Feature Article of Sunday, 31 August 2014

Columnist: Kwarteng, Francis

It is a six-storied apartment complex. Folk consensus had it that it is The Country, so-called. Uncle Kweku Bonsam occupies the sixth floor, Aunt Kweku Bonsam the first floor. An anonymous straggle of characters takes up the intervening floors. And as is always the case, Uncle Kweku Bonsam duly pays Aunt Kweku Bonsam one of his many clandestine conjugal visits.

When? Today. Conjugal visit? Really? Somehow. Not really! What is it then? Surely we shall come back to this question again as it is left hanging in the emotional cobweb of The Peoples jaded imagination.

Uncle Kweku Bonsam and Aunt Kweku Bonsam have a gorgeous daughter between them. She answers to the name Akua Bonsam. But she is not merely a daughter as everyone else thinks but a son as well, a not-so-conscientious one at that. Akua Bonsam is an intersexual mystery, a male shadow clothed in the moral fiber of feminism, who suffers from a paralysis of the limbs, of the eyes, of the mind, the collective conscious. Of the eyes? Yes. Blindness. Akua Bonsam was born out of a fractious relationship of syphilitic poetry and chlamydial journalism and gonorrheic novelism. And although, she is indisputably actively motile and forever seems to be on the move developmentally and culturally and economically, she is glued to a fantastic fate of perpetual immobility. Her unapologetically pathetic situation, however, is indistinguishable from the Cartesian spatiality of existential actualities, which any true lover of political mathematics should of course want to associate with the point-set topology of circles.

That is the state of political affairs. It seems. Thus, moving endlessly in hazy circles is as problematically confusing as running back and forth on a misty treadmill of linear paths of political indecision, for prescience, a cultivated virtue by many a great man and woman, is not a functional locationality of ideational simplicity as exemplified by emotional circularity and sentimental linearity. Akua Bonsam, a mere six-year-old automaton, is deep asleep breathing heavily at the hour of her father Uncle Kweku Bonsams stealthy arrival in Aunt Kweku Bonsams neurotic one-bedroom apartment. Aunt Kweku Bonsams alert eyes quickly throws up a ray of fast-moving suspicion through slits of flooding light at a stranger fully attired in a mystery of forlorn darkness. She inches closest to the mystery of forlorn nightlines. Who is it? says she.

It is I! says he in a muffled tone, a playful act typical of a character on the verge of giving birth to a sensual bubble of childish mischief.

Immediately Aunt Kweku Bonsam auditorially catches up with the familiar voice of erotic presence. She gives the starving door a romantic nudge, letting him in on tiptoe. Before long, emotional shadows of hushed tones from scenes of conversational foreplay dissolve into assorted physical entanglements of aphrodisiac oneness on Aunt Kweku Bonsams lousy lone couch, each passionately fondling the other for the sensual whereabouts of his or her lost soul. Akua Bonsams visual tentacles are wide awake, piercing through the emotional concrete of nightly romance.

In no time running-beads of ghostly moans and groans of pretense slowly arrive at the doorstep of her argus-eyed ears. Akua Bonsam is jolted out of her deathlike sleep into an elderly world of sinful wakefulness. She sits up hesitantly, staring straight ahead into the fast-approaching distance. Her perceived blindness cuts through another thick fog of sheepish sleepiness, ultimately settling her focused attention on her parents sinusoidal lockstep of erotic rhythmicity. Her visual fixture on her parents sinful political nature goes on uninterruptedly for about six minutes or so. It does not take too long, however, before the sweltering sun of her cold stare gnaws into the rigid distance of telepathic conscience separating her from her mother, ultimately melting the distance into outwardly radiating smokescreens behind which lie buried layers of ignoble pretentions deriving from her parents political prostitution. The aura of Aunt Kweku Bonsams guilty conscience wakes up to Akua Bonsams righteous anger. Mother, what do you think you are doing? asks the latter.

That spontaneous question from Gods voice! The smiling sun of existential reality sets in nonetheless, instantaneously ceasing its rotatory progression around the earth of wickedness, paralyzing the romance of nightly confidence.

See the article here:
Is Democratic Imperialism The Answer (1)?