Call It What You Will

He says he loves you, and you believe him. He says no one will ever be able to love you like he does, and you believe him. You love him. Truly, deeply, wholeheartedly and a good helping of other sincerity-infused adverbs.

He demands exclusivity, which is fair, I’ll grant. He is your provider, your refuge. What would you be without him?

Yet criticism is out of the question because, obviously, he’s perfect. You learn to dismiss any misgivings or questions people have about him because they don’t know him like you do. What you have is special. It can’t be explained to outsiders, because they don’t see what you see, how wonderful and radiant he is. What basis would they even have to criticise? He chose you, and you chose him! To hell with scoffers, right?

How conveniently you ignore the fact that he takes credit, or rather you give him credit, for the things you achieve. You work hard and achieve them because he enables you to. Or because he somehow curried favour with those who may have given you a push. It’s never him directly, but in your mind it’s always him ultimately.

How conveniently you ignore the fact that everything that ever goes wrong is your fault, even when you can’t say how. When you really need him to step up, he does not; and it’s because of something you did, or failed to do.

He is in control of you, and you are essentially aware of it, because he tells you he can take care of you better than you can. And you believe him. He prefers you be friends only with people who explicitly approve of him. He would like you to put in a good word to those who are indifferent to or wary of him; or, failing that, cut them off. You trust him, so you go along with it.

Let’s face it: it is reprehensible, and I am sure you have felt the frustration of seeing someone dear to you stay in, and even vehemently defend, such an arrangement. I am sure you have felt the powerlessness that comes with not doing anything about it because you don’t have the right to interfere with expressed wishes, nor the ability to make your dear one see what is obvious to you.

A relationship? No, that’s not what this is, unless you mean it in the loosest sense, the way my fingers have a “relationship” with the keys they strike as I type. This isn’t a relationship. This isn’t love, and if you insist it is, I can’t have much respect for him, the one discussed above.

And I think our only point of disagreement here is that I make no exception for the divine.

Final Fantasy XV: A Tentative Review

Final Fantasy XV came out on November 29th last year, after ten long years in development. I have yet to own a copy, but I had the pleasure of playing the opening chapters… after the not-so-pleasure of having the story completely spoiled for me. Couldn’t be avoided; November was ages ago.

The game is brilliant. In my opinion, the gameplay is nearly as rich as that of FFVII, the characters are more compelling and relatable than those of FFIX, the story is more intriguing than that of FFX, and it is thematically more thought-provoking than FFXII. In short, it is the best entry in the series, as far as I’m concerned.

One of the working titles was Goth Swordsmen in a Convertible.

However, it is also obviously incomplete. This is a common occurrence in the video game industry these days: a game is in development, consuming resources for the corporate overlords who want a swift return on investment, so they set a release date developers must meet at all costs. This sucks, because not only do they have to cut content, but also, the publishers get to double-dip: if a gamer were to acquire all the patches and DLC as they come out, he or she typically would end up shelling out twice or thrice the amount a complete game usually costs.

Those of us wise to the practice have chosen to always wait at least a year before acquiring new games. Usually by then, an “Ultimate Edition” or a “Definitive Edition” or a “Game of the Year” edition has hit the shelves at normal cost, with all extra content available. The price: I now have premature, intimate knowledge of the plot of a game I do not own yet.

The cut content and rushed release date have undeniable consequences on the plot. The game offers a great story where six more months of development could have meant an amazing one. As things stand, there are many loose ends and unanswered questions.

If you only knew what she's looking at...

Lunafreya should have been made a guest party member in Accordo, possibly exploring the isles with Noctis on a few quests to wake the Hydraean. Originally conceived as a foil for Noctis (note the contrast in character design), she is more than just his love interest: she is the Oracle of Eos, a mantle heavy with meaning and responsibility in the story especially as pertains to the journey of the prophesied king of light. Her journey is almost worth a game of its own, and the cost to her body and psyche is definitely worth exploring in more detail than a few short cut-scenes. I mean, we are supposed to care for her, but the story gives us little reason to, and because so much of her content was cut, she is reduced to yet another stoic woman whose actions and tragic fate serve only as motivation for Noctis. I mean, we could have had another character like Oerba Yun Fang: someone with her own motivation, a distinct personality, charisma, and so on. They did her wrong. So wrong...

The same holds true for Ravus, Lunafreya's older brother and perhaps the most regrettably underdeveloped secondary villain in the history of video games. His heel-face turn could have used a heavy dose of foreshadowing, preferably via a series of escalating confrontations with Noctis, and through exploring his relationships with Luna and Niflheim officials like Iedolaus, Verstael, Aranea and Ardyn.

And oh, Ardyn... Would that we had known more about the origin of his curse, and of his assumed identity. For this is the kind of Final Fantasy villain that I love: Kefka's madness, Sephiroth's poise, Vayne's cunning, Seymour's nihilism, all rolled into one. All he misses is a proper backstory.

But, as stated before, this story is great nonetheless. And coupled with a very clever gameplay and the most stunning visuals in the history of the series, Final Fantasy XV is a tremendously satisfying experience. The set pieces are of such breathtaking scale and beauty that just remembering them makes me feel a part of that world. Nothing quite prepares your jaw, for instance, for the vertiginous drop it experiences the first time each Astral lends you a hand in battle.

And don't let me get started on the music. All pieces of the score fit their allotted scenes, each note has its place, and the grandeur of the composition sets this soundtrack head and shoulder above the rest, without even factoring in the incredible rendition of Stand By Me by Florence + The Machine. 

I will be waiting a while longer to sink my teeth into this title. The one-year mark is only a few months off, and even if a complete edition is not released, I can at least hope for a slightly lower purchase price. Then I can truly lose myself into this saga and the hundreds of hours of deliciously entertaining content it offers, like any Final Fantasy entry worth its salt should. I really look forward to it.

Note: All images property of Square-Enix

Race to the Top

Recent events in South Africa and Namibia have made it clear - again - that the spectre of strained race relations has not quite been exorcised. Given the history of those two countries, most find this state of affairs unsurprising. Despite the advent of democracy and terms like "Rainbow Nation" and "National Reconciliation", the white minority there has retained a lot of the privileges afforded them under the apartheid regime, causing considerable resentment from the black majority. Said resentment has certainly not been helped by recent pronouncements by people who can legitimately be described as white supremacists.

In light of the various responses to these incidents, the question of whether black people can be racist has once more arisen, and it doesn't look like a consensus will be arrived at this time either.

I suppose the answer hinges on one's understanding of the term. The broader definition of the word "racism" (prejudice based on race, or the expression thereof) makes things pretty straightforward. Anybody who harbours or expresses racial prejudice can be called a racist. Let's go home.

But wait.

While that definition stands, in practical terms it presupposes a context in which the things we call races all have equal standing, in which case races would amount to no more or less than bickering neighbours. We know this is not the case.

The history of race relations is one plagued by one-sided systemic oppression. Even without mentioning the ignominies of the slave trade, you have to be aware of the evils of the colonial era, with its exploitation of labour, extraction of resources, and its claiming of occupied land in the name of colonial powers. You have to be aware of the obstructionism, barely concealed behind such asinine slogans as "separate but equal", which seem to gloss over the fact that white people conveniently acquired for themselves the vastest, most fertile swaths of land, the richest mineral deposits, and kept access to the best education, while stetting the standards for the rest of the population.

Everything from the required "passes" to the ubiquitous use of derogatory epithets (kaffir, animals, monkeys) suggest another, more insidious nature to "racism", one that holds an element of power: the belief that one's race is objectively superior, thus granting individuals and institutions the mandate to oppress, restrict and subjugate the lesser ones.

Given all this, then, can black people be racist? As an egalitarian, I have long pondered this one. I believe all virtues and vices are potentially present in all human beings. More tangibly, we have, as black people, shown that we are capable of oppression along lines just as arbitrary as skin colour (see the history of Hutu-Tutsi relations for one example). So, being philosophically opposed to special pleading, I have to say yes, black people can and do display racist behaviour in accordance with the narrower definition of racism. Now let's go home.

Hang on!

Before this becomes a motive for false equivalences, I must stress that I do not believe that pushing back against racial oppression constitutes racism (or "reverse racism" [cue eye roll]), any more than I believe pushing back against an attacker constitutes aggression. The mounting resentment black people feel towards white people, as seen in South Africa and Namibia, is a reaction. That reaction can seem harsh, especially when you consider the fact that individual white people, who may be trying to do better, sometimes bear the brunt of our ire (comes with being the interface, guys; sorry). But you cannot claim it is unwarranted. Not when the vestiges of an unjust system are deliberately held in place. Not when we are consistently dehumanised. Not when "they" loudly wish we would conveniently stay out of sight, on our land. Not when even a formal acknowledgement of wrongdoing has not been issued.

There have been troubling, even vile statements by black people, most recently and most notably a call to give the white minorities the same treatment dished out to Jews during World War II. That is absolutely objectionable: reclaiming our humanity is not achieved by robbing others of theirs. It sucks that we, at this time, have to be the ones to keep this in mind. But keep it we must, because we know the unpleasantness - the sheer indignity - of being at the receiving end.

Hand Waving and Air Dancing

You see them everywhere these days. Images of them adorn billboards and banners all over the continent. Judging by their appearance, you would be forgiven for thinking they’d be right at home at a Dangote or Virgin executive meeting. Crisp suits with elegantly patterned ties and pocket squares, shiny shoes, sharp haircuts, manicured hands. They go to a lot of effort to convey an air of success. Judging by the crowds they attract, convey it they do.

They are Men of God, charismatic preachers who minister through signs and wonders after the spirit of the biblical book of Acts. They offer miraculous healing, they profess prophetic knowledge, and they promise prosperity… in exchange for a seed.

They are liars.

To clarify, this is not an attack on preachers in general. There are many who genuinely do live according to their beliefs. Disagree with them though I may, I have no cause to question their integrity. The specific crop of pastors I address here is another story. 

Shepherd Bushiri is one such pastor. According to his ministry’s official website, he has representations in seven African countries, namely his native Malawi, South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, Zambia, Tanzania and Ethiopia (this last one jars a little, geographically speaking, but stranger things have happened).

I invite you to browse that site, paying close attention to the statement on the main page and comparing it to the blog post titled Why Some Get Healed and Others Not. See if you can also spot the glaring inconsistencies in The Story of the Dead Boy Coming Back to Life.

What brought Bushiri to my attention, though, is a couple of videos of him performing “miracles”. In the first, he claims to be able to capture images of the family of an audience member “in the spirit”… on an iPad. Because those could never have pictures stored in them. Hilariously, one unfortunate camera angle brings the whole house of cards down. You can slow things down to clearly see why.

The second video was of him walking on air. I won’t elaborate; just wear a mitten on your dominant hand (the facepalm will be brutal) and watch it.

While the videos Bushiri uploaded basically debunk themselves, others of his ilk have been exposed by third parties. Peter Popoff is a televangelist and a “faith healer” who claimed to be receiving direct revelation from God about various people attending his services. An investigation revealed he was actually receiving radio transmissions from his wife and associates backstage, who were reading from the audience’s prayer cards. After many denials, Popoff came clean and issued a heartfelt apology to his flagging following before retiring from the public eye... until recently.

Despite years of requests by different parties, Benny Hinn has been unwilling to provide independent verification of the many “healings” that take place at his crusades, nor has he been willing to address the multiple instances in which his staff were seen to deliberately prevent the seriously ill from making their way to the stage.

These are men and women with a massive, international following. They draw crowds wherever they go, because people long for rescue from their troubles, and they, the people, believe these preachers to have a direct line to the ultimate power in existence. No price is too high for them to gain divine favour. To them, the Man of God is never to be criticised or questioned, and anybody who dares think otherwise is obviously being used by the devil (see comments on the above videos).

But why would a man with a direct line to God resort to (rather bad) prestidigitation? What does it say about that man’s own faith in this God when he actively and deliberately lies to his congregants? If he happens to believe in the power he claims to serve, does he then think that power requires deception to win hearts? If not, I wonder what his actual goal is.

Never mind.

Clerics have every right to be rich. I’d even say I have no problem with them living off donations of their flock. My problem is with them taking advantage of people’s desperation by using deception to ensure compliance. That is the epitome of dishonesty. That is the height of faithlessness. And it has real, devastating consequences.

People have ignored medical advice in favour of faith healings, to tragic effect. Others have experienced financial setbacks because they believed that the way to a better life lay in giving to the church (read “to the pastor”), believing God would repay them a hundredfold, rather than actually having some sort of investment plan. Believers hoping to get a job or a spouse will typically stand while the Man of God prays over them, touching their foreheads and binding whatever evil spirit is held responsible for the bit of misery in question… but no word on how the believers can actually achieve those ends. If things don’t happen, it’s because the people didn’t pray earnestly enough, or because they doubted, or because their seed was insufficient. Never mind that they’re struggling to secure their children’s school fees. Never mind that their medication money helps pay for the “parsonage”. No, it can’t be that the man at the pulpit is full of crap; that would seriously hurt attendance and, more importantly, the bottom line.

So, just as the God they preach is blameless, and therefore all kinks are the doing of fallible mortals, these preachers are almost equally blameless when things don’t go according to the plans they lay out. They build themselves up as secondary messiahs, causing their flock to swear by them only, to believe every utterance, to eat grass on command and to literally be stepped on. That sort of dependency is the one thing keeping scrutiny and exposure at bay. And that is basically what I hope one day will vanish.

Anyone following a religious figure should embrace healthy scepticism. I don’t advocate turning your back on your faith; simply realise the person you follow is a mere human, with all the attending trappings, as suggested by the many scandals regularly peppering the press. Claims of the ability to tap into the supernatural should be met either with demands for testable evidence or with the entertained indifference we give stage magicians, who have the honesty of admitting they are fooling us.

One Year

In typical dream fashion, I find myself in the thick of a lecture I know has been going on for a while. The lecturer, a woman, has instructed us to collect something or other from the front. Having done so, I head for my seat, checking my phone and that’s when the commotion occurs.

A high-pitched yelp, a flash of light and a shutter sound all happen in a split second. A few people run away and I see one of my classmates clutching her chest.

“What happened?” the lecturer asks her.

“Someone pinched my boob!” the student replies. “They took a picture!”

Coolly, the lecturer turns toward me, still standing there, phone in hand.

“Was it you?” she asks.

“No, madam.” It is plain she doesn’t believe a word of it.

She grabs my phone, backs up a few steps and asks where the picture folder is. I tell her there are three different ones.

“This is what happens when you are a porn addict,” she says disdainfully.

I bristle inward but maintain a civil exterior. “Should you find any porn on my phone, you are free to keep it.”

She’s game. And since she says she needs witnesses, she somehow hooks up my phone to the projector.

“So do you often molest women and keep pictures as trophies?” she asks, navigating to the first picture folder. The students laugh. I say nothing.

The first picture appears on the huge canvas. It’s my mom and dad, holding hands.

She scrolls through the twenty or so family pictures, exits the folder without a comment and moves to the next.

The first picture in this one elicits a triumphant smile from the lecturer. It’s a picture of a woman wearing minimal clothing; just a training bra and body shorts. Her toned body glistens with a sheen of sweat. As the lecturer notices the dumbbells the woman holds in each hand, her smile wilts. She gives me a calculating look as she scrolls to the next picture. Fitness enthusiasts appear mid-workout one after the other. The male figures elicit sighs from the women in attendance, and vice versa. The various captions leave no doubt on the nature of the pictures.

Exiting the folder, the lecturer goes “So you want to look like one of them, huh? Just so you can land one of the ladies?”

“Please do not enter the last folder, madam.” I say, face blank.

The triumphant smile returns. The class jeers. “And why not?” she asks with the smugness and bloodlust of a gladiator asking his opponent why they should be spared.

“You may have already decided I am a despicable person, but opening the last folder will make you one in the eyes of everybody here.”

Whispers break out in the lecture hall. She gives me another look of disdain and opens the last folder.

I hold my breath and let my vision go out of focus. A deathly silence falls. I know the number and order of the pictures in the dream, because it is the same number and order in waking life.

A young girl, with short-cropped hair, large eyes and her tongue sticking out. She is clearly too thin. She looks right at the camera from her bed.

The same girl, seated on a chair. It’s obvious she is being held up only by the straps visible across her chest. Still, she smiles.

The same girl, sitting against her brother’s chest. Still smiling.

The same girl, lying on her back, perfectly still, perfectly straight, hands on her belly. Dressed in an ornate white dress, white stocking, white gloves, and white hat. Eyes closed. She is not sleeping.

The next three pictures depict the same scene from different angles.

The last picture is of a small coffin being lowered into the ground.

I wordlessly take my phone and return to my seat.

The dream jumps to the end of the lecture, as I get out and try to disappear. My lecturer intercepts me.

“I am sorry,” she says. “I did not know.”

I say nothing.

“I feel horrible,” she goes on. “How can I make it up to you?”

“Bring her back,” I say, walking away.

I wake up.

Goodbye, Little Sister

I was away when you were born. I was away when our mother brought you home. I was away for so long, too long, but I am glad I got to meet you.

I remember our introduction, and the way your big, bright eyes watched me. I remember your radiant smile at the words “Lovely, this is your other big brother.” I think that was the moment you captured me.

You were a nexus of positivity. Nobody could remain in your presence and stay miserable. I remember many an evening returning from an exhausting workday, just plopping down next to you, and you’d turn towards me and smile, and my heart would soar. How readily you smiled. How heartily you laughed, even when you were the one being made fun of.

You’d get excited at the idea of wearing shoes and of going on car rides, to the extent that everybody did their best to keep up a constant supply of both. Your sheer delight at being put behind the wheel, albeit of a parked car, is one of those pure things the fondest memories are made of.

Oh, and what cheek you had. What spirit. Should anybody stare at you too long, you would laboriously articulate “Look elsewhere” (I suspect your other brother is to thank for that one).  I really enjoyed the way you’d snap at anybody who came too close to your food, or bothered you when you were feeling cranky.

All in all, you did not have the mentality of one who is a prisoner of her own body. Your affliction waxed and waned, waxed and waned, and through your ordeal you kept fighting. You bore it all. The medication that tasted foul and left you in a daze for hours, the scans where you had to stay still and found it really, really hard to, the painful physiotherapy… This past couple of years, I’ve seen you shoulder a burden most adults balk at, and you’d been at it a while already. You were bravery given human form.

This past Saturday was the last time I got to say to you “See you later, little girl.” Even as I write these words, I can’t help but desperately hope your occasional 3 a.m. mad laughter from one of your dreams would wake me up from this bleak reality from which you are removed.

You were in our mother’s arms, surrounded by many who loved you, when you went.

I hope you knew. I hope you were aware of our love for you. Despite the times when our words couldn’t reach you, I hope you knew from our actions how much affection and admiration we all had for you. I hope you knew that you were a paragon of beauty to us. You lit our lives like a second sun.

At ease, little soldier. You fought valiantly. Nothing can harm you now.

Hanging out with her big bro,
Lovely Sandra Mankono
August 5th, 2004 - February 1st, 2014

Sins of the Father

As an avid consumer of popular entertainment, I have noticed an interesting trend in the way stories are packaged. Ancestry plays a critical role in almost every narrative, in that incidents tend to “keep it in the family.” Fair warning: the very nature of this post means I will break one of my religion’s most sacred tenets. In other words, there are spoilers ahead.

Final Fantasy is one of my favourite game series. Its original plots and novel cast for each instalment mean that even after 15 games, the same-old-stuff effect is minimal (well, XIII was horrible, but never mind that one). Even in those games, though, the protagonist almost always has to deal with the failures of his or her forbears. In FFVIII, Squall’s world faces destruction because 17 years or so earlier, his father failed to properly seal the sorceress Adel.

This is Adel. Yes, the game does state "sorceress".

In FFX, Tidus is forcibly sent to the future after his father failed to stop the cycle that turned a Summoner’s Final Aeon into Sin (I promise this is the sentence that will make the least sense today).

This isn’t limited to video games. Cinema and television have shown the same tendencies. Anakin Skywalker’s failure to resist the Dark Side plunged an entire galaxy into chaos. If you have not guessed who eventually had to fix that (you mean you didn’t already know?), your reading comprehension leaves a lot to be desired. In 24, Jack Bauer discovers the events of Day 5 and Day 6 were masterminded by his own father, and has to stop him. We find out Pirate Lord Jack Sparrow’s father is Keeper of the Pirate Code. We find out Olivia Pope’s father is the Spy to End All Spies, and that her mother was is an informant a terrorist.

I could go on for pages, but let’s just say I am willing to bet that a bloodline storyline will crop up in any media franchise that goes on long enough.

I hear this one is all about genealogies now.

Engrossed though I get in those stories, that particular plot device strikes me as a misguided way to raise the stakes while at the same time making things “personal.” Luke is not merely facing an Empire led by a pair of Sith Lords; he’s going against his own father! [Gasp] Now it’s serious.

While you might argue that I show very little faith in humans, I don’t think people really can make the distinction between fiction and reality anymore, what with the way we all picture ourselves as the main characters in our own grand adventure. Maybe a part of us really believes the sins of our fathers are ours to atone for. Maybe society actually expects us to. It seems an uncomfortable burden to bear, but we do derive a large part of our identity from our ancestry, so it is possible that perceived blemishes in our family trees would weigh on us, and that those behind the stories wish to convey that aspect of things.

Or maybe I am reading too much into it and the creators simply want to make the protagonist easier to relate to. I mean, which one of us isn’t plagued by self-doubt because one ancestor failed to toss a ring into a volcano?