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The deeper we get into Trump's presidency, the thicker and closer the fog on the future becomes. Under Obama, one could have a reasonable idea of what the following year looked like. Even the distance of two years was recognizable. The fog completely covered the distance of five or so years. Under Trump, one can't even see the end of the day. What will America look like tomorrow? I have no idea. The fog of the unknowable is even encroaching on the hours. Indeed, if I turn my back on the minutes, will Trump end up behind bars or launching nukes? This is our times.

But as the future becomes more obscure, the past is becoming clearer. I think I have a biological explanation for this development. When one loses, say, their hearing, the always-active and plastic brain makes adjustments that increase the sensitivity of the other unimpaired senses. Similarly, as I lose sight of what's ahead, my vision of what's behind me improves. This situation has exhumed several parts of my past from the cemetery of the forgotten. Indeed, last night during a spell of insomnia, I remembered Benson Mutasa, a student from the world of my Form 3 year at Oriel Boys' High School.

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Benson looked at me accusingly and I realized I owed this ghost an apology. I'm sorry, Benson, for what I did to you. I should not have sung that line that caused you so much suffering. You had two big front teeth. No one could miss them. They gave your face the appearance of Mushmouth from Fat Albert.

In a moment of inspiration, as I watched you bite a pork pie at the tuck shop, I sang: "My name is Benson, I look like a herbivore."

It became an instant hit. It made me popular overnight. Everyone sang it when ever they saw you, or when ever you got the ball during a rugby match. It was sung even by one teacher, the chain-smoking Afrikaner who drove a Beetle Convertible. How I made your 14th year a living hell. I hope the silly line did not destroy your whole life. I would be happy to hear that you are still around, happily married, and living large. I hope you do not haunt me again, Benson.