If you ever ask your professor or even yourself why ‘are’ we talking aboutlass privilege? Can’t we just be human beings? Hear-that is exactly what Class privilege is, that you can ask that. Class doesn’t exist for you because it has never been a barrier. Underprivileged folks don’t have that. A poor guy on the street of Abuja or Lagos, doesn’t want to think about Class until he tries for a bank loan, until he goes to one of these religious establishments and he’s either removed to a tatty space or he gets tactically scolded for being who he is. So you even ask what poor means. You sure as hell have class privilege. So here is the joinder: so do you wonder if your class status will deprive you a sit at the front row of gathering at the Eagle Square? When you trek to a nice shop in the watermain part of Lagos, do you feel a lump in your throat about a possible dismissive attitude from rich shoppers?
Do you trouble that your children will not have books and school materials that are about people of their own Class? Or say even go to school at all? Tell me what you’ll tell yourself then, honestly.
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From the editor’s table
Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry.
Trailing a journalist’s morose report from that region, the bombardments at various parts of Gaza have only recalled to centre stage the sheer human gluttony for senility; the senile repetitions of violence in the place of reconciling ties, plain war crimes in the place of advancing ideology.
The recurrence sullies, as in the headlong dive of entire humanity into indignity. It is so because when a people – sentient beings as they are – are severed from the self-worth an immediate environment is supposed to proffer, that same denial also permeates to the very wider global human society it is intimately linked with. Albeit variant in outlook and motive, that Palestinian grief is, in no way, dissimilar to the spate of extremism we have whelming this country Nigeria at the precipice.
Somewhere in Rafah, after more than twenty four hours of Isreali aerial attacks, at an average of five an hour, the city’s morgues have had to place the bodies of the dead in cold storage constructed for fruits and vegetables. Because cemeteries and funeral processions are also being assuaged, people are afraid to bury their dead.
Of pinwheel tails, of rent spires
Where ogres flash a sky-lane for
Earths to cast broken hairs
On her limbless leap, thawed
At firestorm. Lumps. Monster liege
In morbid walls of botanist skin . . .
A world’s lone trophy at dusk?
Her lips were split with missile rubs,
An anthem’s bait upon her thirst, yet
The pulsing skull of her would
Oyin Oludipe, playwright and student, writes from Abeokuta. His works have appeared on Herald Digest, The Kalahari Review and some other journals. He is a contributing poet to the anthology ‘We Cry for Peace’ with his poem, ‘The Elders of this Land. Find him on twitter @Sir_Muell.