deceit & the slow death of self

Four cups rest idly on a serving tray, accompanied by a metal teaspoon and a clear pitcher of water. My mother carefully pours water into the empty mouths of three, before cracking open a bottle of (non-alcoholic) gin; releasing a tipple of similar measure into the last.

A spoonful of sugar is stirred gently into the first, ones spoonful of salt into the next, producing two simple solutions of sweet and savoury - whilst the remaining two of pure water and spirit are left unadulterated. To the eye they are indistinguishable, but in nature they are of the starkest contrast. With my son at ease, occasionally wriggling around in the confines of Uncle Kwadwo’s arms, the morning’s proceedings begin.

In turn, a droplet of each liquid is spooned onto my son’s tongue - his first life lesson ritualised in this act. We smile as his face animates with new, colourful expressions. Until now he has only known the taste of formula and his mother’s milk.

“Though they look the same; if it is sugar, say it is sugar, and if it is salt, say it is salt. If it is water say it is water, if it is alcohol, say it is alcohol.”

I quietly hope that the symbolism from the ceremony is internalised.

The world that my son will inherit is one in which this teaching will be more pertinent than perhaps ever before: a digital landscape of deep fakes, AI-generated creations and infinitely flexible moral values. Discernment and commitment to truth will be a life raft in choppy seas, but it won’t necessarily make his journey easier. In some ways, probably quite the opposite.

the power of a lie

I heard somewhere that the power of a lie is only partially imbued by its ability to deceive others, but most dangerously so in it ability to deceive yourself. If practice makes perfect, as common wisdom dictates, as one approaches the threshold of mastery, made robust by thousands of repetitions, do you become convinced by your own lies?

We all engage in the world as performers of sorts, vying for an outcome where the ends, in our minds, justify the means: often to protect, but sometimes to exploit ourselves and others. We hide or distort our true intentions. We may downplay how we really feel. With each choice to deviate from authenticity, we add a building block to an illusory world. At which point, I wonder, how do you distinguish what is real? Your intimate relationships? Your abilities? Your beliefs? The integrity of each is up for debate. Even the seemingly mundane falsehoods we affirm can unconsciously slip into a self-imposed delusion that is maintained through sweat equity into a ponzi scheme we will never extract real value from.

You bend yourself in every which angle to fit a mould until you become a contorted shell of a person, embittered by the process and so divorced from yourself that you don’t know how to retrace your steps. Alternatively, you live in permanent fear that if your deceit is revealed, a series of unravelling will occur, initiating the cascading collapse of the house of cards you misguidedly made a home out of.

how truthful can one dare to be?

My personal brand of deceit stems from a blend of agreeableness and conflict aversion. The moments of weakness which I’ve withheld the truth have typically been to avoid arguments I fear could cause irreparable damage; over-expose my vulnerability; or to pacify a loved one’s feelings above my own.

As a new father, I do wonder how this could play out with my son (or future children), who will naturally trigger these particular anxieties in me. At an age where he is forming so much of his long term developmental behaviours, it’s a very sensitive matter. I’m cognisant that there’s a certain amount of unavoidable “trauma” that he’ll likely inherit due to life’s precariousness, but one cannot help but want to minimise the downside - hide him away from the harsher, less palatable realities of our existence.

I’m learning more over time that honesty and authenticity, if I genuinely believe them to be divine virtues, will have to override my discomfort because the alternative is a disservice. Even with less than sinister intentions, deceit leaves a mark. It sows seeds of distrust and eats away at the stock of goodwill and self-esteem afforded by integrity. I’m not convinced that such a trade off is ever worthwhile in the long-run. Being a man making a commitment to uphold my - admittedly limited - window of truth, I’ve come to appreciate tact, informed by love, and agnosticism towards being liked, as the necessary counterbalance to my rigid conformity to the values I hold dear.