“Be kind to all, at all times,” an adage my father repeats whenever he advises me on what brings blessings to one’s life. He also says that, regardless of how poor he may be and what little possessions he boasts of, what is priceless is his good name. “They can call me anything, but they can never call me a thief,” he would proudly add. I was brought up to be kind to all and never to take something that doesn’t belong to me.

Virtues better suited for utopia, you’d think.

Here, kindness is a weakness readily exploited by even the closest friends and allies. To not take what is not yours is equated with stupidity. Taking what is not yours is camouflaged so well that you’d think it is entitlement.

So I am supposed to be kind. I am supposed to give off my marrow to those in need—even to the leeches that would not hesitate to drain me at the first chance they get. This madness of pacifism in the name of a messiah is exhausting. I sometimes wish we could rewind to our olden days—days when honor was all that a man or woman possessed. Once soiled, your name became tarnished for generations. Your seed would inherit the shame and dishonor you bestowed upon them, without end. One would have to self-exile to escape the eternal ramifications of a blemished name.

Herald me back to those days when cieng was the standard, and songs of praise and shame echoed in the individual and communal psyche as a constant deterrent. An uncle who often recounts those days says that if a young man passed gas in the presence of young maidens, he would run to the bush and never return to that village. His mishap would be immortalized in song across all age groups. Imagine, then, the fate of one who took what was not his—or killed without cause.

So I am supposed not to take what doesn’t belong to me. I am supposed to earn my stripes and my toys in a world where having, by whatever means, is the only virtue that matters. Honesty becomes a vice, swallowed by the quicksand of expediency.

To think of it, perhaps it is the egalitarian in us. All are equal in dignity and worth and therefore entitled to benefit from the commonwealth. A noble idea. Yet everything becomes a commonwealth. The leader—the big tree—is entrusted to administer it so that his purse becomes the people’s purse. The big tree must provide shade for all without distinction, or else the big tree must be chopped down.

Don’t get me wrong—what is mine is mine. But remember the first adage: be kind to all, at all times. Everyone in need, and their extended line of dependents, is entitled to “assistance.” Extend this logic further, and the largest purse becomes the commonwealth to which all are entitled. Since the big tree administers it on behalf of “the people,” many of whom hover constantly at his heels, desk, and home, demanding their share, taking from that purse to feed “the people’s” hunger is no longer seen as theft.

What a plausible justification.

It does not end there. The big tree carries prestige and is bound by expectation. Once baptized into that lot, leadership becomes divinely bestowed upon the person and inheritable by their seed. Like a good name, it must be preserved and elevated. The big tree must never descend to the lowly stature of the small trees. It must tower higher and higher, forever set apart.

The big tree must also give favors—especially to prostrating kith and kin, the ever-watchful subjects. These subjects keep one eye sharp, measuring the degree of the big tree’s “commonness.” They wait for the slightest crack in the aura, anything that strips away the clouds encircling the favored one. If spotted, the big tree is diminished—finished.

Very few at the stature of the big tree earn their stripes and toys through ingenuity and industry. Many, instead, reach deep into the commonwealth’s purse to consolidate their standing in the eyes of their subjects. Yet they are seldom called thieves. To do so would soil their names—when we are instead expected to celebrate them.

And so we circle back to the contradiction: we are taught to be kind to all and not take what does not belong to us. We are told, “Blessed are the poor, for they shall inherit the kingdom of God.” Yet the systems we have built reward the opposite.

Ingenuity and industry are the way.

But who will uproot the wayward?

© Apuk Ayuel Mayen 2018. All rights reserved.