Once upon a Time, the Keepers of the Meridian were to meet Time at sunrise. Time was on Time at the Greenwich on the D-day. The Keepers were nowhere to be found. Time placed a call. “Where are you?” Time asked. “I’ll be there soon,” they replied.
The 180th Meridian called the Keepers of the Meridian. “Hey Pal. I have slobbered over Time since the sun plunged in its orange fragrance. A blast from the past tells me Time is standing still at Greenwich. Probably waiting for you to make hay while the sun smiles. Do you not know Time is of the essence? But knowing you, you would waste Time – till Time lives on borrowed Time.”
Somewhere on the tiny blue dot, Time grits its teeth. Flapping its wings on this thorny longitude. Tick tock tick tock, it limps in the dark alley of the latitude. But here, Time dares not depart. Time waits for man. That painful crawl in the jaws of the Greenwich – wishing to fly out of this Meridian grip that snuffs out seconds from minutes, hours from days, life from dreams, progress from dreamers and achievement from events – flying like sand through an hourglass.
Welcome to Ghana where the race against Time is won with brute sluggishness at the eleventh hour. They will beat the clock into submission, so they can move behindhand. Thinking of getting up with the lark so you can get ahead of Time? Break a leg! But here on the Meridian, the Keepers will despise you. How dare you get ahead of Time? Better late than earlier. The last shall be the first, and the first shall be the last.
In the blink of an eye, Time will tell. A stitch in Time saved none. Those who locked step with Time were asked to turn back the hand of Time. Forward never, backwards ever. Time stood still, and the Keepers of the Meridian had Time on their hands. The stars closed their eyes. The clouds covered their mouths. The moon hid from the sun.
What’s next in Peter’s Box? ¡Hasta luego amigos!
