Our demented Commander-in-Chief is currently living it up at Mar-a-Lago — his sprawling oasis that hosts all the bloated activities that you would find on the itinerary of a diseased narcissist. While the Trumps congratulate themselves on a year well-spent on gold-plated bullshit — there are still other Americans — stationed many miles away — who will not be blessed with the lively spectacle of Christmas lights or New Year’s Eve fireworks.
Puerto Ricans are still reeling from the ravages of Hurricane Maria. They’re not only still searching for missing loved ones — but they also have to contend with being homeless, hungry, sick and desperate for the attention that their president scolded them for demanding.
Back in Nigeria — the country of my heritage and quite frankly the bane of my existence for reasons I’ve exhaustively and passionately expressed without fail — the holiday season doesn’t differ from any other time — that requires heightened merriment in whatever fashion suits the specific hosts — based on territory and the number of huts that line up the parade route.
In all seriousness — Nigerians can’t be that pissed about Trump’s remarks — regarding our tendency to eagerly exchange the “hard-living hut-life” for the more posh alternative — offered by the U.S. of A. It goes without saying that paying an arm and a leg to retain a space that is barely wide enough to contain a full kitchen or half-closet — beats the cruel shelter of a primitive cave in the middle of nowhere.
Or does it?
Interestingly enough — Trump’s best customers — from The Towers to the glassy skyscrapers — can attest to the luxurious attitude of huts that are situated in exotic landscapes —and surrounded by bushes of privilege. British aristocrats, the American elite and all the others who have more money than the Holy Trinity combined — seem to enjoy the benefits of dwelling in huts that are outfitted with the pleasures that even the indigenes can’t afford to muster — in their own DAMN village.
There are also the muddy huts with spaces that showcase the markings of ancestral authority that still retain the dignity of the pre-colonial era. My home within a home in Ndi Uduma — Ohafia in Abia State. That’s a mouthful, but believe it or not — it’s as native as it gets when tracing my lineage — and figuring out why I possess the astute determination of a warrior with the ease of words — and the fighting spirit that was created on the cold hard surface of a thatched structure.
I prefer to walk into those modest pillars when I depart from my more civilized rent-heavy room — in order to breathe in the air of spirits that replenish my depleted soul with the language of tribal resonance.
Trump and his henchmen — with wads of millions and the slippery slope of over-polished accessories — could really use the infusion of such riches — that can’t be garnered in the gold-plated interiors of modernized huts — that produce weaker dispositions as opposed to the sparse special — requiring the sacrifice of comfort and the shift from material things.