Look!

They exist, six men, one of a kind conformed by will, moulded by chance and trapped by circumstances (or they think). Each magical on his own. By their combination, an explosive kind of magic is born; each with his ability to grow, each with a uniqueness to make the world better, so the story says.

Companion man

The companion man would help if his company was in the congregation, he is a firm believer in assisting the ‘known’ before the ‘unknown’, if ever; else his no stranger policy. Just last week, the woman from across the street called but Companion man would not budge because she did not belong to his church: “Your tithe card, your baptismal certificate” he screeched at the woman who couldn’t provide either, providing no proof that she was a true member of his church.

More recently, a young lad called, but he wouldn’t bring himself to give because they had no mutual company.

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The Poor

Always with a sense of entitlement, the poor becomes poorer, expecting the idle rich to quench his thirst. In tattered clothes and worn out shoes he shoves his hands out again, chanting in a familiar voice; ‘help me’. ‘How have you helped yourself?’ so the rich ask, ‘as heaven helps those who help themselves has been my slogan for years’.

‘What has that got to do with anything’, he wonders out aloud, God created the rich to help the poor, he bitterly stomps his feet. Believing he exist as a sort of balance to the ecosystem, the poor doesn’t help himself.

The Rich

Money solves it all he has always believed. The rich sits and thinks of all the wealth he has in store, and how to grow what he had earned by the lazy and poor. Embracing situations, he sees an opportunity in every challenge, ‘new money’ or handed down, he works or someone does.

The Black

At constant mercy of the white, he bespoke revenge, a little respect was all he sought or so he thought. Wakanda forever he would chant and he strived, if only it was forever and Wakanda was true. If all he saw is a chance to spite the white, he continually holds himself back from all he could ever be.

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The White

He definitely would notice if the next man was black. All with a sense of proprietorship which should have died decades ago. He forgets black lives matter too and continually look for ways to harm the black, disrespecting a heritage that would exist long after he’s gone. He is not just a king, he thinks himself as God.

The last man does nothing except for gain. He only gives to those who had given, forgetting this isn’t how the game is played. He does it all for self-interest and for him alone, repulsive he is of natures’ interconnectivity and cynical he stays.

Six humans trapped by chance

In the bleak and bitter cold

Each one possessed a stick of wood

Or so the story told

Their logs held tight in death’s still hands

Was proof of human sin

They didn’t die from the cold outside,

They died from that within

All grey and dead they are to the unique act called living, you could be the seventh, the yellow in the land of greys- free, happy and void of the masks.

Written by Christiana OSUN

Christiana is a writer dedicated to voicing out thoughts we’d rather not complete: Presenting our realities and sharing relatable experiences and thoughts provoking subjects. She’s sarcastic, fun loving and an enigma of possibilities. Instagram: @_themillenniallady_ Twitter: @_millenniallady Facebook:OSUN Christiana Oluwadamilola Email: krwistee@gmail.com