The texture of insanity is the choke of smoke fumes, rushing at your lungs and all you can think is the aftermath of lung cancer or cell apoptosis. It has a charcoaly thickness and stiffness to the feel – exactly like silver scraps sticking in places with no place to settle.
The texture of insanity is the gummy taste of baba dudu sharp and soft. It melts into the tongue as it goes down inside you. You are six years old with clammy fingers. It will be sticky at twenty-six, snatching gold earrings at Oshodi.
The texture of insanity is a chilling realization. It is not acceptable in the “I’m so insane!” way chortle, when relating a crazy encounter. It is that sort of livid insanity at 2:00am, when the quality of existence settles upon your heart like a weight, that leaves in a fleeting moment.
The texture of insanity is the silent rage, building up. It is the slamming waves of the ocean. It is the stench of faded sweat, of faded hope from wasted labour trusting in the power of youthful might, standing as one in a divided nation.
It is lost change.
It is a stolen turnaround.
And we’re all stuck in this hellish Heaven of eloquent parakeets sensibly dressed in flowing suits like avenging patrons of foundational inequality. They are leeches, clamping on the next fresh flesh dipped into the swamp -like ghoulish monsters sucking out the vitality of “soro soke“
That is the insanity; the texture of it.
The jargon of sensible quality.