If you look to the east, you will see the flickering glow etched on the purple night like some volcano awakening to its destiny. When I was young, I thought my father worked in that furnace. I used to watch him get dressed for work, picturing him moving files and paper work through roaring fires and sweaty hot offices. When I read a story in my school library about a man who competed with a machine to hammer nails into a railroad track, I likened the man to my father; yes my father was my hero. But this story is not about my father. It is not even about that flickering shadow of a fire flickering across the night sky. For I was wrong, my father did not work in that fire, no. That fire was a god of wealth, of progress, of development, of greed and corruption and by corruption I mean death. My father worked in smaller furnace, a fireplace even, and a furnace that did not leave its mark in the night sky. To the south, like trees shorn of branches and leaves, my father’s furnace sat, the child of a misbegotten dream, fuelled by a furnace that even now still whispers sweet nothings, fickle promises that just makes me want to cry.
This story is about that place, that minute piece of swamp that fed the dreams of hopeful young men and women believing the beginning of a future that seemed brighter and possible with each passing day. They were sold a vision, like other visions that will later come and they made much ado about nothing. Even then, when that small furnace still burned and melted steel poured red hot into rods that were taken to Lagos, that fiery doom hung in every nightly sky as if to say; if not for me, you will not exist. It was a truth we chose to ignore. We prided ourselves with the number of people running away from the huge furnace to our more civilized and coiffed fireplace. Everyone thought this was going to last forever, even me. Today, our beloved furnace is cold and the alarms are silent and our fathers and mothers are old and grey, bitter and dying.
Today, I saw the fire in the east again after several years. In fact, I had forgotten about it for years now but as I entered my room, the bright flicker of that well remembered orange glow caught my eyes and I marvelled that it was still there even after all these years. People were still dying, lying, killing, stealing just to get in, to be a part of, to be purified in that fire. Nothing has changed in all the years that my night sky has been the proper shade of purple; the same story is still being sold and someone’s father is still being deceived that this god will bring El Dorado and paradise will be found. I spit on the ground and turn in but the tingle I feel inside is not of disgust but of awe at the power that singular fire exerts on the mind of a people to the point that their way of life, their culture, their traditions, their systems of law and order, their policies have been ordered in such a manner that it would be convenient for a few to enjoy the warmth that this fire brings. The problem though is that it brings nothing but death.
When I say death I do not mean metaphorical death. I mean literally lives have been lost; human, plant and animal lives in the worship of this god for it is indeed a god. It is a god that everyone worships in these parts. There are some of us who are reluctant worshippers, claiming to have nothing to do with him but are yet dependent on this god of fire for the sustenance that fuels our pursuit for the dethronement of said god. There are others who are acolytes, monks, brothers and sisters who work the shrine grounds, sweeping leaves, taking names, welcoming pilgrims, giving alms to the poor, making promises, settling grievances, fighting detractors, writing propaganda, paying settlements to farmers whose lands this fiery god has claimed as his own. There are others who do nothing but sit in their heavy robes, the gold of their important office settled on their protruding stomachs with the ease of satiation, who have achieved high status in the worship of this god and now all they do is allocate and claim dividends of being the god’s favoured disciples.
It would seem that I speak in parables but you do know the furnace, the fire, the god I speak of. You know him well. Has he not laid to waste the Middle East as sycophants and mindless worshippers war over the broken bodies of children for who would control his favour. Has he not held Europa by her throat for too long? Have you not seen the manipulations of high priests of money seeking to ingratiate their selves with the shrines were the elect of this god reside in order to win allocations, portfolios, rights, trade routes, despite the downtrodden, broken spirits that wander the lands he controls, seeking for succour? You know the god I speak of. You have seen him in the news, or at least heard the sound of his voice hidden in the soft smile of the suit and tie guy analysing markets and securities. Beneath the sweet smile and the hidden lies, you will hear if you listen closely, the drums of war.
Look to the seas and see what his children has wrought; dying fishes, polluted reefs, undying wastes sleeping on the ocean bed. Go to the land and see oxygen stolen from dying trees, farmlands that can no longer be tilled, fresh water sources dead and smelling of decay; death, death everywhere. You know him, this god of ours. You know him whom I speak of. Among all the other gods, he is not the greatest or the most popular. In fact, he dwells in the secret places and hides behind the other gods but to get the other gods you will pass his shrine at one time or the other. He has managed despite his almost lack of popularity to have ties to every other god or goddess on the pantheon. Yes you know him; I speak of fossil fuel, my dears.
©warpedpoetic, 2019.
