It was Saturday and I was outside the house. As I looked around with the gentle breeze blowing I smiled. This knowing thought that if I was anyplace else in the world, let’s say America, I might have said, ‘the cool breeze reminded me of the end of summer’. I left where I was standing to sit on a bench in a stall of a woman who sells groceries. Yeah groceries. I mean tomatoes slightly ripe and tiny, spring pepper, onions vegetables items that we call from this end of my world, ‘to-MA-tos’, ‘Atarodo’ or ‘rodo’ and ‘alubasas’ it must have somehow originated from the Hausas I suppose.
The kids were out now. They stared at me with this deep intense desire to be noticed. They spoke more loudly and somehow expect I will get interested.
Just by the other side of the road where an abandoned house had been, they were cooking. They had recently cleared the house and repainted brown and yellow with a bulb tied around a palm tree at the demise of PA as he is fondly called. They had this lovely girl who wore dreads something peculiar with the westerners and celestial church members. Very fair and beautiful, tall and slim and walked with some sort of elegance far above an eight years old girl. I quickly assumed she will be a model when she grows up. Is this sort of assumption innate among-st us Nigerians. I paused and wondered, for if she comes first three at school, she will either be called a doctor, lawyer or an Accountant. Woe betides her if she be not a professional! They had big pots on fire, wore thread bare camisoles and allowed the full weight of their suckled breast lye comfortably down as they chatted away while they stirred and taste. For a moment I wondered, how do Americans prepare meals for big occasion? For us though, naming alone calls for road blocking ceremony with brightly colored canopies and loud blast of music of divers’ African influences. It was august 2016 this is not a reminder of the constant rainy period we are in but a time when even Nigerians have ‘trust issues’—“Na economic melt- down or retention” or is it simply our inability to fully grasp this gigantic fight against corruption or that we had shouted sai Baba which loosely translate to Father for nothing…?
I turned around slightly, just behind me was a corn plantation with just the first rows containing actual corn while grasses covered the rest areas but plantation is plantation. Many years ago I had actually seen a real plantation of ‘jero,’ what we know as millet amongst the northers in jaba a remote town in kano. Didn’t know why we had to leave the city but we did. Things had got so hard that rats and toad became a norm. let me quickly add that it was bush rat and that toad they eat. Usually prepared with our soy beans soup and we had struggled for who would have the limbs. As we walked through the lonely millet farm aisle accompanied by the chirping of birds, we had a loud shout from behind, we jumped with fright and clung to Mara as some boys from our school had hid themselves unknowing to us. “walahi en a fara riot kun mutu. Dukanku”. They threatened with small knives while they called us Arnas all the way. Many days later I had ask Mara with such innocence”are we idol worshipers as they said?” weeks later we had constantly include it in our three o’clock prayer- divine Mercy.
My father a polygamist by unknown circumstances chants this like some sort of ritual while we pray it ends for often times it coincides with when food is on the fire. So while we bow our heads for the lord, we pinch and giggled as a way to keep our minds from thinking about the food on fire. he turns and give such hard stare that you had be threatened out of your wit. We cooked with fire wood. It was at a time when abacha's stove became popular and it was when we moved to jaba.
Abacha had just died and most people were happy. I don’t know if I was or wasn’t but they said he died in the hands of a prostitute and I was 10 years old. I watched and listened as my father read the papers and nodded and said somethings I cant remember. He was a dictator he said with that deep expression as though I should know just who a dictator was. I smiled didn’t know if that was what was expected. “how could he be any better if Ghadafi is his friend. So much have gone wrong with this our country….”
I had had it enough. I stood up. Enough of all this. It is better he even died maybe somehow my father's BP will stop rising. Why did you choose now of all times to die enn… Imagine, I had taken 2nd position and there Abacha was spoiling my moment. I was angered. I walked slowly and turn and walked slowly some more. Somehow I was expecting he had call me and give me the five naira he promised. Abacha became my enemy and a dictator in some ways i didn't get.
I snapped back to reality. The sanitation was over.The streets are busy with vehicles and market women rushing off while barking orders to their kids. I stood up and walked slowly to our compound. And for many years later, that morning, the bench, the stall and the plantation will be a memory.
