STANZAS, SCENES & CHAPTERS

  Every now and then, a climate scientist wakes up with a dangerous level of confidence. The assumption is that once the science is clear, communicating it should be straightforward. Scientists may believe that presenting data, explaining findings, or publishing reports is enough to make people understand climate change and act on it. After all, they have just completed a 120-page technical report on climate modelling. They have defended a PhD with the calm composure of a seasoned gladiator. They have run simulations predicting rainfall patterns in 2050 with the precision of a Swiss watch. Surely tweeting, designing a poster, or addressing the public should be child’s play. So they roll up their sleeves and decide to handle the communication themselves. But communication does not work that way.  What follows is usually disastrous! In one instance, as I observe a scientist take over communication, it was quite an interesting scene. The fonts clashed like two goats fig...

  I I have a fair idea of how the world bares its teeth at failure yet pops champagne to success when you finally rise. Of how suffering earns little sympathy, but prosperity suddenly attracts investigators.... everyone wanting to trace the source of your shine. Then, without warning, doors that once swallowed keys and slammed in your face now cough out welcomes. Drinking glasses gossip. Walls that ignored your knock learn your name by heart. I have a fair idea.   II I have a fair idea of laughter that leaks betrayal. Of praise rehearsed before mirrors, pressed like Sunday fugu, kaba and slit, shouted boldly in your presence and folded behind your back like collapsible chair. Smiles that arrive authentic and depart counterfeit. Smiles that clap in careful sycophancy, counting your steps as you climb the stairs of uncertainty, awaiting your big fall!! I have a fair idea.   III I have a fair idea of the day my body becomes motionless....

  Always in a hurry!! Feet speaking faster than the heart. Running as if tomorrow has a whistle and today is already being fined. He overtakes traffic lights, argues with junctions, insults roundabouts for delaying destiny. He pushes his way out of church before the final Amen settles, because even God must understand he is in a hurry. Hurry to where? Last to enter the meeting, first to vanish from it. Body present, soul already halfway home. He nods at discussions his mind did not attend. Always in a hurry.  He walks like a scooter under his heels! It is as though he is in a marathon contest with the winds of the world In a hurry to build mansions his pockets protest against. In a hurry to chauffeur wagons whose engines drink salaries. He eats fast, prays fast, loves fast, lives as if life is a queue he is desperate to escape. He hurries, hurries, hurries, just to arrive at the one place that does not rush anyone. Six feet under. No traffic! No...

The email is still vivid in my mind. “Please can you just come and take photos of our workshop and post them on social media?” Please, we have visitors. We need photos. Please take communication along. I paused before replying. Not because I was busy. Not because I was unwilling. But because I knew the request was not about climate communication. It was about photography. Nothing more. Across climate projects in West Africa, communication professionals are quietly being redefined. Not as interpreters of science. Not as translators of risk. But as official photographers with Wi-Fi. The routine is familiar. Arrive early. Capture the keynote. Snap the banner. Line everyone up for the group photo. Post it. Add the word impact to the caption. Everyone relaxes. Something has been “done”. Nothing changes. Somewhere along the line, we confused visibility with meaning. We began to believe that if it appeared online, it must have mattered. Climate communication slipped from helping people ...