The Enemy Called Truth

I am not perfect. I have been wrong for saying what is wrong. I have been wrong for saying what is right. I have also been wrong for saying nothing at all. There goes my biggest dilemma!

I started off as being the reserved one; a gentle boy who really didn’t say much growing up. We weren’t actually allowed to, anyway. Maybe it was the tradition that enabled such stringency, or perhaps such extreme measures were only peculiar to my upbringing.  The fact that I was hardly ever right was just enough reason to keep my thoughts and emotions to myself.

In my early teen, I was found amongst the culprit of some wrongful teenage act. The children of a family friend came to visit. Like usual, they were always in for an extended stay, maybe for as long as the holiday season lasted. On a particular evening, three of us were out; me, the girl and her brother. We were joined up by a neighbour’s son, a year or older than me.  I can’t really recall if it was an errand, but I remember that we stayed out a lot later than we should.  Somehow, during the course our activities outside, we lost the girl and the neighbour’s son. We got to realise that their disappearance wasn’t necessarily a coincidence.  It was, however, getting dark; and I was more eager to return home, certain I was already in trouble. When the duo still weren’t surfacing, the brother and I had no choice but head back home. They were already expecting us.

Returning home that late was scary enough; doing so without the suspicious pair meant a lot more trouble for everyone. Understandably, I was personally attacked with a series of questions. While I was yet explaining, the two were found sneaking in. It was enough reason to hold a panel. Frankly, I was supposed to be glad I wasn’t one of the two suspects; but I knew being exempted was very unlikely. The head of the panel had first welcomed the neighbour’s son with a slap, directly exposing what they have been up to. The brother of the girl was mildly scolded afterwards for being an abettor, but I feared that wasn’t going to be my fate that night, and I was right. Attention was turned on the girl and me. It was my first big stage experience.

The proceedings started by having both of us stripped completely naked before the audience; members of the household and the few curious neighbours around. There was no need to question her; the remorse was enough to convict her. She was stripped bare before everyone was just for the embarrassment. Such embarrassment alone, however, wouldn’t serve justice for a special character like me! The questions started coming, along with the several belt strokes. I couldn’t even get to clearly hear the interrogation, because they weren’t nearly as loud as the lashes. The latter actually did calm down, but I was only to discover that such torture was only to prepare me for the real deal.

I was fourteen, but I was supposed to take responsibility for the actions of a teenage girl of the same age, her brother and a horny neighbour’s son who was a year or two older myself. As far as I knew, that seemed to be my only crime. So, the extent of punishment meted to me was baffling. I couldn’t even cry when being flogged severely. I still couldn’t let out my emotions; I was laid down on the floor and have candle wax poured on my body. I just quietly took the pain all in. If I remember very well, the only sound I uttered was a loud scream I made when my hand was eventually placed on top the candle flame. It took me years to realise that it is the same interrogation techniques used for criminals. I only had to endure mine at a much younger age and a lot less guilty of the crime; not necessarily by the police.

The bigger question is, all through the interrogation and torture, why didn’t I say any word? And the simple answer is: ‘it didn’t help in previous cases.’ Although for some unexplained reason, I was always the special one, there were related cases affiliated to others under the same dictatorship. But I believe my inability to stand up for myself and those who looked up to me allowed many things to go wrong; a lot of which still can’t be undone till date.

The unending cases of such ‘discipline’ were getting the gentle boy all ruffled up inside. I took a liking to everything that was directly opposite my nature. I admire the outrageously outspoken one. I was listening more to music that spills out the bitter truth. I was reading books that lay it bare. I was watching revolutionary movies a lot more. The likes of Eminem, Fela, Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jnr. were fast becoming my role models. But like they say:’ You are what you eat!’ More appropriately put: ‘I became what I read, listened to and watched.’

The version of me became a somewhat more controversial one. Before, it was difficult for me to let it out; now, it is difficult to keep it in. And I could be a little more insistent too. For one that expressive, I have had my share with authorities, public officials, rogues, families, friends and foes. I wasn’t always right, and I wasn’t always wrong, but I certainly was becoming the enemy again. It was a difficult choice, because somewhere deep down, I am still that sensitive boy who hardly get pleased with himself after every such banter. Of course, I happened to learn to deal with problems particular to me in private, but I still can resist the temptation to represent the public view; and I was fast becoming popular for it. Sadly so!

Sometime at the workplace, we all had the same opinion and had planned to bring it up before the boss. Truthfully, I had promised myself to be a passive character during the meeting. When it commenced, however, discovered that people were more interested in emphasising their personal problems rather than trash the main issue. Once again, I couldn’t help myself. I stood up and poured it out as we discussed. This time though, I was deliberately polite. But it just happened to be that I couldn’t get it right anytime. No, not necessarily because of what I said. My gut was enough to set off my boss. It was even more annoying when my colleagues started advising me for telling the truth as it is. Anyway, it turned out to be a sour meeting after all, and once again, I just happen to be the centre of attention. I lamented inside: ‘If only I had listened to my own advice!’ It was one amongst the many times I receded to a corner and regret my actions; except this time, I wept.

I started viewing things from a different perceptive. People actually aren’t ready to say, hear or handle the truth. I realise that a lot of my fellow men only just love the pleasure of complaining without actually having the gut to join the few voices that want to make it right. Humans are naturally selfish too, as they would instead emphasise how painful the pimple in their nose is than talk about hundreds of people dying in their neighbourhood. Even worse, I realise that people necessarily aren’t good because they are victims; some would be as their oppressors or even do worse if given the opportunity. Some are just mere instigators, and others, betrayers. Now I believe that the biggest enemy of them all is the truth.

I am a different person now. I am quite comfortable with myself, adopting the nonchalant approach to everything. I’ll do my job and do it very well as long as it is mine. I’ll apologise for my wrongdoings, correct my mistakes and pay for my sins. If directly barked at, I’ll bite as hard as much. But that is as far as it goes. I don’t care that much about the world anymore. Now I just sneer at people complaining about the ills of the world while I inwardly mock their intentions. Even when people come and try to instigate me to start a movement, I tell them that I am done playing. I could just sit through a meeting of lies and manipulation while I play the movie ‘Sound of Music’ in my head. The world could be sinking, but as long as I could carve a log for myself to keep me afloat, I am good. But once again, I know I am wrong.