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Honoring My Mother: SWAHILI DREAM

The most prayerful part in the Swahili plea to the gods is interestingly pronounced as sounding like a wrap, and the particular word is doubly meant to be both gist, and also barbeque, depending on the tone with which it is used. I could not really get what it means although in the end, it comes out simply as a word for both prayer and a meal. Swell if it could mean a dinner and a show. And fries came with that.

Oddly still, That could be what we desperately need at the moment. It is quite unfortunate that the rat-in-a-cage mentality of some to lash out at prolonged seclusion, has only given rise to more imagined conspiracies and DIY cures. This in turn, has likewise generated mass actions that have resulted in nothing but more harm and contagion. Add a dab of blaming to the whole formula for disaster, and what we get is paranoia and distrust of others. Worst of it is, this distrust has become airborne like another viral strain.

Another reality which involves the loss of work and income for many households, has likewise resulted in limited access to food. The inference of this, while discussed sparingly in the news, cannot merely be imagined. Indeed, going into the fifth month of Covid19, the needs for a prayer and a filled plate cannot be over-stressed, as these are now manifested in the stifling air of desperation expelled by an impatiently growing number, along with equally dire consequences.

Yet then again, all of this may have of course already been written about so many times in the past (by yours truly), that griping about it again ought to be better shouted in a sermon on a pulpit. Thing is, inasmuch as I would hate to be a pastor, sermons are on hold till further notice. However, that venerable old saying, “beginning to sound like a broken record”, might suffice better. The only problem with that is, people under thirty might not know what it means when you say you do not want to sound like a broken record either.

In the end, in accordance with other grand catastrophes that has befallen mankind, the most common universal phone call, aside from the ones made constantly out to God, would secondly be the one made out to lady luck. “Let’s leave it to luck!”

So, it is que sera sera, as one of my neighbors likes to say, and he actually carries a rabbit’s foot that is attached to his key chain. I never have the heart to break it to him though, and that is just the saddest thing. The belief in good luck involving a rabbit’s foot has never ever been true. That is especially when you consider that it has not at all worked out so good for the rabbit. And to think he used to have four of them!

Further up the road, in our most revealing self-journey yet, we will all have eventually exhausted all means necessary, including self-medication and using our pride as compass, in this battle with the pandemic.

Again, hating to sound like a broken record, once all has been said and done, let us just give it a chance: Listen to the World Health Organization as it again reiterates… wear a mask.
For the meantime, you can just stick that pride up where you-know-where, and just try to breathe. And then live. It is oh, so simple.

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