I had this painfully short-lived desire to be a singer when I was young. My father even had this sweet lady come to our house and give me music lessons for a few months. As time went by, my teacher grew fond of me and gave me hope that one day I’ll have my own stage and I’ll get to live out my dreams. But similar to how the bliss of childhood comes to a halt at the altar of adulthood, my dreams came to rest one miserable day in 2011.
Baba had just turned on BBC News to satisfy his daily quota of international communiqué and I had the misfortune of sitting right next to him. The next thing I knew, I was sitting there absolutely shell-shocked at the news of Amy Whinehouse’s death. They were saying that the soul singer died from alcohol poisoning at the age of 27. Now, it’s true that back then I wasn’t a big fan of the Western entertainment media, but I knew what a big name she was. However, what really had me switching my purpose in life from being a singer to becoming a cardiac surgeon was a snide comment my mother made from my periphery. It was something along the lines of – “There goes another one”.
The words my mother graced us with that day gnawed at the slow-witted mind of my 11-year-old self. The tabloids suggested that Amy’s death was caused by her foul practices that she followed to keep her bipolar disorder at bay.
After all, her superstardom couldn’t have anything to do with her untimely demise, right? Who wouldn’t want to be the centrepiece for onlookers to hyperfocus on morning, noon and night?
Stargazers like Sulli, certainly weren’t aware of how cut throat the K-pop industry could be when they debuted as idols. Sulli was a flourishing singer and an actress. I have been an avid k-pop enthusiast since 2016, and I’ve always known Sulli to be one of the industry’s sweetest yet boldest women who never cowered from speaking her mind.
Sadly, in an anti-feminist society, speaking up for women’s rights grants you a spot in hell. Hence, the news of her death; followed by the confirmation that it was suicide, drove me up the wall and had me in a state of agitation for quite some time.
I say agitation because I was jaded by how k-pop, a guilty pleasure that had once induced teenage fulfilment, became a place for such malice. Sulli’s death wasn’t the last of its kind and much as it pains me to say this, it won’t be the last.
Speaking of death, I wonder if people believe in the concept of posthumus forgiveness. It’s when the living impart their apologies to the dead in hopes of defusing the embers of their guilt. I like to believe that the ghosts of the dead hold their breaths (no pun intended) and hope for an apology before they pass on to the great beyond. Chadwick Boseman surely deserves one if you ask me. I remember seeing paparazzi pictures of his fatigued body and what I also remember is how the internet condemned him in cold blood.
Afterall, what absurdity would it be if a public figure went through drastic bodily changes like a common fool?
Then came his death and followed the news of his unrelenting fight with cancer. It most certainly gave way to countless social media posts and tweets about what a remarkable human being he was, how God took him way too soon and all the usual sobfests. But I’m afraid our performative activism on social media won’t bring the cathartic insight we hope for.
As human beings, we can’t seem to make merry with our wimpish privileges that come with normality. Extravagance is what we yearn for; overindulgence is what we desire. In exchange for consummation of that desire, we wind up making deals with the devil. But whenever it’s time to pay our dues and face the consequences, we deny the agreement. We stand on God’s threshold and pray that the Devil is as green as grass. We simply act blind to the possible stroke of bad luck that comes along with glory.
It’s quite habitual for us humans to stand from afar and judge a big shot celebrity for any and all slips due to misjudgement. But there are times when I put myself in the shoes of Kurt Cobain and imagine how it would feel to have eyes on me day in and day out; to become aware of the mounting stress to satiate the voyeurs. I often wonder if only my creative output as an artist would be a substitute for my identity; if my worth would simply reduce to ‘that Nirvana guy who took too much acid and shot himself in the head’ after I found a self-destructive way to deal with alienation.
Science tells us that the bigger the star, the faster it burns up its fuel and dies out. Perhaps it’s a good thing not to shine as bright as the most radiant star in the sky. Perhaps it’s best to let the flame die before it learns that it can lighten even the darkest of chambers. French artist Henry Matisse once said – “Creativity takes courage”. But what he failed to voice was that this creativity that ignites even in the smallest of portions in every single one of us, slowly starts dying by the hands of her beholder the moment she bares herself to the world. But the formidable question remains as invincible as the heart of a raging storm – will the beholder let her shine or let nature take its course and lay her gently, but surely in her final resting place?
