UDEME RALPH

On a cold and rainy night, Walter, a world-weary thinker stayed up to write a short story about a writer. At first, the idea seemed absurd. Even so, his obsession with absurdities made it desirable.   Before him was a blank sheet of paper, time-yellowed, resting somberly on his reading desk. The light from his lamp was growing dimmer and dimmer; but he had to write. He had learned to exploit his growing sleeplessness by writing—writing anything. He named his protagonist “Okoro” and plunged immediately into the burden of whys, how, where, when, and who did what. At first, his mind was blank, blanker than the paper before him. He knew nothing about this creation of his, other than this: that he was a writer, with a name like that of a typical village chief. He was not very good at details, especially at faces, and heights, and other things of that sort. He was not actually a writer, so to speak. He was a thinker, a master of the abstract, the metaphysical, and of countless exi...

        There is a way, lofty and noble, with a gate so wide and tempting. And many are there, strolling, trotting, running joyfully, heading steadily towards doom. The world has finally found this way; lo, humanity has reached the gate, and there we linger, glad and thankful, that at last we've found home. But this is no home. This is misery, and in it we keep wallowing, day after day.        Thinking beings: so we are called. Homo sapiens. Wise beings in exalted attires, builders of sky scrapers, writers of books, builders of softwares, explorers of space and deep space. Our schools keep swelling, with more and more minds coming to learn, libraries filled to an overflow. Computer has come and knowledge has surged; the internet has arrived, and humanity has advanced. And so, our pride grows, our respect for sacred things wane, our regard for the spiritual and ancient goes faint.        In the days of old, divorce, to us, w...