No Celebrations For The Trailblazers

Theirs is the call of self-assigned duty that never really ends

The inheritors need not thank those whose heads broke the coconut for them to savor the milk and pulp; just as no one remembers to thank the other trees for ripe fruits plucked — there must be some hidden Wisdom, it’s unimportant what it is called, in the larger sizes, the bright colours and lowered heights of mature fruits — yet the glory goes to eyes that saw and the praise to the hands that aimed or to the skill of the man who appropriates and takes; not to the forces that positioned, prepared and offered to end the hunger pangs.

The hunter never thanks the gun for the game felled by the bullets nor do those who toast the roast ever remember to acknowledge the fire if the meat is not burnt.

The descendants are entitled to enjoy the luxury of being firebrands and wallow in the immunity of being a bit too hot to handle, for they have been guaranteed the basics needs and recognition.

None should envy their good fortune for we who have gone before them to blaze the trail and map the land have no more points here to prove. No celebrations of achievements, no room for loud rowdy show-offs for it’s the call of that never ever ending self-assigned love work wed to the urge to assuage curiosity; and no need to be seen or noticed beyond the reach of works we’ve done splurged all over with the white stuff from what was in our loaded craniums before the river burst through the dams

OU032021