The Metaphor of the Green Bottles
Lapsus memoria is Latin. Memory lose is English. Either choice
is my woe. Writ plain: there are few things that I can remember
these days. Especially of my early school years. But I will not
forget some things about my last elementary school named L.A.
Primary School. In those days, no one bothered about the meaning
of the acronymn, L.A. We proudly beat our chests and announced
to other pupils whose schools sounded a mouthful that we were
children of L.A. And come to think of it , L.A. meant Local
Authority, not Los Angeles—the real L.A. But let me try to
recollect a few things about my L.A. :
One hot afternoon, a child, no a man—for he was 7 years
older than his teacher—had drawn out a long machete to
behead his class teacher who had offended him for some reason;
Snakes were always traversing the green fields (the school was
sorrounded by a forest); We drank water from a poll of cool
water which they say holds the belly (God knows how many
microorganisms that washed down our gullets); And the town where
this school was located was famous, for the natives had chained
the Lander Brothers—Richard and John—two white
explorers who had been there to trace the tributary of River
Niger to the Atlantic Ocean. The chain—the only tourist
attraction in the town—was said to be on display in the
king's palace (I never got ot see it).
I am not about to write on The Pacification of the Primitive
Tribes of the Lower Niger. Albert Chinalulumogu Achebe knew the
whiteman who contemplated it. I meant Chinua Achebe who wrote
Things Fall Apart. Writers prefer shortened names—poetic
nomenclatures, like my L.A. But before things start falling
apart, let me mention one thing that I would not forget about
that school—not an incident, but an innocent song.
It was at L.A. that I first learnt the song about the ten green
bottles hanging on the wall. That teacher—who nearly lost
his head—taught us that song. When the sun would be at its
meridian, he would rouse us up—the slepping
children—to sing and dance Ten Green Bottles Hanging on
the Wall. He was an accomplished singer and dancer himself, and
we tried to outdo him as we wriggled our waists, sang ourselves
hoarse, and drummed away at our desks—happy for the only
free opportunity to disturb the peace.
One thing which none dared to ask, however, was why the ten
green bottles hanging on the wall came tumbling to the ground.
Was it that they were not well fastened to the wall, or was it
that the bottles would always fall, tie them as you may? We just
supposed it to be their destiny and pitied them no small a pity.
But the smiling teacher—he was always smiling—told
us that it was a poem. And we presumed that strange things
happen in poetry. Consider the bizarre poem about the three
blind mice which ran after the farmer's wife. Surprisingly, the
cruel mother—with no milk of human kindness in her
breast—betook a carving knife and compounded their
affliction by slicing off their tails! Questions: How did the
three blind mice find their way? Why were they following the
heels of the farmer's wife? Never mind, it's poetry. . .
But I look at the ten green botttles hanging on the wall and
look at them again. Methink it is not a poem, but an allegory
about life. Men are the green bottles, the wall represents the
world, and the ground on which they fall is the
grave—man's final destination. In this regard, every
man—or woman or child—walking on the face of this
cursed earth, is an accident waiting waiting to happen. It could
be in a space shuttle like the Challenger (dead bodies turned to
orbiting UFO's), or in a Russian submarine (entombed in frigid
waters), or worse in a Chernobyl-style explosion (buried in a
suspended grave).
But there is another version of the green bottles concerning the
story of a condemned criminal. When asked about his last
request, the man, intent on delaying his death, asked to be
allowed to sing Ten Million Green Bottles Hanging on the Wall.
They obliged him. The executioner slept and woke. And after 4
weeks the condemned singer was somewhere around nine million
nine thousand and something green bottles. It is an interesting
version of the song. Yet, the song ended and the singer of the
longest song in history kept his date with the hangman.
Everything about this world is refuse—plain waste. Sleep,
wake, and finally expire. Even if you were singing Ten Billion
Green Bottles, the song would end someday and you would get your
deserved quietus. So if you have not done your will, indite it,
NOW! Because you—one of the ten, no, six billion green
bottles hanging on the wall—will soon dead-crash to mother
earth, waiting for the beneficiaries of your will to bring the
rear. Your only last honor is the red earth—that is if you
are not some Hindu who would rather their corpse was cremated
and scattered in the Ganges.
But the fact is that red earth is in short supply these days.
Man's final place of repose seems to be a dark, oily earth. He
that didn't oil his lips alive because of poverty, is now soaked
eternally—bones and all—in a cemetry polluted by
crude oil spills. That is if he wasn't buried in a shallow,
watery grave—the country graveyards are flooded now (no
thanks to global warming). What then is your inheritance in this
earth, you son of Adam?
For soon you are going to lie on your deathbed and wish that
your loved ones saved you from the cold hands of Death.But they
would not be able—only content to watch your last moments
and close your eyes.
Or soon you are to sit beside a dying friend, your child, wife
or husband. And they would implore you to rescue them from the
Last Visitor. But you would only shed tears of shame and see
them off to sheol, and live forever in disgrace—the
torment of your inability to deliver a dear one from hades' door.
So, when next you hear your little ones sing about those ten
green bottles hanging on the wall, never nod your head in
approbation or tap your feet ecstatically on the floor to the
rhythm of the innocent poem. Nor should it ever cross your mind
that GREEN is a symbol of regeneration or longevity. Like the
"everlasting" sequoia tree of North America that can tarry for
centuries. Rather, is about YOUR LAST RITES. That, I think, is
the metaphor of the green bottles,
hanging—precariously—on the wall!
ARTHUR ZULU is an editor, book reviewer, author of "CHASING
SHADOWS!" "HOW TO WRITE A BESTSELLER" and "A LETTER TO NOAH"
soon to be published by Authorhouse. Goto:
http://www.1stbooks.com/bookview/21013 Mailto:
mostcontroversialwriter@yahoo.com For his works and FREE
articles, use the search engines and search "ARTHUR ZULU"