: Ah. *laughs* You have just asked me a difficult question, Man A. You have just asked me a difficult question.

Man A: *laughs* Haha, okay. Okay. But here: Do you agree that it takes much much less time to burn all of this wood, than it takes to grow it?

Man B: Ah. Maybe. Maybe.

Man A: What happens if at some point the wood in the forest is completely depleted before more can grow as a replacement?

Man B: Nah, the wood no finish. The wood is from the God. The God put more wood. The wood no finish. The wood is from the God.

 

It is early evening.

Man A and Man B are seated by a wood fire.

Every five minutes or so, Man B stokes said fire. Man B is the Fire Continuity Ensurer.

Man A is staring into the fire, amused by the flames and deep in thought.

 

 

Conversation with Salihu.

 

Demand. Supply. / Tie and Dye will Atrophy.

Demand. Supply.

Demand. Supply.

Demand. Supply.

 

The obstinate undyingness of the intriguingly-variegated cultural zeitgeist, gives way to math.

 

Is it not obvious?

Do you not see it?

How. Do tell me- how, do you not feel it on the inside of you?

 

Please, I really could use some exposition- how does it not bother you?

Why, please indulge me, is a reaction borne from the dire need to strongly oppose this discomforting trend, seen, in lieu of being normal- natural- expected even, in whose abscence probing questions should be asked, as seemply a self-indulgent desire for accomplishment- WHAT?????

 

Your head is either starkly-dissapointingly small, or contemptibly unclean; I’m sorry.

I’m sorry- very sorry dear sir- I really am sorry, but I just had to say it.

 

Demand. Supply.

Art and Craft as an entity- dignified in itself, is trumped by Price.

 

Demand. Supply.

Tie and Dye will atrophy. It really is all just a matter of time.

 

Demand. Supply.

Economics trumps culture. It just is the way it is. And there is more coming.

There. Is. More, coming.

 

Demand. Supply.

The obstinate undyingness of the intriguingly-variegated cultural zeitgeist, gives way to math.