Many of us believe a dream is a mysterious message, which needs someone with special prophetic skills to unravel.
Maybe it is the lunar cycle casting a spell on my mind. Perhaps, it is the house in which my astrological star is at that has hitched a cosmic Bluetooth to my brain and taken control of my thoughts.
But I just can’t keep my mind on the important and urgent things. Last week, I dwelt at length on some entertaining pettiness.
This week I have gone into a psychotic loop on some dream at a time when there are weighty issues which require to be dissected. It is not any dream though.
First of all, I’m not the dreaming type. I’m mid-fifties, when I go to bed, I pass out until someone kicks me in the throat the following morning. But it was an elaborate dream in 4K, which might have clues to the future.
But how can I be thinking about dreams when the governor of some peripheral county, whose people are known for a hot temper and which I don’t come from, has asked the President to allow the locals to milk elephants, zebra and gazelles?
I don’t know whether there is any law against milking elephants. It would be quite tough to prove that milking an elephant is cruel treatment of an animal.
However, the central question is what the elephant would make of the whole spectacle and what consistency of paste it would reduce any tribesman who is so ambitious as to try to milk it. Certainly, there is no need for presidential intervention and the Meru are irredeemably poor at choosing leaders.
There is even the rather unusual occurrence of President William Ruto’s rather tortured, conditional and half-hearted apology to the Gen Z.
I could have written on the polemics of forgiveness and the centrality of contrition, a sincere and complete confession of wrongdoing and a genuine commitment to stop offending as prerequisites for forgiveness.
Saying you have apologised is quite distinct from actually apologising, as we teach our children. I am sure if you do one of those artificial intelligence images of the Head of State in a er... funeral receptacle used for purposes of burial, if you know what I mean, you still run the considerable risk of a large calibre round being lodged in the region of your medulla oblongata.
You may also assume the character of ghosts, to wit, a tendency to dissolve into thin air.
I could even, in the unlikely event of summoning sufficient courage since this is a Banana Republic where wazee are stuffed in the boots of dusty Subarus—or abduct themselves thereof—have attempted to join the various strands around the fears that there is a conspiracy to overthrow the Supreme Court with the intention of replacing it with cross-eyed, well-nigh drooling malleable jokers, like some of those we have seen in some positions to do with the election, or at the very least scaring the judges into arriving at a finding that it would be illegal to conduct an election without redrawing constituency boundaries and therefore the current government should serve an additional, illegal term.
Of course, if anyone were to open that interdimensional portal to nightmares by making it possible for a government with the lousiest of performance records, to drag its feet on, and sabotaging the achievement of constitutional requirements for elections, then all subsequent presidents would be life presidents.
Because rather than raising odes and odes of money to buy voters, rig elections and corrupt the courts, the politicians would put all efforts in sabotaging the constitutional conditions for the vote.
And every time they would go to court, all teary and saucer-eyed, to explain why an election is a constitutional impossibility. But of course I do not want to write about that juicy line of speculation.
What do I want to write about? Dreams. Now, before you laugh, dreams are important. I Investigated a cult in which dreams and visions are more important than scripture in life-and-death decisions.
As a matter of fact, somebody tried to sell me the idea that the whole scheme to fast to death came in a dream to one, highly regarded woman in the cult.
I know a respectable church group which used to meet online for an hour at 6am for no other reason than to close their eyes and wait expectantly for the Holy Spirit to speak to them.
They would sit for an hour, in front of their laptops or phones, in an attitude of waiting on the Holy Spirit. No prayer or speaking in tongues, no singing or preaching, just waiting on the Holy Spirit to speak to them.
This went on for a considerable period and, I didn’t ask, but I never heard of anyone who had received word from on high. In fairness, it does not mean that if you sincerely open yourself to receive word from the Holy Spirit, then it is guaranteed that you would.
And it is possible that in the hustle and bustle of a normal day, you might miss the whisper of the spirit. Waiting silently in a quiet room ensures that you don’t miss even the slightest rustle of the Holy Spirit’s cloak.
I regret to inform you that I have run out of words and I can’t tell you about my dream, after all. However, I undertake to tell you next week, if the lunar cycle is still in its current state and my astrological star in the present house.
In the unlikely possibility that there are missteps in this column, then they are regrettably regretted.
