By Gbayesola Samuel
Among various names generously bestowed on me, one appears to stand out. So fitting that it deserves being engraved on a plague. “Àpà” is not merely a name, it is a distinction. An honour reserved for those who have mastered the act of vandalism.
To join my elite caucus of chaos, no certificate is required, no degree demanded, and certainly no moral compass is expected. Yet, entry is strictly merit-based, measured by your commitment to the sacred arts of destruction, mismanagement, and architectural sabotage.
The minimum qualification? Simple. You must demonstrate proficiency in turning functioning objects into “former objects.” A dripping tap must meet its doom. A clean toilet must be emotionally prepared for retirement. Hostel louvers must not only be broken, but emotionally shattered and left in fragments for future generations to study in horror.
Once you can successfully disable a tap, bypass sanitation etiquette, and treat a restroom like an abstract art installation titled “After Order,” congratulations.
Warnings do not discourage me, they inspire innovation. Every “Do not do this” sign is interpreted as a creative suggestion. I am, in theory, law-abiding, but in practice, the law and I are currently in a long-term misunderstanding.
My signature is everywhere. Snapped locks that tell tragic stories, furniture that has chosen early retirement, and toilet seats that have seen realities no ceramic object should witness.
I move through spaces not as a guest, but as a force of architectural reconsideration. My presence is not announced, it is discovered, usually after something stops working.Some call it destruction. I call it “spontaneous environmental redesign.”
I maintain the appearance of a responsible intellectual, but beneath that calm exterior lies a devoted practitioner of iconic vandalism. Each action is deliberate, each mistake carefully rehearsed, each broken object a thesis statement in the philosophy of disorder.
I do not merely bend rules. I submit them to structural failure.Let it be clear: this is not vandalism. It is a lifestyle. A discipline. A reluctant contribution to the ongoing debate between order and entropy.
And if, in my wake, things stop functioning, then perhaps they were never truly meant to survive me.
