- Jo M. Sekimonyo
The value of books...
A piece of art can be full of characters that exhume different emotions when observed at different distances. However, economists’ schemes which are generally exasperated with assumptions masquerading as common-sense, should exhume only one response; rejection. Deplorably, most of these half-baked commerce and trade notions continue unchallenged and launch precarious policies that devastate prospects for a dignified existence of billions of people on this dying planet. For some mystical reason, I keep running into knuckle heads who desperately spit out the same satanic proses that I am immune to, nonetheless usually hypnotize naïve souls or help these bastards to get laid. They are not less than the overzealous captains of academia and their herds bewildered by my unorthodox howling, alleging it was the Voynich manuscript counterfeit.
To a painter, the ultimate compliment is tears. As a hostile writer, I am into the business of getting readers closer to their dearest emotions. Though as a shameless activist, I live with the urge of finishing brave protagonists’ sentences or ruining conformists’ contentment. To abandon any of my infuriating traits, diffusing my identity is not only unbearable, but unthinkable. I could have easily opted for a smoother route on this journey by charmingly reciting stony theories that frame current main commerce ideologies, but I can’t. I refuse. As one chooses to write down a thought, there comes with it, a responsibility to lay down the unpolluted countenance of our mind. I have been cursed for frequently crossing the frontier of truth, parts of the world where poverty and injustice is all in one gumbo of asphyxiating reality.