comments on 'David's Bathsheba'

i have received quite a lot of criticism from this piece and it has taken considerable courage for me to tuck it even in this corner of cyberspace. i have been accused of being too sentimental to the exclusion of the cold facts- notably David set out to commit pre- meditated adultery and the murder. my friends insist Bathsheba is the willing accomplice. the culture, inherent in many ancient societies of  a discrimination against women appears to have been played down in some senses in the marriage of David and Bathsheba but not before. considering the power of the king in those days(a concept which may be a bit hard to grasp for us modern folk who grew up without autocratic leadership), she was just another unfortunately beautiful woman carted off to the house of the King without so much as a 'by your leave'. i however beg to wish to set down simple, subtle observations and deductions and thus attempt to carve a path through a delicate and difficult topic.

a simple lust will seldom come so far down the annals of time. look closer at the roots of adultery and one can frequently just see a hint at the depths of soul- hunger, of vulnerability that can and would lead two people with everything to lose down a path where for any gain there were twice as weighty losses. look closer still  and you will see elements of friendship, affection, influence. carved in the heart of this poetic fictional illustration of moral errors and consequences is a warning. five years down the line, even ten, the woman you would need would not be the perfect face, but she should have in her heart the perfect sanctuary for your mind. you would do well to find her now(where she is today), and having found her, to choose her.

unfulfilled human desires are like a volcano calmly waiting to erupt. we must understand the importance of unflinching truth, in our dealings with God, our selves and other people. you must be true to what your true desires are- which involves a painstaking process of identification, definition and recognition. of course emotions certainly fuzzy up the edge of reason but true love is a consistent choice, not a feeling. these set desires must be communicated without ambiguity. it is expected that in a balanced, mutualistic relationship appropriate attempt will be made to grant the honour these requests. a commitment to accept another soul, to love, to hold should include a frequent re- evaluation in order to continue to maintain relevance. it is not enough to know where I was, you must know where I am now and see with me the paths that lead to where I wish to be. and though offences must still come, perhaps love will (choose) to make a way out, a way through, a way around or a way despite them...

postscript-

the title of the story has been altered slightly to 'Dovid's Bathsheva' to reflect it's historical lack of accuracy despite it's relationship to the Biblical story that was used as scaffold for the piece.

Dovid's Bathsheva (a story of grace)

Dovid's Bathsheva

(a story of grace)

19 November 2010

23:30

She took one look in the mirror and turned, a quarter of a circle to pick up the string of pearls that lay on the table. Her first husband bought her that, three years before. It was his last present to her.

She rarely went out of the palace these days. She didn't need to, for one. She had no desire to either.  Worse, there were the women groups that dispersed when she came around, their disapproving glances. She understood their stand and no longer minded. She had looked deep in herself, and deep in Dovid's God and found peace, but not without price. She let herself walk down the path again, the path that led a simple young wife to adultery, early widowhood, to burying her own child. It hadn't started with just her public bath, contrary to public opinion. That could have been any woman washing off the last of her menstrum in a four walled bathroom. That could have been any attractive woman who received the royal summons. A simple lust would have ended there. She had walked into the palace, hurriedly dressed in the first robe she could find. It was an orange dress with a flared skirt , a cinched waist and long flared sleeves. She had on the single string of pearls and no make- up, her hair still damp.

She had never seen her husband's revered boss so close and was shocked at his youth, his freshfaced-ness, the genuineness of his smile. She had dropped to one knee, embarrassed to have looked her King in the face so boldly but not before she saw the shadows behind the eyes, the burden of things thought but not said. She dipped her head in respect and greeted gently.

'My husband hasn't done anything wrong has he? You look tired, my Lord'

He had laughed and squatted beside her.

'In one moment you are as much the perfect wife looking after her husband's interest as you are the loyal subject, looking after mine. I have shed much blood, my child', he said cupping one side of her face with his palm.

'But not like Cain', my Lord, she said.

He shrugged, ' I thought, perhaps a season away from more bloodshed would ease the nightmares'.

'Peace is a choice', she ventured.

'Peace is a gift', he countered and smiled again. 'Come sit with me a while'.

He got up and pulled her up with him with a gentleness that surprised her. He walked first to the foot of the bed and picked up the harp then led her into the study. ‘My guards are everywhere else, we may have peace here’. They sank into a sheep-skin rug near the hearth, he held the harp to her. ‘How did you know?’ she asked. ‘The King must know, everything’, he said simply. She picked it up, and slowly ran her fingers through the chords testing the weight of the tune against the evening's quiet. She played him a psalm, a psalm he wrote, picking out the haunting refrain from memory. She stopped just short of the last note, suddenly. He looked up with one eyebrow raised, where he stood beside her.

‘Why?, he asked simply.

'I was afraid', she said, 'of you, my Lord'

He took her hand and he talked simply, told her when he wrote the psalm she had just finished playing. She listened to the shepherd, she listened to the King, she heard the thoughts of the man who was both and none of these things. She told him her fears for her fertility what with her husband away so much- how that her own mother had difficulty conceiving her, her difficulty with understanding her highly motivated and practical husband, her frustrations with herself- her total distaste for conventionally feminine things, her forbidden passions for poetry and prose and music. She could even read, her father's greatest legacy to her.

She read to him daily then, and each day played a psalm on his harp. They talked about everything, except the thing that gradually weighed heavier than the business of the end of the war, on her mind at least. He was like a man reborn, and she watched with fearful joy each evening his eyes light up when she walked in, knowing her eyes lit up as well.  She had crossed a river bank dry, carefully mapped her way back with sticks and stones. The landmarks were still there, only the river was now in flood- and one night there was no returning. They made love with tenderness and passion and she could swear she knew the minute life formed within her at the peak of an ecstatic climax. He laughed when she told him afterward, and then held her tenderly while she cried all night.

There was no moon the next month.

And then she lived through the stories. Her lover had her husband brutally murdered. He never told her but she saw it in his eyes when he told her of Urias' death. Even before the Prophet’s rebuke, and Elohe’s judgement. Those were terrible times while they waited in grief for judgement, waited for the child to die, mourning apart. Their friendship had somehow survived and love with it. That was Elohe's gift of beauty for their ashes. That and this child she was carrying. Not everyone was so blessed, she knew...




Postscript : this story is a purely fictional rendition scaffolded on the biblical account of David and Bathsheba in 2nd Samuel chapters 11 and 12. 

Awakening

I started out this blog as a search for expression, a grope in the dark for something, a desperate need to share with a community of similar minds. Yes, but share what exactly? I was reading on my dear friend Tolu Oloruntoba’s blog- insula.posterous.com a beautiful piece on the dilemma of the Christian artist. Should art be for art’s sake or should it hold a deeper message, a legacy of thought to shape the minds of a generation- present or future; or should art be for profit? Should we as Christians infuse each poem with the many names of Jehovah, and write strictly about how great our lives are, Hallelujah! Amen. Meanwhile our lives secretly fall to pieces. Can we infuse our art with true divinity- while appreciating the intricacies, the perplexities, the failings and the glory inherent despite our very humanity? Can we claim that huge gulf between Sunday and the rest of the week?

Today, while in the loo it came to me while thinking of a précis of my life in the last few years for a friend I haven’t spoken to in that while- we can talk about the things we don’t dare to talk about, as young Christians growing in a fast paced, increasingly materialistic age, faced with herculean spiritual and social challenges, impossible choices, old sorrows, fresh mistakes, living through alarming consequences. I can start, by submerging my fear of rejection in hope, that someday, somewhere someone will take a leaf of courage from this page and draw some comfort.

Isaiah 55: 12 "So you'll go out in joy, you'll be led into a whole and complete life.  The mountains and hills will lead the parade, bursting with song. All the trees of the forest will join the procession, exuberant with applause.

Isaiah 55: 13 No more thistles, but giant sequoias, no more thornbushes, but stately pines--        Monuments to me, to GOD, living and lasting evidence of GOD."

(The Message)

  

This page is a celebration of Zoe and Agape, the beauty of God and His power to triumph through the lives of ordinary individuals. The pieces and discussions you will see may offend conventional Christian social thought but do stop to look again, deeper, harder. There may be a grain or two of truth if you choose to see. There will be no endorsement of sloppiness or immorality. Welcome all aboard, as many as are willing...

August- October 2010

Bauchi- Lokoja- Ibadan- Lagos

Places and faces.

(in order of appearance, left to right, top through to bottom)Dr Omisanjo O, Dr Hassan, Jim Dakye, Dr Olawepo O, Miss Lawani O, Mallam Aliyu, Miss Moyinoluwa Otinniyi, Polytechnic Students fundraising through a rag day, myself (central)

lessons from psalm 118: 22- 29

16 April 2010

22:15

We have fled from

Your word truly to find

That it is the truth we seek

Your oath is sure!

We have fled from

Your house into our hearts to find

There is the home we seek

Your oath is sure!

To find wealth is to find love

Contained in an earthen vessel

Of your own choosing

Your oath is sure!

We must plough the wastelands

That separate us ( and make of them pasture )

The stone at the head of the corner still stands

Your oath is very sure!

standing on the cross of lines

21 April 2010

11:39

Standing on the cross of lines

Chalked into the dust but a day ago-

There we played hopscotch, where now resolve the games of men

Don't you wonder the birds still stroll across the heavens

Done in the shades that looked so pretty, once , on you-

Moulding dust with spittle, minding the child you yet were,

The skies abide,

Only your eyes are larger

And now you stand, on soil that has intimately conversed with many toes:

Wandered weathered paths and again come home.

05.06.00

things I learnt along the way

18 November 2010

23:07

I have had many teachers, many fathers, many mothers.

The grooming of any child in Africa is such. The responsibility for your emerging as straight as the edge of a blade of elephant grass is a shared, a collective effort. A young girl would be taught to sit with her legs crossed at the ankles, not at the knees because with a short skirt placing one knee over the other tends to expose an unpardonable expanse of African skin. I learnt that, from an usher in church- of course, no reasons were proffered. That bit I had to figure out for myself. Which brings us to another lesson, wrapped in a common Yoruba proverb that figuratively reads- you tell a well trained person just a bit , he understands fully after some thought.

I've learned to give tips, generous tips. A guard at the gate of my adopted uncle's house taught me that by asking, and reminding each time I visited till I yielded. ('Adopted' is used here for clarification only. In Yoruba land, every person old enough to be is your father or mother. The Igbos are less fastidious and Uncles and Aunties are numerous). In a certain sense, age disregards social status, and a guard's gray temples command my proper curtsey. I gave both, the money and my thanks.

You would learn well the art of visiting, to choose attire suitable for dropping in on a Saturday, and to say the right things; small talk, talk politics and the situation of the country, to lament the traffic and berate the authorities for failing to uphold the public good in some regard. You learn to politely offer to help out in the kitchen, knowing that your host will politely refuse- oops! sometimes you find a hostess who missed that lesson. She may very generously allow you to help her shred the peppers and onions.

You learn about social appearances at social events too. You learn to pop in for the thanksgiving of the wedding of one friend, to drink a toast to a second at the reception party and to kick off your heels at a third and join the couple on the dance floor. Of course, if you ever have made the mistake of arriving at the party with just 1000naira notes you learn the hard way never to go to another dance-floor without change. Even better, you learn to get some money changed from the bridesmaids in charge of collecting the bride's takings. The money is after all for the couple after the recycling is done.

In all, you learn from society to be part of society, to understand it's norms and ethics. Ah, maintaining one's individuality you wonder. That bit is simple really. The lessons differ in timing, in import; the teachers too, in colour, in vigour. And the students- I have decided to write this piece to share some of my lessons, I have decided to wear skirts as infrequently as possible, to visit sparingly and insist my friends conference to avoid getting wedded on the same day, what about you?

grief

The chair is empty of course. The big chair in the corner, directly opposite the vent of the air conditioning unit. I never sit there. I drop my purse in it on my way through the sitting room, grab it hurriedly back, then slowly let it go again. You will not be needing the chair and perhaps leaving my purse in it would hide that, for a minute or two...

I survived the drive to church today, entirely on my own. I always had company before today- friends and in- laws, some family members, like shadows at dusk. They were everywhere then, at the endless wakes and the lying- in state ceremony where they handed out little  bean and wheat cakes and sang beautiful songs so mournfully they set me off on another round of tears. I wept for the songs, the careless murder of such beautiful words. I wept for you, lying so still in a wooden box, all dressed in a fancy suit you hated (I never understood why, they always looked so good on you). I wept for the scars beneath the suit, where they tore up your body looking in your belly for more answers during your brief illness. I wept for your pain, at seeing my pain.

I still hate the condolence register with it's pages of platitudes, and explanations, and words of comfort.

I went mute as stone at the interment, and had to be helped to lift the tea- spoon of sand I sprinkled on your grave. I hid behind the dark shades and watched people cry . I thought only how you would lie alone in the cold, soft loamy earth, that night. And i would lie in your bed, alone, without you.

I went through your tidy desk- that was easy, thank you. I went through your will with the lawyers, that bit was easy too- we had been sharing everything all our lives. But I have been circling the wardrobe for weeks- what will I do with your books? Today, illumination comes- I will do with them what you did with your life- give them out  in ones and twos to the young people you taught to love with a little note in each- on the beauty of life, of pain, of hope...signed in my name.

the paradox of life after death, (for Femi Olabalu: 1978- 2010)

we live daily
the risk of dying;
we live to die,
we die to be sown
like seeds,
in the earth-
someday we rise again

Psalm

We shall robe

in strength

Shod our feet

In courage

A garland of laughter

Around our ribs

A chain of joy

To bind our necks

Rings of light

To adorn our ears

A curtain of peace

To hide the cloud

We will light

Love in a chandelier of purity

And dine to the tune of

Cooing turtle doves

We will dance

You, and me, but not

Alone, we will dance:

The redness of earth our stage

Twelve galaxies, our audience

All the heavens

We will give the dance clothed in

The music, each and together to

As many as are willing

first lines

each life is an expression of a gift- God's gift of time and thought divinely clothed in a human, breathing, talking, aching, loving being. the power of what we are by design is all the more obvious for our frailty, our fatiguability, our mortality, our very humanity. the beauty is in our expression of these common ills, our triumph over, our victories despite, and the depth of compassion that can well from us because of these.

here's to life and living