Concept of ‘Dèbóism’: The Dèjá Vu By Agbaje H. Ayomide


Mr. Agbaje Ayomide, the writer and the inventor of the word ‘dèbóism’.

“We are born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we are not alone.”

Above is a vocal extract from the scene of a movie, ‘Someone to Love’ for the Fountains of Wayne songs, acted by George Orson Welles, an American flicker actor, director and writer, in his final live action film appearance released after his death in 1987. This film, which was then directed by Henry Jaglom is a pseudo-documentary about a filmmaker who throws a Valentine’s Day vaudeville party at an old theatre that was about to be demolished in the days of yore. This ageless admonition crystallizes the essence of love in making the world a place to live for its denizens. It is because you are, I am; and because I am, you are. We do not only live our lives for ourselves, but also for one another.

For the sake of perspicuity, ‘Dèbóism’ is a term I coined from the title of a love poem – Dèbó, indicted in the donkey’s years by Idowu Odeyemi, a Nigerian poet and agnostic existentialist philosopher who was caught of guards by the rhapsody of love. In the poem, he made much of how he would never trade his love for Dèbó for anything and maroon her even in his farthermost folly. This totem of bravura poetic manipulation fostered in the company of a silver-tongued appearance went international and garnered a place of honour in the World Book of Poems authored by an ardent Indic literatus, Sourav Sarkar. This book is a florilegium of poems of poets from different nationalities dedicated to the people of the world to sustain a peaceful and harmonious synchronous existence to solve the manifold crises in our mise-en-scènes and was published in the Republic of India. A ‘dèbóistical’ love, as delineated in the exquisite sonnet is a dinkum and genuine affection for a personage of ravishing paragon whose elegance would definitely blow off the mind of a sage and an enigma like a gun powder after several gunshots. And on the dawn of the reality of dèbóism on him, his sanity, often I will distrust. It is a sweet and unrestrained ecstasy with a pleasant connection to immortal beatitudes.

Love, as a vital social engineering tool, is what I descry as a pivotal key to a functioning society as a whole nine yards. When we develop an intimacy with the object of our affection, and be fortunate to have the fondness reciprocated is what I consider as a buttress to the bedrock in which your evolution and by-and-by foot on. Withal, it is a path to self discovery. There is an high propensity for love – which I espy as the basis on which dèbóism emanates from, to reveal lots unseen about ourselves and also tend to know more of ourselves – our morality, attitude, preference, level of tolerance, spontaneous reactions, idiosyncrasies and eccentricities. Especially by esteeming the actuality that you are in a situation where we may have never been before.

Love through dèbóism, is that sweet and simple, not only because it is the greatest feelings of mankind but also a satisfaction of our emotional needs which further facilitate our benevolence and compassion. When you’re in love, you always tend to contend for the best and not just in a biggety sense. It is not merely for your partner loving you more but also to do better in life, set new goals and break new grounds. There will be an augment in our positive conceptions in which that alone makes an huge difference in our lives. An enigmatic dèbóitic emotion transcends all boundaries and has a very great potential of changing our individual lives and our perception towards the wider real world. It is definitely by the virtue of this love we would ferret out an everlasting peace and societal cognizance.

And as fantabulous and groovy as a dèbóistical love may seem, even though it serves as an excellent source of motivation. It can also go sour, I daresay. It is of an unassailable similitude to a garden where all assortment of fruits lies and contains all blossoming flowers therein, while it is expedient to painstakingly note that ripe fruits can sometimes taste vinegary while roses, daffodils and chrysanthemums can also be thorny. It is a life reformer and even through an heartbreak, you still learn some vitally important life lessons. Therefore, do not be too hard on yourself. Love is journey. It is a state of being worth striving for.

This briskly brings to mind an evocative and tenacious surmise I nurtured and do belaud myself of, barely three years ago that no demoiselle is well suitable enough to completely encroach into the impervious barricade of my heart. That my natural predispositions were so towering and not just any daughter of Eve conceived by the womb of a woman can ever dare to careen into, if she is indeed not an angel on earth. I supposed my tastes were so high. Never did I knew they were just otiose and unavailing utterances from my callow self. I never, perhaps just for once visualized I could ever be dèbóistic just until a circumstantial day my mind would be disenchanted and disciplined of these misplaced chucklesome self-conceited thoughts. It was Adúké, my very own arewa I fell in love with. Unusual of me, it was indeed a love at first sight.

“Adúké mi owon, adumaradan arewa, orekelewa ololufe mi, eleyinju ege.” I would eulogize her in my sweet flows of dialectal and patoisal words. And as would be expected much of Adúké, she would beam and titillate me with her electric and contagious smiles in a face of vivacity and diverge her lips to unveil her complete set of sparklingly white teeth, with a breach in between the two centred incisors of her upper jaw. I would look dead-straight into her eyes, silvery and lustrous like the albumen of a boiled egg, clear like a spring water and calm like a still water held in a clenched fist. Her voice, tuneful and beguiling as ever. I would be stupefied by the cadency and eloquence that gaudily bedizened it. I couldn’t help but admit the fact that she has intoxicated me with the cocktails of the inebriating wine of love, pretty akin to a dipsomaniac, inept to decrypt what once was. Adúké was undoubtedly the missing bone I direly needed to make myself a complete whole.

Several weeks elapsed, Adúké and I have become so especial and gregarious that scarcely would a day pass without engaging in a lengthy tête-à-tête while exhilarating her with various firsthand and spellbinding gists spiced up with hysterical jokes to enliven the sweet moments we spend together. We would walk together along the road as the wind effectuated by fast moving automobiles would poise past our faces, holding each other’s hand, clung it the more, and swayed it friskily. Even if friendships were to be pages, we would have written a whole massive book. So there came a golden occasion. This time around, I was so perspective enough to have sensed that the time is no later than now to confess my love to this lovesome princess. “Ermm! Err.. em em, Adúké, do you know I care a great deal about you?” I said with a tremulous voice, my hands shaking and rubbing off my palms together in bewilderment. “Of course, I know you do.” “And why are you stuttering?” she effusively inquired. I could catch that glimmer of heartfelt sympathy and compassion on her face. With the stalwartness of my mind, I summoned the intrepidity in me and let the cat out of the bag once and for all.

“Adúké, can you truly be mine?” I put forth my mind, snoopily waiting for what next would proceed out of her mouth and much hoping she would decipher my canticle of love transuding out from the inmost pendulum of my thoraxial cavity. After a long pause, she heaved a sigh of relief. Lo and behold! And she said yes. She gave me a tight cuddle to show her utmost affection and whispered into my ears, “Agbaje, I much expected this from you.” I would clasped my hands around her waist, while I couldn’t just conceal my excitement and I took her right hand, held it firmly and plant a light kiss on it. She would bedazzle me with those seductive and angelic smile again. It’s been two years and a quarter now, we are still dating and we are still counting.

Adúké would always give me a phone call on a sunny Friday afternoon, where there were no prismatic blossoming flowers around in their utmost splendiferousness. “Sweetie, are you on the campus premises now?” “Come and meet me at the Faculty of Law beanery, dear.” “I love you!” she would said and hang up our phone colloquy. We would rendezvous and treat ourselves to tasty and delectable delicacies. During the course of scooping our meals and levelling up the grains in our dishes, she would bring out her phone, draw me nearer to her, engirdle her arm around my neck to snap a selfie while in a stylishly way pouting out her lips. By and large, I would always say my relationship with this ravishing paragon of beauty was fun-filled, frolicsome and divertisse. It more seemed like a dèjá vu though but it isn’t, I surmise. But in the end, I would say I was dèbóistically drunk in love with my Adúké.

Mr. Agbajecity

Agbajecity is a staff writer/columnist at Havilah Writing Organization, astute journalist, utility news reporter and a public affairs analyst. He explores his writing prowess much as often as he takes some swallow handfuls of amala, ewedu and gbegiri soup, a cuisine very peculiar to his home town. He is a poet and blogger at where he frolickily plays with fictions and inspirational writings. He envisions himself someday to be the voice of the voiceless and a newspaper columnist with national politics and Nigeria’s educational system as his most commonly penned area.

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