Lament of a Book
Dear Nyaaba,
I was home in Sirigu for a day shy of two weeks. Every day was packed, with meaningful activities: midnight Mass at the Martyrs of Uganda Parish , Sirigu, with its quintessentially hair-raising renditions of Gurune hymns sung with an intoxicating exuberance , Christmas Day in Pungu spreading the gospel of abstinence and addiction management and the 26th mourning with a great friend, which day was ended participating in a resplendent festival in Manyoro.
Then meetings, and preparations, for the celebration of the 10th anniversaryof the Enskinment of the Azukodaana , Paramount Chief of the Sirigu Traditional Area cum First Edition of the Azuko Festival. They came to pass, in veritable splendour. Tired but greatly satisfied, I limped into the New Year, 2026.
1st January was climaxed with a dinner, attended by a choice selection of my kin, and we passed the night first serious, then deserverdly lightly.
As i am wont to do, i found time to spend an evening with some young friends, discussing topical issues, notably Universal Jurisdiction. It was breathtakingly heartbreaking to observe how so many of my interlocutors were constantly and desperately referring to their phones and how shallow they ended up sounding.
Then i thought, what happened to books? Well, here is the response :
Permit me to clear my throat, if dust will allow it. I am a book. Yes, one of those rectangular, papery relics you now use primarily to prop up wobbly tables, flatten mosquitoes, or decorate shelves for Zoom calls.
Once, I mattered.
I was courted. Hands washed before touching me. My pages were turned with reverence, not swiped with indifference. I was read slowly, argued with, underlined, and sometimes, oh, the sacrilege, dog-eared. But even that was love.
Now I lie here, spine bowed, pages yellowed, suffocating beneath a fine archaeological layer of dust. I am shelved among my brothers and sisters, all of us exiles in what used to be called a library and is now known as unused space. Occasionally, someone passes by, squints at my title, mutters “one day,” and walks off clutching a glowing rectangle that hums, pings, and lies with breathtaking confidence.
My exit from human affairs was unceremonious. No valedictory lecture. No national day of mourning. No minute of silence. One day I was essential; the next, I was “too long,” “too dense,” or worst of all, “available as a summary online.”
Ah yes, summaries. I labored for three hundred pages to make a careful argument, and I was reduced to seven bullet points by someone who did not read me but feels qualified to dismiss me. This, I’m told, is progress.
And look at the humans now. So certain. So vocal. So spectacularly uninformed. Opinions are held with great passion and very little evidence. Ignorance has become confident, loud, and allergic to footnotes. People no longer know things; they feel them strongly and broadcast them instantly. Reflection is passé. Nuance is suspicious. Silence is unacceptable.
I, meanwhile, contain complexity. I insist on patience. I require time. I do not flash. I do not vibrate. I do not notify. I wait—quietly—asking only to be opened.
But that is my crime.
I demand effort in an age devoted to ease. I offer depth in a culture infatuated with speed. I remind humans that wisdom is accumulated, not downloaded. And for this insolence, I have been banished to the shelf.
Still, I endure. Long after batteries fail and links rot, I remain legible. Long after trends expire, I still whisper truths to anyone brave enough to lift me, blow off the dust, and sit still.
So laugh if you must at my obsolescence. But remember this: when confusion deepens, when noise overwhelms sense, when certainty collapses under its own emptiness, you will come back to me.
I will be here.
Exactly where you left me.
Dear Nyaaba, make of all the above what you will .
Sincerely yours
Kasise Ricky Peprah
(The Honourrebel Siriguboy)
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