A few days ago my little boy brought a story book from the School that had to do with a tortoise who was a chatterbox. In the story, two geese were to fly the tortoise to a lake. Tortoise was warned not to say anything while in the air; otherwise it would fall off the stick that kept it on air. On their way to the lake, many animals mocked the tortoise when they saw it perceivably flying with two geese. The tortoise did all it could to ignore, but the chatterbox in it couldn’t take it anymore. When it decided to respond to criticisms, it fell off, landing on the ground. At last, he admitted, ‘well, I couldn’t stand it anymore, I’m truly a chatterbox’.
As a child who was raised by my grandmother, I came to understand the power of words. Not only did I understand the power of words, I understood the power of wise counsel. In our little two room apartment in a little town in my home country, my grandmother raised some of her grandchildren. Growing up in grandma’s house was like growing up in a seminary. Grandma was full of words; grandma was full of wisdom. She never overlooked any careless error; she was always there to render strong counsels with strong African rhetoric. As an individual who was rejected before birth by those responsible for copulation, I would sit beside grandma listening to the only one that ever showed concern for my future. In my imagination, I would see into the future, connecting it with what grandma was saying. On the contrary, some of my mates in the same household believed that she was a chatterbox. They ignored her words; they disrespected her opinions. Today, I’m no longer a kid. I look back in nostalgia to recall the words that my late grandmother use to say, and in my conclusion, I know, that grandma was not a chatterbox. If I take my vision away from my history and focus on today, I try to assess those who thought that grandma was a chatterbox, but they cannot be accessed. Just like every inaccessibility, the person in question evaporates and melts away without a dotted trace.
When I see the generation of today, I get grieved because parents are scared of being called chatterboxes, so they would not stand to instil discipline and correction in their children. Gun crimes, knife crimes, teenage pregnancies, juvenile delinquencies, and many more prey our streets while parents are busy blaming the government. For correcting a child, a parent feels guilty, and I do wonder where the guilt comes from. When men allow the guilt of seared hearts to dominate common sense, the next generation gets seared with hot iron. Like every seared skin, insensitivity prevails. Like every seared skin, reaction is feigned. We sit down and complain that the day is wrecked without realising that we fast tracked the time. Our children are ageing faster than time but we feel that civilisation should prevail. This civics severs the future from the grip of the next generation, yet we think they can cope with the heat. The heat is gradually becoming a flame but we consider it to be meant for barbecue. Laws have become ludicrous; children taking responsibilities for
themselves, while we become more interested in modernisation instead of mentorship.
When people call me a talkative, I do admit but with the conclusion that I talk sense. In my life, I have redefined talkativeness. My definition of talkative is someone who may say just one word which ends up
becoming foolish. My understanding of words in creative sense is that a multiplicity of words of wisdom is never equivocal. Truth is never overblown when it is being emphasised. Repeating words that add value to the future is not being a chatterbox. Those who maim the future by ignoring today’s errors will talk endlessly tomorrow. Grandma was never a chatterbox; the people who felt she was have become the talkative of today. Grandma was never a chatterbox; the people who thought she was continue to beat their chests today. As I remember the best earthly heroine I ever had, I duff my cap for grandma who was misunderstood. Grandma’s corrections are today, my apples of gold. Was grandma truly a talkative? No she wasn’t. Was grandma truly a chatterbox? No she never was!
As a child who was raised by my grandmother, I came to understand the power of words. Not only did I understand the power of words, I understood the power of wise counsel. In our little two room apartment in a little town in my home country, my grandmother raised some of her grandchildren. Growing up in grandma’s house was like growing up in a seminary. Grandma was full of words; grandma was full of wisdom. She never overlooked any careless error; she was always there to render strong counsels with strong African rhetoric. As an individual who was rejected before birth by those responsible for copulation, I would sit beside grandma listening to the only one that ever showed concern for my future. In my imagination, I would see into the future, connecting it with what grandma was saying. On the contrary, some of my mates in the same household believed that she was a chatterbox. They ignored her words; they disrespected her opinions. Today, I’m no longer a kid. I look back in nostalgia to recall the words that my late grandmother use to say, and in my conclusion, I know, that grandma was not a chatterbox. If I take my vision away from my history and focus on today, I try to assess those who thought that grandma was a chatterbox, but they cannot be accessed. Just like every inaccessibility, the person in question evaporates and melts away without a dotted trace.
When I see the generation of today, I get grieved because parents are scared of being called chatterboxes, so they would not stand to instil discipline and correction in their children. Gun crimes, knife crimes, teenage pregnancies, juvenile delinquencies, and many more prey our streets while parents are busy blaming the government. For correcting a child, a parent feels guilty, and I do wonder where the guilt comes from. When men allow the guilt of seared hearts to dominate common sense, the next generation gets seared with hot iron. Like every seared skin, insensitivity prevails. Like every seared skin, reaction is feigned. We sit down and complain that the day is wrecked without realising that we fast tracked the time. Our children are ageing faster than time but we feel that civilisation should prevail. This civics severs the future from the grip of the next generation, yet we think they can cope with the heat. The heat is gradually becoming a flame but we consider it to be meant for barbecue. Laws have become ludicrous; children taking responsibilities for
themselves, while we become more interested in modernisation instead of mentorship.
When people call me a talkative, I do admit but with the conclusion that I talk sense. In my life, I have redefined talkativeness. My definition of talkative is someone who may say just one word which ends up
becoming foolish. My understanding of words in creative sense is that a multiplicity of words of wisdom is never equivocal. Truth is never overblown when it is being emphasised. Repeating words that add value to the future is not being a chatterbox. Those who maim the future by ignoring today’s errors will talk endlessly tomorrow. Grandma was never a chatterbox; the people who felt she was have become the talkative of today. Grandma was never a chatterbox; the people who thought she was continue to beat their chests today. As I remember the best earthly heroine I ever had, I duff my cap for grandma who was misunderstood. Grandma’s corrections are today, my apples of gold. Was grandma truly a talkative? No she wasn’t. Was grandma truly a chatterbox? No she never was!
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