“Things Fall Apart.”
The great African writer Chinua Achebe, I believe, wrote a novel of the ravages of colonialism, which bore the title, Things Fall Apart. He borrowed the title from the famed Irish poet William Butler Yeats who wrote: “Things fall apart. The center cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”
We see outside our doors, our windows, a world we did not know that now exists. The silent unseen disease gives vent to massive unease and unleashes unprecedented fear. Political leaders pose and preen saying little of substance and even less of sense, but in every utterance comes a fevered subtext, “Praise me, praise me, praise me.” While dozens and then hundreds die daily, and thousands, tens of thousands fall ill, trillions of dollars dry up like fruit falls from a tree. They fall rotten, unusable, gone like the wind. Politicians fill the air with words, but no solution is in sight. Several weeks ago, a pandemic came to visit the world’s richest country and things fall apart.
From imprisoned nation, this is Mumia Abu-Jamal.
[Sound of prison door clanking open.]
These commentaries are recorded by Noelle Hanrahan of Prison Radio.
[Sound of prison door slamming shut.]