FRUGAL CONSUMERISM

by Aanuoluwapo John Adesina


My apathetic disposition towards religion had been long-established before this day. Whilst in the thick of a jamboree of miseries, I had embarked upon a book-keeping exercise of what one might call the organized chaos that was my life. The long hiatus I had taken from caring about anything had metamorphosed into an irreversible numbness. Though unplanned, I did well to relish the condition. 

Though born Christian, and baptized in the Catholic church, I was at this time a world away from my so-called saintly beginnings. It can be argued that at some point, it is a necessary effort to free one’s mind of doctrines, in order to view the world in its true form. My decision to do this was deemed rebellious, as well as a go-to sign that I had become involved with 'bad company'. Why is it laudable for a woman to shed her father's name, but a travesty to shed beliefs she does not subscribe to? Why is the truant boy expected to 'grow up', yet this growth does not extend to his mental hunger for self-liberation, from those ideals that have been forced upon him? What do I know? My unwillingness to declare my mind upon a market stall, for the benefit of pious hagglers has set me on the road to perdition. Or so I have been told. 

It was something I noticed since I moved. I had become 'anti-people', owing to my amusement of the gullibility, wickedness, and inadequacies of the Homo sapiens. In all honesty, that was the only reason I sometimes went to church. I had grown extremely cynical and would embark on excursions there just to observe the people who devoted an hour of their lives to that pseudo-solemn state. Only to float out of the pews and into the world, to continue being the contemptible people they truly were. I’ve always found that the demon-casting sessions make for excellent theatre.

But once again, what do I know? Surely, one cannot hold a cynic in high esteem, not like you would a zealot, who merely carries out his/her religio-military duties to their invisible Commander-in-the-sky. Or the ever-faithful servant, who makes it her place to slay the tainted, degrade those deemed inferior, and to bare the breasts of the ‘harlot,’ who is open with affairs that the holier-than-thou woman conducts in secret. All—allegedly—on behalf of her Heavenly Father.

She ridicules her fellow 'sister-in-the-lord,’ who has a daffodil blooming inside her belly. Worse still, outside of wedlock. O ignominy of ignominies! An indignity so great, it is enough to kill God himself. This 'fallen sister' becomes her canvass, upon which she plasters her self-righteous colorant. I stare at her, as she judges and executes her fellow woman. Of course, she does this in her capacity as God's high priestess on earth. Interestingly enough, this lamb who exudes virtue and purity, happens to be a head chorister. Unbeknownst to her, in the caliginous area by the pulpit, I watched as the semen of 'Brothers XYZ' snaked down her legs, as she devotedly seesawed her tambourine during praise and worship. 

Oh, how I long to bow in reverence to the poster children of altruism, who fight tirelessly without respect for coin nor gold. But then again, they fight this never-ending fight, purify the earth and its inhabitants, feed the hungry and shelter the homeless, so that they may gain entry to that palazzo, adorned with miles of gold flooring.

The frugal consumerists, who fight for our collective salvation. Bless their compassionate hearts.