By 234 Star
Let’s play a little game guys!
How well do you know your celebrities? How many of them can you identify by their lips in the photo below? Let’s go!
A veritable irony, life is. Especially if what we strive to escape from turns out to be the very things we end up with: being alone, with no possessions, and worse, unloved.
As a rule and I’m sure by journalistic ethics, one is not supposed to attach oneself emotionally with one’s subject on the job.
But as I walked past the open casket that ‘black’ Friday morning, I could not help the very strong wave of empathy I felt for the family as well as pity over the completely unrecognisable and ghost-like corpse that inhabited that coffin.
Her head bore what appeared like hurriedly done stitches that snaked a course through her short braids, the hairstyle she had made shortly before her demise. There were streaks of brown in the hair too, although I couldn’t quite guess what made them.
Her face still bore frightening gashes and cuts made by her knife-wielding attacker, which defied the best make up efforts of the mortician. The overall effect of the whitened and mercilessly incised face was overwhelmingly sickening.
Mercifully, we were spared the sight of her upper body by the drab black clothes she was clothed with. I can only wonder how it would have looked like, especially since I heard her blood and guts literally spilled forth in several places shortly after the attack that led to her death.
I dully retraced my steps, dazed, from the lounge to the bush bar of the club she once reigned over, to reflect for a while.
Suzie Q had died ‘poor’, the very fate she had struggled so hard in her 33 years on earth to avoid.
Born into a polygamous family comprising more than 20 siblings, Susan had seen first-hand what deprivation felt like and must have sworn to overcome all odds in order to ‘make it’.
Hers was the rags-to-riches tale that was the stuff of many a fantasy story. The ‘Iron Lady’ as she was dubbed by some, had been quite ‘successful’ at last; she ran a high-end club in the exclusive part of Lagos, lived in a pretty decent apartment in Victoria Island and got to fraternize with top shots in the entertainment industry.
But she had severed ties with her family in her quest to ‘get-rich-or-die-trying’, a quest that had seen her run the whole gamut usually involved in a country to city girl transition.
She died tragically in one of the most gruesome circumstances I would have felt were a bit exaggerated even in a Stephen King thriller. Her life was repeatedly slashed out of her with a bread knife in her own apartment by one who was more than a mere acquaintance, and who himself jumped to his death from the multi-storeyed building.
In the end, she was mourned and buried by the same family she had long distanced herself from. No celebrity friends, no deafening noise, no flashlights, just the barely audible sobs and sighs of the true, ever faithful few family members.
I now realise, as I have often suspected that a loveless life, inspite of whatever achievement garnered, is really no life at all. If you miss this point, you’ve missed everything.
After the whole ceremony, as I still pondered on these things and more, I noticed my photographer, a very animated fellow with not a care in the world, dancing ‘azonto’ to music from his phone. The impact of the event was totally lost on him. His only care now was to get the next intoxicant (in whatever form) in his system.
Obviously, life goes on.
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