By B.N Wendo
In high school, I remember scoffing at the protagonists of Walibora’s Kidagaa kimemwozea. At that time, I boasted of my fledgling nihilism and repulsive pessimism. They were too good souls wafting above the murk that is human nature. And there was truly no change or growth in their virtues. Fair enough, the protagonists were crafted in such a way that they would face no real threat in the pursuit of their goodness. Their hearts were made of immaculate metal. With no alloy of desire. No carnal realities of self to overcome. But few saw the problem. And I was referred to as a killjoy. A guy who thrives on the underground cellars of imagination.
Being termed always ‘negative’ plastered a smile on my face. I equated negativity to realism. Viewing everything that spoke of the human glory and candor of goodness; as unattainable pursuits of whimsical, if not puerile nature.
When did I start relishing in despair? I vaguely remember it was in the sunset of my primary school years. And I had read many a material that alluded to the inescapability of evil. The incurability of vice. And it all looked attractive. To wander in this desolate meadow of deformity. Drowning in the dread it inspires. The penchant for morbidity led me to create ‘realistic’ endings for my narratives. Where malicious ideals trampled upon just ones. Because my eyes and that of a million others, have registered it upon our minds, that evil doers triumph. Good people are often vanquished.
I had no boons for saintly figures. Only tragedy. It was enough to be pitiful towards them. But victories, even ephemeral ones, were forbidden from them. I felt it was too impossible for man to be good and victorious. And my atheism repudiated the existence of posthumous judgement. That only meant that our corrupted sense of justice that could be tilted to reward evil and bludgeon good, was the only scale that mattered in the crypt of our existence. How self-defeating.
‘Perfect’ figures in literature earned my critical evaluation as being idealistic images of a deluded writer. I did not admire mythologies for this purpose. They had men that were either too wise, too strong, women too beautiful, too kind, too pure, too trusting. And yet, ironically, I never saw anything wrong with absolute antagonists. Evil was the constant factor in man. Drenching too deep in it only seemed natural. And yet being too far from it, was wildly improbable.
But I realized I was wrong. There was a crucial element of life I missed. In the fervor of my half-baked realism, I forgot that belief, dreams, wishes, desires, delusions, fantasies, illusions are as real as the sun and the moon and the stars. Man in his quest for reality, often seems to forget that these abstract conditions he is occasionally allured to, are crucial drives to his existence. We have conceded to the idea that the world is a rigid rock whose structure can only be incomprehensible to us. Forgetting the power we possess in changing the world.
My perception was incomplete. Literature is indeed the mirror of society and its components. But what society is dreamless. What society has no ideals? And where are these ideals forged if not from the collective wish to prosperity and fulfilment. If man has the freedom to indulge in the stinkiest of ideals, why should it be contemptible for man to splash upon his story, the utopia that relishes his heart, the plot development that fulfils his desires. If I possess certain ideals, if I wish to write a story that would celebrate the glory of my constructive philosophies; then it would be noble of me to write of a victorious ending. If you believe stories never end, then embellish the plot with lofty achievements that look surreal. Critics may point this out. But there is absolutely no problem championing for a bearing using a positive figure. A figment of insurmountable goodness. Depending on what your ‘good’ means.
Let us depart from this dreary realism that only reeks of human hopelessness in the face of moral disaster. It is acceptable to portray the decay there is in society. It is also good to spot those irretrievably lost in its depths. But if our aim is to plead with the reader to escape this decay, allowing them to make this moral decision using only the terrible whiff of decay is ineffective. It could spur the feeling of inevitability. Instead of forcing us to flee from it, it could cause us to shudder in submission to its tumultuous volume.
Whereas a figure that set his sights to the sunlit chambers of Gabriela Minstral, striving successfully and miraculously beyond human weakness, seeks to imbue in us the will to strive beyond error. And not simply accept it with a heavy heart. Indeed they are not wrong. Those who paint delusions in their art. Of ridiculous love stories. Of infallible deeds. There is a power in the imagination of unblemished good.
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