Exploiting Depravity

I haven't posted any reflective posts for a while now. This is not because I don't think anymore, or I've finally come to the realisation that I might be a pseudo-intellectual. Some of it could be blamed on me being quite busy this semester. However, I have come to realise the reason that I do not think deeply about issues, might be as a result of my present environment having a very low level of depraved issues to think about. By no means is the society that I presently live in, close to an Utopian society; it has its own problems. Still, these problems are not grave enough to arouse deep thoughts and ideas in me. A guilty feeling cropped up in me, as I wondered if I wanted depraved things to happen, in order for me to gain some sought of perverse inspiration. As one of my blog commentators Oyibo put it, he claimed writing about good things is simply bland. I found this statement really true, as we really don't enjoy reading or listening to the good things that happen everyday. We yearn for news or ideas that are sensational, provoking, eye-popping and leaves us with a sense of sadness or better still thoughtfulness.
If we are to cite popular instances, there would be a full list of tragedy that has being exploited. For instance, what would Chimamanda Adichie have written if there was no Biafran war? What would have inspired Wole Soyinka's The Man died, if there was also no Biafran war and corrupt state of government? These literary works are masterpieces that I do not have any problem with, nor am I claiming that they are works based on the exploiting deprave occurrences. It is just the thought of how depravity is exploited for creating entertainment; whether it be in an intellectual form that bother me. There will always be depraved things that happen, and it is the duty of those gifted to recount and account these depraved events. And as I hope to transfer to a bigger city or go to Nigeria this summer, with my adaptors absorbing consciously and subconsciously all sorts of things happening around me. I hope that my motive of putting anything down in paper is to express and inform my readers, rather than exploit depravity for my own benefit.

I wish:

that I could speak Yoruba fluently. Growing up in Port Harcourt, I felt learning to speak Yoruba was unimportant. I would normally laugh at my Yoruba friends who spoke Yoruba with their parents. To us half-Yorubas who couldn't speak our language, seeing phonetics that are unique to the Yoruba language being accidentally, intentionally and ignorantly used when speaking English was hilarious. And I thought I was refined because I felt my English was unadulterated from the clayey hands of the Yoruba language. When people would ask why I couldn't speak my language, my excuse would be that, it was an asset I did not need in the "modern world". My parents tried to teach us to speak Yoruba fluently with a lot of authority. But, their authoritative measures always came to abrupt ends as their laws of no longer speaking English in the house were suddenly forgotten (they too were afflicted).

Above all, the blame is on me, as I did not put much effort in learning to speak Yoruba. Though, I understand Yoruba very well and can fairly (maybe poorly) speak it , I wish I was a stronger speaker. But, according to my folks, they always encouraged me to speak Yoruba, while still young, lest, I loose the window of opportunity". But I don't think I'm that old, that learning a second language will be that hard. Our native language is one of the ways we identify ourselves as being part of a certain community or tribe. Therefore, if I can't speak Yoruba fluently, where's my identity?