A TURBULENT TIME

A   TURBULENT TIME

It must have been the loud noise that woke me from my nap barely thirty minutes after take-off. I struggled to stand to my feet, but somehow couldn’t. I was weighed down, held in place, kept in check by something I couldn’t fathom as of yet. Then I heard it again! It was the same sound. A scream by a woman. Very loud and shrill. It echoed several times inside my head as if trapped in a void, the scream rebounding from one brain cell to the next. It was painful and jarring. I opened my eyes again. There was a glint. Something shiny. It was a seat belt knuckle! That was my jailer all this while, keeping me locked down in my seat.

I remembered I was on an Air flight. Sat on the aisle, seat 7D to be exact. I had been sleeping, the sleep of a traveler, tired yet light on the feet. Prone to sudden jerks of awakening, drowsy eyes adorning an alert mind. It must have been the scream. It had crashed into my dream. My unremarkable dream, like that of any wayfarer. A dream of fits and starts, having neither depth nor colour, neither length nor significance.

My senses gradually returned, as my eyes began to focus once more. The last I remembered was the Pilot announcing that we were 35,000 feet above land, before my eyes closed in sleep. The lady had stopped screaming but was now praying loudly. Sweating profusely inside the air-conditioned cabin. She kept making references to the ‘God of Elisha’, the ‘God of miracles’, the stopper of ‘untimely death’ as she prayed in that shrill voice.

The Aircraft made a big sudden swerve. Shouts of ‘My God’, ‘Jesus’, ‘Allah’, rent the air. There were many voices praying at the same time. Prayers were being uttered in different voices and tongues, in diverse supplicating postures. A nun in seat 7F was going haywire. She held her rosary tightly and kept chanting. The volume of her chanting strangely was proportional to the balance of the Airplane. Going up with every slight tilt of the Aircraft’s wings, and going down with any brief stabilization experienced.

The upheaval had wrought havoc inside the Aircraft. There were dozens of small suitcases freed from the luggage-hold above. One had fallen quite next to me on the aisle. The Air-hostesses were doing their best to calm the passengers and clear the aisle of the fallen suitcases. As one came to pick a suitcase close to me on the aisle, the Airplane shook and tilted steeply to the right. The sharp movement threw the long stockinged hostess across me into the empty seat 7E, hitching her skirt up in the process.

The hostess became quite animated, rushing to seat herself up and pulling down her garments that had ridden upwards. Her eyes glared wildly at me, questioning, seeking answers on what I had seen, if I had seen. I returned her stare with a disinterested parsing of the lips. I was not a voyeur by any means nor did I salivate at such exposures, but it was hard to miss the big tear at the upper limit of the right stocking, hitherto hidden away beneath the upper reaches of her garments.

I wondered if it was her modesty or ego that was wounded and how such should matter when there was chaos on board. Why she would stress over an unsolicited peek when there was no guarantee that we would make it out alive. She began saying ‘Excuse me Sir……’, it was never finished. A sudden downward plunge of a few feet by the Airplane had her grabbing on to the seat in front. There were shrieks all around. In the melee, her perfect hair got stuck on some protruding button on the seat in the 6^th row. She was left devoid of her ‘hair’, the ugly patchy scalp revealed. She was now beyond caring over such trivialities like looks, when there were no certainties over surviving the current situation.

A child began crying. Her mother tried ceaselessly to placate her. She wouldn’t be soothed and began wailing loudly. She couldn’t have been more than 7years old and I remembered meeting her earlier looking lovely and resplendent in a yellow satin dress, her hair tied in 2 corresponding yellow ribbons. She had lost one of the ribbons and her dress was stained with vomit. I felt children would have been more comfortable in the crisis, as the yo-yo movement of the plane resembled many a roller-coaster ride popular at resorts and parks. Must be the wild screams and loud prayers, I thought to myself.

Then I wondered what would happen to us, to me. Would I survive if the plane failed to hold it together? Or would I be condemned to an unmarked watery grave? Would I make it to the ocean underneath or would I give up midair? I wasn’t the best of swimmers either and records show the earth being covered by more water bodies than land. Did I have a chance if I fell into some ocean along with my co-travellers or if our troubled plane plunged into the depths of some foreign sea, pulled in by unforgiving gravitational forces?

If I lost the battle, would I be sent to rest in ‘the bossom of the lord’, like advertised in the obituary announcement for my Uncle Damian. Uncle Damian, impulsive liar and land grabber who had reduced many a widow in the village to penury. Same one. I had told Mama, that it was unlikely for Uncle Damian to end up anywhere close to the Lord’s bossom when he had been so mean in his lifetime, besides having died from a stroke suffered while clasped to the ‘bossom’ of his married lover. His long suffering wife was still in shock and try as the family did to hush it up, the story was now common knowledge even in the local parish where Uncle Damian had been a Deacon. I told Mama, Uncle Damian was more likely in Hades suffering, but she had scolded me, saying ‘we are not allowed to speak ill of the dead’.

I wished I had listened during the demonstration by the hostesses prior to the flight, on the procedure for emergency landing. They had demonstrated how to strap on the life jacket in accordance with some aviation rule. They had even shown how to blow some whistle but I had been having trouble remembering much these days when I even bothered to listen attentively. There had been some talk too of a mask to be worn in event of sudden loss in air pressure. I knew it was meant to drop down from somewhere, but where?

A man who had been trapped in the loo all this while just maneuvered his way back to his seat. He had returned clad only in a singlet and a pair of shorts. He must have been caught up during the worst period of the flight, poor man! Whatever he was running from, taking off his other clothes, still accompanied him as he returned. Striding a-pace with him were smells of ammonia and fecal matter. The air in the cabin became charged and the little girl started crying again.

There were quite a few murmurs over the returning man and the accompanying odours. The nun by the window was highly upset at the man and the subsequent change he had brought. She began muttering many an unprintable swear word at the man. She suddenly realised I was watching and resumed praying once more, rosary in hand. I was shocked at her conduct as she was a nun. Also her blouse had a badge that read ‘I am Jesus’s bride’. I felt it strange that any bride, especially that of the Lord Jesus would speak thus. It also seemed out of place for all her chanting and incessant prayers if she was the “Lord’s bride”. One would have thought she would be keen to return to the groom. Tut, tut, tut.

The thing is as a child, I did have a vivid imagination. Sometimes I imagined things further along than where they were at present. ‘A turbulent mind’, Mama had called it when I asked her not to leave Sister Lisa alone with the Landlord, as his wife wasn’t home. The Landlord had assured Mama that the wife had only gone on a swift errand, with her return imminent. ‘Go away with your turbulent mind’, she screamed at me when I, worrying over Sis. Lisa, pointed out the funny way the landlord had been staring at Lisa when Mama wasn’t looking. Then as we walked to the bus stop, she remembered she had forgotten to leave Lisa the house keys. I was to wait for her swift return. Her return had been anything but swift and she had returned with Lisa in tow! Lisa’s top was newly torn at the collar and her wrists had marks like they had been forcefully held together. I never got to know what happened to this day, but I remember Lisa crying all the way home and mama continually thanking all our village gods that she had returned just in time. A week after, we changed residence.

My thoughts returned to my immediate family, the missus and the kids. There were two kids, the girl who was older and the boy. The girl seemed to have been hewn out of my own ribs while the boy was a photo match of the mother. The girl had all my good qualities and also inherited my turbulent mind. She cared not for money and the rest fripperies that often got her mother unduly excited. She was the one that bonded best with the dog and nursed a little rose garden. She had asked me last night, in that thoughtful way of her’s as the heavy wind blew the curtains about, if the flight wouldn’t be affected. I shouldn’t have merely dismissed her worries with a wave of the hand! I should have listened.

Now here I was, condemned to die ‘intestate’; having penned neither will nor last testament. The missus was my registered next of kin and would get the little that was due me as terminal benefits. Would she be glad? Yes, I thought. The marriage had been convenient for her in the beginning but one could sense things were so adrift, she could barely stand the last throes. I could see her in my turbulent mind’s eye as the casualty list is read out on the radio, caught between acting the pained wife for the girl and her brother, and locking herself behind the bedroom door, laughing in that hysterical way she does, reveling in her new found freedom.

Act 1 Scene 2, enter the grieving wife being severally consoled as she entertained guests on the “untimely” exeunt of the husband. Clad in dull attires, sparse with words, hands in laps, eyes intermittently shut in adhoc prayers. And then the interment. I wondered if she would wear black. If she would shave her hair as custom demanded of widows. She would tell all those who asked of course, that I was always against such hideous customs, which was true; yet there she was, all shaven to please the land and the gods, so they allow me continued rest in the bossom of……..

There was a sudden cackle on the announcer. It was the Pilot! “Good day once more, distinguished ladies and gentlemen, we are happy to announce that we are now past the extreme turbulence and should be landing within the next 20 minutes at our destination. The weather there is currently 28 degrees and windy with chance of light rain much later in the evening. Once again, accept our wholesome apologies on the extreme turbulence”.

The Fasten Seat belt sign that had been on for what seemed forever, quickly went off, and as if plucked from the air, hostesses once more appeared and began picking up fallen luggage and other debris cluttering the aisle. The hostess beside me stood awkwardly, her hair and ego in tatters. She stopped briefly beside me, and I nodded reassuringly to her. Her secret was safe with me.

The passengers as if on cue began applauding the pilot as the plane taxied to a simple touch down devoid of the drama experienced in the air. There were people simply shedding tears at getting another chance to see family members again or in the case of the nun on seat 7F, not getting to see her groom as of yet.

I made a mental note to myself to see my lawyer upon my return from this trip. Maybe to draft a will, maybe to discuss separation. For I had been embarrassed, when the rest passengers were scrambling to place urgent calls to loved ones upon the successful landing after a near mishap, that I also followed suit and tried calling the missus. Her response had been harsh as per course, ‘what is it again’? ‘Please I am watching my favorite soap’. It wasn’t so much the harshness, but the way the receiver went cold upon my dialing once she spoke. Felt like watching a window frost over as it snowed outside. It was in turns painful for i had still held that impossible hope. i had been a man reborn, saved from the ire of the air elements by the kind gods, given another shot at life that i had reached out again.

The newsmagazine I glimpsed in the arrival lounge, had the screaming headline, ‘A Turbulent Time’! There was no method to the current madness in the land, it claimed. A little known team had recently won the English Football Premiership on incredible odds. Against all the polls and knowledgeable predictions, the British had voted to leave Europe and the Prime Minister had resigned! Also in the USA, after a mud-ridden campaign, a startling result had emerged. Pollsters over there too were running around confused, analysts bewildered. These are no ordinary times, the magazine warned. I hailed a cab as I stepped outside the lounge. Reclining in the back seat, I thought to myself, ‘Turbulence on land just as it is in the air’. Indeed, a turbulent time.




Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.

#letthedeadburythedead(Flash Fiction)

John Ofor was still pinching himself, as he sat waiting in the living room of the Rectory. His arrival had already been announced by the steward, and so the parish priest should materialize any minute. John had travelled down from the Northern city of Kano where he lived and worked to his hometown of Isuofia to officially notify the kinsmen, elders, parish, women’s union and all manner of sundry groups of the death of his mother.

Mama was 85 years old before she died. John had been barely 7 years old when he lost his father and so had little knowledge of what went into a “befitting” Christian burial. He had rarely visited when distant uncles passed, and remained blissfully unaware of the various accompanying rites and traditions. Till the day after mama died!

Firstly, was the task of getting the parish priest’s consent to announce a date for the funeral. It had to tally with the parish’s programmes, and this was only given after obtaining “clearance”. John had come with Mama’s tithe card, which only had the last month she had been away visiting in Kano, in arrears. The priest though had upon his belated entry, sent for a voluminous register and was now checking page by page. Thus far, pending pledges towards the new transformer, re-kitting the female choir, re-roofing the main church, purchase of a new lawn mower, support for the out-going Monsignor’s farewell party, had all been unearthed.

John was dazed. He had yet to meet with the ‘umu-ada’, or the ‘ikwunne’. Each of these female groups was demanding a live cow before attending the burial in ‘official capacity’. The church choir had indicated that a bag of foreign parboiled rice and a carton of soft drinks would do for them. His car booth still harboured 2 cartons of Schnapps drink, to be given the ‘umunna’, to seek their attention before ‘officially’ breaking news of the sad demise to them, even though they all knew and had already taken delivery of the special cap to be adorned for the occasion. This was outside the list of items to be fulfilled in their favour upon breaking the news.

No group thus far had volunteered to help defray any cost or execute any service. None had bothered, even his immediate kinsmen, to donate to the outrageous fees charged by the village Mortuary or the absolute fortune expended to ferry her corpse home all the way from Kano State, a distance of 820 km. All respondents had been more bothered about choosing and acquiring the uniform fabric,’aso-ebi’ to be distributed to and worn by extended family and friends at the burial ceremony.

Then there were fees for the traditional rainmakers, who you only ignored at your peril. Then gift items to be distributed to attendees as souvenirs. Hiring of chairs and canopies. Entertainment of guests. Provision of private security for guests and corpse! Yes, corpses had been known to be abducted before by diverse interest groups, from those protesting the burial site to those seeking to draw Government attention to their own grievances.

John couldn’t shirk the duty as he was Mama’s first son and it was a role traditionally reserved for him. In Kano where he lived, the residents were mostly buried same day after confirmation of their death with minimal fanfare. John resolved to start a campaign on social media upon his return to Kano, to seek a change to these Southern customs. #Letthedeadburythedead! Away with the fanfare, after all death was for the spirit, not for the living.

In High School, he had often marveled at the story of Julius Ceaser. It had been his favorite school text, aside being his much read novel. Now he understood his kindred spirit Marc Anthony, whom said ‘I have come to bury Ceaser, not to honour him’! Poor man must have been trying to avoid the likely huge clearance involved. John couldn’t dare such a stunt with any of the village factors though. The rainmakers had been known to create a major storm just overhead a particular location, over any perceived slight by the organisers who had ignored them. No, he wouldn’t subject Mama’s weary spirit to another battle. Ceaser had been a General, this was different.

John looked up. The Priest was still barely halfway through the thick register, furiously punching the calculator. John shook his head and closed his eyes. It was going to be a long day.

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.

GREEN GRASS

GREEN GRASS

‘Uda aki-ilu, abughi uto ya’. (The sound of the bitter-kola as it’s being munched, is not a measure of it’s sweetness) - Igbo Proverb.

Lily Nze opened the door to her two bedroom apartment and stumbled in, hands laden with groceries. She had visited the shops from her office on the Lagos Island, where she headed their audit section. Lily had barely dropped the grocery bags in the kitchen when her mobile phone began ringing.

It was Aunty Nneka. It was always Aunty Nneka these days. Aunty Nneka was a much junior sister to Lily’s Dad. His only sister as a matter of fact. Since Lily turned 36 years old last Friday, Aunty Nneka hadn’t given her a minute’s peace. She was so determined to match-make her, in her own words ‘before it is too late’.

Lily picked the call. ‘Hello, Aunty Nneka, how was your day? Aunty Nneka ran a big-scale boutique, a street across from Lily’s office on the Island. She wasn’t so much older than Lily as well, as she was just 45 years old. Aunty Nneka however was determined that her niece wouldn’t miss out on eligible husband-materials, like she had in her heyday. Aunty Nneka was still a spinster and belonged to the school of thought that believed Marriage was meant to be a woman’s crowning glory.

‘My day was great, Lily’. ‘Are you back from work?’ ‘Yes Ma’, Lily replied. ‘Good. Now have you given a thought to my suggestion?’ Aunty Nneka asked. Lily was lost for words. She had been through this severally with Aunty Nneka. They had nearly had a fallout that she now acquiesced and asked for some time to think about it.

It had to do with the latest suitor Aunty Nneka had found for Lily. He was a migrant businessman, resident in Italy and brother to Aunty Nneka’s friend. Her friend too was new, a recent acquaintance she had made in the most recent church she just began attending; “The Believers’ People Assembly”’

Aunty Nneka had been born a catholic but had virtually gone round most of the churches in Lagos and some. She was in constant search of not only salvation, but also of ‘strong’ pastors and ministers, who could assure her that her future was secure and her present in tandem with the traits of heaven-bound folk.

‘No I haven’t, Aunty’, Lily replied. ‘I promise I will give you an answer before this weekend’, she finished. They said their goodbyes and Lily hung up. Talking with Aunty Nneka was becoming more uncomfortable by the day. She was asking for far too much. Firstly to accept the migrant suitor, then to join her in attending the new church!

Lily termed herself a ‘non-committal’ Christian. She didn’t go every Sunday, but when she really felt like it or to attend weddings in church. Aunty Nneka had set about changing all that. She bombarded Lily with daily devotional messages on social media. She had already on her own registered Lily into the female ushers’ group in the Believers’ People Assembly, even though Lily had only been there twice as an invitee to attend as Aunty Nneka gave testimonies on both occasions before the whole congregation. Aunty Nneka also kept Lily updated on declared fasting days and forwarded recorded sermons to her email address. Lily was under a siege!

A sharp scream followed by a torrent of abuse. Lily knew who they were. The Jafars’ barely 8 months married, yet the union oscillated between two extremes all the time. They were one of the reasons Lily was mightily skeptical over the topic of marriage. When they loved, they loved. They had woken Lily up that day in the early morning as per course, with their loud moans as they pleasured each other. They also kept her up most nights when they fought each other. Today’s fight had kicked off early as it wasn’t even 8pm yet.

‘Go and google me o, useless man’! That was definitely Mrs. Jafar. Lily could recognize that shrill voice bordering on a cat’s squealing and a dog’s whelping even in her sleep. She had been asking to be googled for a few months now. A top manager in a financial institution with branches nationwide, it was a wonder how she changed during matrimonial bouts. A Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde state of affairs. Their last quarrel spilled over into the complex’s staircase. Lily had been involved in getting Mrs. Jafar to relinquish the machete, which she held while threatening to lunge at anyone who came too close. Lily wondered if Mrs. Jafar’s records with Google might show that she was proficient with machetes, or that she may have been deranged at some point in history.

From the maid that reported fortnightly in her rooms, Lily finally learned some facts about the Jafars’. Mrs. Jafar had caved in to societal pressure and allowed herself to be swept off her feet by Mr. Jafar. Mr. Jafar was as evasive as they came but the sex was great. In the cold reality of post wedding life, Mr. Jafar’s lack of tertiary education began to stick out like a sore thumb. Mrs. Jafar wouldn’t allow him escort her to financial lunches and meetings that went on all the time. Mr. Jafar began to resent her late returns home. Fear quickly changed to hate. Now all they had in between arguments and massive fights was great sex.

Lily said her night prayers and decided to give Aunty Nneka her response the next day. She would agree to see this Italy based suitor despite her misgivings about the marriage institution and relationships generally. Lord, give me strength, she prayed.

“Mbuari- mbuari, ka eji ere mbe”. (It is only by carrying a tortoise around different venues, that it gets sold) - Igbo Proverb.

Lily was sat at the back of the church, next to Aunty Nneka. Her Aunt’s eyes were closed as she waved her hands in the air, like most others in the church that evening. It was a special programme targeted at the ‘single and ready to mingle’, scheduled on a working day. On the flyer advertising the event, there had been a rider, proclaiming that no single would depart the venue empty handed. Thus far, in the four hours they had been there, none had approached either the Aunt or herself despite the great lengths they had gone to look humble and non-descript, so as not to scare them off. This had been the Aunt’s latest idea. In the last two months she had toured all the churches in the city, with Lily in tow. She said they wouldn’t stand still as husbands weren’t standing still either. No program venue was too far for Aunty Nneka, she had even taken Lily to Cameroun to attend a similar programme organized by an African prophet based in Paris, France.

Lily had long tuned off once the officiating minister began speaking in many tongues. To Lily, that was a tell-tale sign of improvisation and therefore always raised her ‘red flags’ over claims of genuine close audience with the Almighty. The staccato verbal outpourings always seemed to her a little contrived and manufactured. “Me-ka-ta-la chi-ma-se-ke-ke”. “Du-kpa te-le-la chi- ma- se-ke-ke”. Lily rather imagined this as a call to prayer, to kindred lost and disillusioned spirits than communication with celestial beings. After 5 rounds of an “offering basket” going through the attendees, the programme was ended much later that night. Aunt drove Lily home with her as it was quite late to return to Lily’s own side of the town. While Lily felt it had been another failed venture, Aunty Nneka reprimanded her for not knowing the ways of the ‘spirit’!

As Lily lay in bed reminiscing, her mobile phone rang. It was Peter, her migrant suitor. He had arrived impromptu on the Alitalia flight that morning from Milan. They had been chatting for some days now over social media. He had gotten a little break from the office and had returned to Nigeria to see his ‘Lily’!

It was a whirlwind week with peter. He was a gentleman and an even gentler speaker. He was keen to meet her people, to get to know everybody. He even tried to initiate ‘unprotected’ sex with her. That was a red flag. Lily paid a lot of heed to red flags, they had saved her thus far. She had learnt to trust her instincts, her gut feelings.

So she delayed the plans. She gave excuses. Her parents were not available for now. Maybe in December when he next returned. He only met up with Aunty Nneka of the whole extended family. Aunty Nneka as she was wont, couldn’t be contained. Excited was an understatement. She urged Lily to hasten things up, that marrying Peter would be great. She insisted that Lily obtain his address in Italy, that she go visit, the grass being much greener over there than back here in Lagos.

Peter returned to Italy the next week. Lily missed his European accented Igbo dialect. Lily had her lingering doubts though. Why would Peter want unprotected intercourse when he didn’t even know her HIV status? Or did he need her to get pregnant? Why? To tie her down? Hmmmn.

A month later, Lily got an email from her Travel Agency. It advertised some holiday packages. There was a modest one to visit the Vatican City in Rome, amongst other packages for exotic locations. Lily made the necessary arrangements to fall into her planned vacation for the year. She wouldn’t tell Peter though, she would surprise him and lay her doubts to rest. The days passed in a blur. Her travel date soon arrived. Lily was excited as she had only been to the United Kingdom in the whole of Europe before now. If it went well, they’ll conclude the marriage plans before she returned back.

After four wonderful days touring the Vatican City, Lily was sat in the Eurostar travelling to Milan from Rome. She had learnt some Italian words to pass her through the shops, an Italian language crash course in 3 days from the elderly tour guide. She hoped Peter would be pleased at her smattering Italian. ‘Buongiorno’, for good morning. ‘Ciao, mi chiamo Lily’, (Hello my name is lily). ‘Grazie’, thank you. ‘A presto’, see you later. ‘Come vanno le cosse’, (how are things)?

Piazza Del Duomo, 22423, Milan, Italy. Navigli district. Lily arrived at the door. It was answered by a woman, an Italian blonde. She squinted her eyes at Lily. They were used to immigrants knocking at odd hours. ‘Cosa vuoi?’ What do you want, she asked Lily. Lily was going to ask after Peter. She thought there must be some mistake. Then a little girl and her brother disembarked from the School Bus that had just pulled up in front of the street. ‘Mummia’, they screamed as they ran into her embrace. ‘Mia cara, benvenuto a casa’, their mother replied.

The children were both mulattos. They were a cross of Italian and Nigerian parentage. The boy especially had Peter’s eyes and ears. It was so uncanny, it felt like seeing Peter in his earlier years, though in a lighter skin. ‘Sbaglio’ (mistake), Lily replied her. ‘Perdonami’ (forgive me), Lily finished, then turned and ran, dragging her luggage behind her. Luckily there was a passing taxi. She hailed it and hopped in urgently, needing to get distance between herself and Peter’s home. ‘Aeroporto’ (airport), Lily told the driver, before the sobs came pouring out. Her shoulders shook as all that feeling threatened to explode her tear ducts.

EPILOGUE

Aunty Nneka was still on Lily’s case. Lily wouldn’t say why she had blocked Peter on all her social media platforms. Lily wouldn’t say much since she returned from Italy. Lily wouldn’t even agree to share her testimony in church, after all the prophesy of the Minister about the ‘Green Grass’ had come true for her. Lily wouldn’t budge but only uttered a word as they sat eating Italian chocolates, Lily had purchased in Rome; ‘deluso’ (disappointed)! She wouldn’t even look at pictures sent by Peter on Aunty Nneka’s mobile, of sundry wedding dresses and shoes to select from. She merely shook her head several times and whispered “Mea Culpa”!

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.

HER HUSBAND, HER WIFE

HER HUSBAND, HER WIFE

Judge Francis Okafor was irritated. Never being one to disguise his feelings, he was having a hard time keeping the building scowl from breaking the surface and appearing on his face or light glares in his beady eyes. He was going to be Sixty-seven in a few weeks. Had been made Judge in the twilight of his career. In the twilight of his health. He had just a few years left to the new official retirement age of Seventy.

Judge Francis's climb to being the Judge in the State High Court 8, had been an arduous one. He had been a magistrate for 10 years, until this movement to fill the vacant space in court 8, as the then Judge had passed. This was the principal reason the Judge easily became furious, when any Attorney addressed him as 'Your worship' in open court. That title reminded him of his many years of slaving away at the magisterial level. He was a High Court Judge now, to be called, 'My Lord'. Judge Francis had once committed an attorney to two nights in the State holding facility for referring to him as 'Your worship', three times while giving his opening address. 'Served him right', the Judge remarked to himself. None other had been so unlucky to be remanded but the Judge often made furious comments on such slips in his court.

Judge Francis was currently being irritated by his second least favorite thing. The attorney for the plaintiff was committing a cardinal sin in Judge Francis's book. Judge Francis adored the common law form and practice, as handed down by the Colonial British to the state and had been drawn to Law as an occupation and field of study. The young Francis adored colonial movies showing the polite but curt communication between the attorneys and the Judge on the bench. It was all so formal, serious and without unnecessary frills. He had fallen in love with  the long white wigs and dark robes, but had been most fascinated by references to the Judge, as 'my lord', by all that appeared in the court.

The plaintiff's attorney,barrister Joseph Nwosu began addressing the Judge once more. 'Meeeeeeeee Lorrrrrrrd', he drawled. The scowl broke out fully. What ever happened to good old , my lord? What was all this affected drawl and attempt to sound well- travelled? The Judge made a mental note to self, to address the attorneys in Chambers before the start of tomorrow's court session. 'Meee lorddd, I will like to submit my client's sworn affidavit of facts in reply to the respondent and cross-petitioner's petition', he said.

The Judge was shaken out of his reverie about the list of punitive measures he might invoke against the barrister for drawling his words. He looked at the affidavit in question, just handed him by the clerk of the court. His eyes were quickly drawn to response number 2. He chuckled to himself , suppressing it inside.

It read "the accusation is wholly false as the respondent/cross petitioner only cooked at will for the petitioner, and her will is most seldom". The Judge chuckled once more to himself. 'Welcome to my world, folks', he said to himself. The Judge was twenty years older than his wife of fifteen years standing. His wheezing breath, increasingly beady eyes and loud snores were definitely not doing him any favours in the attraction department. She had since moved fully into the guest room. He had managed to coerce her to bed on their anniversary last week, but he had gotten all excited and things had quickly gone south very fast. His latest weakness had chosen that moment to show up. Weak stomach muscles. A sound had escaped his backside. It was a terrifying sound in the nightly stillness only punctuated by the sounds of desire and need. It had been more of the booming sound than the smell really, more thunder than lightening.

She had excused herself , and stalked off to the guestroom in a huff. He had been left stewing in the afterglow of rejection and remnant echoes of the fart in his head. So dear petitioner, you are not alone, he thought to himself. His own wife too related to him conjugally at will, and her will was much, much overly seldom.

Judge Francis dragged his thoughts painfully away from his situation at home. The case before him was unique in its novelty. A woman suing another woman, to retrieve her properties and land titles with the other woman. This was different though, the other woman was a spouse to the first woman, Yes Sir! She was her wife, yet both were heterosexuals. Many cases had been decided in Judge Francis's court over the months, but this was different. Two spouses, each at different ends of the age spectrum, one quite old whilst the other was quite young. This was even more seldom than the Judge's conjugal nights.

In some sections of the Igbo speaking areas, there are certain customs/norms that persist to the current day. One of which was woman to woman marriage. A woman without children was within her rights to marry another woman into her home like the case before Judge Francis. The marriage was usually conducted under the guise that the younger bride was being wed to the late husband of the older woman, but everyone knew the older woman as the defacto husband of the bride and was to care for and protect her as well as the expected off-spring till errrrrrr 'death did them part'.

Sometimes an old couple could lose their son or sons prematurely. Prematurely referred to their death being before having their own offspring, especially male so as to keep the family's name from going extinct. Judge Francis had long come to the conclusion that the Igbo culture was obsessed with the male child. In some cases , the couple or the wife would initiate wedding to some young woman of their choice who will be expected to reproduce male children. The marriage was usually contracted traditionally and was not a common law marriage. In the case of late sons, the bride is highlighted as being wed to the deceased son, but in reality only wed to the old woman who performs the role of parent to the resulting children from the union.

The petitioner had alleged that the respondent had rebelled against her choice of lovers for her and subsequently ran away with sundry gift items and other documents of title. The petitioner had married her on a platter with a very cheap dowry, as she was already expectant for an unknown father. She had been impregnated from an act of rape and her family had been very ashamed and highly desirous to give her away and cleanse their family name. At such times, the appearance of the 'female husband', to marry the seeming 'damaged goods', was a lifeline for the family and win-win situation for all.

The family married off their daughter who had been unfortunate, whilst the petitioner had gained a bride with a promise of children in the future, who will keep the family name going as well as ensure the compound retained a human presence and didn't fall into ruin. It was common to have young men virtually stalking the female husbands. They offer to run errands and undertake tasks for her. They also help to cultivate their farmlands and often worked shirtless, so their strong muscles and toned torsos will be viewed. The female husband would reciprocate in kind and bestow her bride to her different choices, on different days and for different reasons.

Judge Francis was angered at the copious levels of copulation being bandied around freely while he was getting none. The sudden effort to keep his grimace from spreading produced another effect. He broke wind. His weak stomach muscles betrayed him yet again. This one had a malevolent odour to it. Clearly more lightening than thunder. Judge Francis squeezed his facial features taut and stared down the court clerk who sat directly in front of him and had been bearing the brunt of the relentless gas discharges since three months now that he resumed. His serious face and frowning eyes dared the clerk to look in his direction again. The clerk lowered his eyes.

The Judge felt for the poor clerk. He was the sixth clerk since the Judge resumed in High Court 8, two years ago. 4 of the previous clerks had been driven to resignation by the relentless gas. The fifth had been sacked for contempt, yet over gas related matters. He turned up to work one Monday in a gas mask! Sometimes the gas was released gently, diffusing through the Judge's weakened trouser fabrics towards the clerk, who sat immediately below the Judge. Times, it came with a shudder and was all the Judge could do from keeping his poor trousers disintegrating at the seams. The clerk had so far borne the brunt with dignity, but the Judge daily wondered for how much longer. The ceiling fans ensured the odours, no matter how dreary, diffused fast and barely reached where the attorneys and sundry members of the public sat.

Sometimes Judge Francis got a kick and an inner chuckle as the lawyers and those  sat close to them exchanged suspicious glances over the more smelly versions which seeped towards them. They often stared disapprovingly at the men blessed with extended and massive stomachs or some of the female attorneys with rather bogus derrieres. Why they associated wide hips and bulbous backsides with ungraceful release of gas, the Judge couldn't fathom , after all he was a man of slim build with rather narrow hips.

The Judge struck out the case and fined the petitioner as well as the respondent and cross-petitioner, N5,000 each for wrong filing.' Such cases are not for the common law system but should be referred to the customary court. The marriage was contracted traditionally and so all such properties as may have been purchased, bequeathed within that period was still under the customary law system and was to be determined there', he read.

"As the court pleases", they all chorused whilst scrambling to their feet as the Judge made his  way to the chambers behind. In Chambers , the Judge brought out a pill from the tiny box, handed him earlier by the doctor. He swallowed with a glass of water. The instruction was to take at least an hour before any planned conjugal liaison. His home was just thirty minutes away. He had texted his wife earlier that he would be home soon and to wear her best negligee. He had then sent the driver to buy chocolates and a bottle of wine. He was to take the other pills for gas twenty minutes before. An sms came in to the mobile as the driver drove off. She had replied that she was attending the late neighbour's wake keep and wouldn't be home till the morning. The Judge himself was also being expected at the wake keep. Most seldom indeed the Judge thought, coitus interrupted before even began. Hmmn, he sighed.

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.

Beyond The Border

Beyond The Border

Beyond The Border

Sam had returned earlier that day to the village. He had been waiting at the outskirts, now hiding in the shadows. He only knew the time from squinting at the battered watch on his wrist. It was strange that it still worked, even after his travels through the bushes and forests till this point.

Sam was a soldier from the Biafran army. In his life before the war, he had trained as an apprentice to a trading mogul in the northern city of Kano, Chief Festus Okoye. Sam had served the chief as a faithful apprentice for eight years. He had been set free from his master only ten months when his mother found him a wife from the village. It was to ensure he didn’t fritter his new capital, mama had said. The young lady he married was named Mary. She was tender, thoughtful and had settled in easily with him in Kano. Then the first coup. The second coup. The riots. The killings. He had run with his bride back to the east.

There was confusion back in the east! He had been loathe to leave Kano. Until the next street was attacked and houses razed down. He had left with virtually nothing except the clothes on his back. He had readily joined up along with the other volunteers from his village after the war broke out, into the Biafran army. Not for him the ignoble act of running into the forests to live wild. Or crossing the waters to Gabon. Or worse still, paying a herbalist to sever part of the index finger on the right hand. The trigger finger. Quite a few young men could be found with healing index fingers.

They underwent roughly three weeks training before they were deployed. Sam left Mary behind with his mother and met up with his colleagues in the chartered lorries conveying them to the headquarters. The elderly and children cheered as they drove past the various villages and towns that lined the routes. They were their heroes who were off to stop the rampaging federal troops who had already captured quite a few towns and were hurtling fast towards Enugu, the capital. None of them was really prepared for what lay out there. None imagined the instruments of war to be as loud or as lethal.

After being addressed by the army chief, they were soon joined by the former military governor, and now ruler of Biafra, General Ojukwu. He was very charismatic and in a few words had evoked great anger and desire to fight to the last drop amongst the new troops. They were divided into a Battalion, to be led by a Major Eze. They were the 46^th Battalion. Their first duty was to utilize the left flank and cut off the advancing federal troops from their supplies in Nsukka. They were in great spirits, clad in their new uniforms, with the rising sun emblazoned on the right shoulder.

They had only disembarked not quite ten minutes, when the first Russian made MIG Jet appeared in the sky. “Nwiiiiiii—vooooooom”, was followed by a big boom as explosion after explosion tore into the area around the group. This was war! “Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta”. Machine gun fire followed from the jet. Another was coming out of the clouds when Sam tried to peep through his fingers during a brief lull. Sam was in shock. The soldier next to him had just brought out a pack of cards to play with Sam, before the first explosion. Sam could feel a flutter on his neck. He felt his neck. It was a card. An ace of spades. “My name is Angus”, he had said. Was Angus. Sam had heard him screaming for his mother when the first bomb hit. He had been quiet since, a deathly kind of quiet. Sam just knew. He was gone. The game of cards with him. His dreams. He wondered if he had been married and remembered Mary. Another round of bombings had him clutching the grasses and mouthing off prayers.

Sometime after the bombings had stopped, the survivors started coming out. His unit had been about eighty men with the Major. Only thirty were unhurt. Another ten had varying degrees of injury. Then the dead. There was an almost macabre twist of limbs and parts. Even the Major had died with his mouth open. Angus still had some cards in the hand that had been torn off and was lying opposite his body.

There was a great heave in Sam’s stomach and he became sick. He vomited and cried. War was bad. Nothing had prepared him for this. He had been living in Kano without any qualms. Why did the coups take it all away? What if it had been him? How could he lose his commanding officer on his first day in combat. He was still to fire off a single shot for that matter. Sam was seriously distraught.

The survivors endured two nights in those bushes before help came and they were transported back to base. It had been hard for Sam to sleep on the first night, knowing Angus and the rest were lying there, not so far away. The next day they had jointly pulled the dead into a covering in the forest and covered them with a shade of cut tree branches and leaves. Sam knew that wouldn’t last long though, as a couple of vultures had begun circling when the soldiers were being evacuated. Sam stilled himself and stopped looking at the birds. Quo sera sera.

Time passed in a blur. Sam was absorbed within several units during this time. He had been among those that marched to Ore under the overall leadership of Col. Victor Banjo. The "Midwestern Expedition Force", it was called. He had been present when the federal troops were routed in Abagana. He had been in the firing squad that took out Major Ifeajuna and the three others. He was there when Owerri fell and was there when it was recaptured. He had seen the worst days and the worst possible in Man. He had acquired wisdom beyond his years from the war.

Once he had stumbled upon an old woman slumped in the bushes dying from hunger, yet being eaten alive by two hyenas. Sam had shot the hyenas dead, and applied the final ‘coup de grace’ to the woman. The other day Sam saw a pack of emaciated children clubbing themselves with heavy sticks, as they fought over who will take home the little bush rat captured to his own mother. It took more than thirty minutes for Sam to pacify and stop them from killing each other. War seemed to have brought out the worst in everybody. People were literally dying on their feet in some villages and towns they passed through, under retreat or in hot pursuit. Plenty of ghost towns, with even lizards and wall geckos scarce. Mostly perished in many charcoal pots as the people sought other sources of replenishing protein.

However some towns didn’t have such overtly malnourished people. Sam and his colleagues were usually well feted as they passed through those routes. Provision items that had disappeared since the first months of war in most towns, were still in rich abundance in these towns after nearly three years of civil war. Sam soon learnt their secret. Most of the women went on ‘Ahia attack’ .They infiltrated towns already captured by the federal troops to buy highly needed items. They were sold back home at exorbitant margins. Upon their return, people from other neighbouring towns came to buy and restock. They were patronized by even the surviving churches and the Army for bibles and medical items. Sometimes they went beyond the border in search of certain items or higher margins. Some had been known to get as far as Akwanga and Markurdi, in the search for trade.

Sam also learnt that not all the women went on ‘Ahia attack’ for items trade. Quite a number engaged in bartering their honor and bodies in exchange for varying sums which were converted to goods and other items of sale, then smuggled into Biafra. War was bad on women. Especially those with little mouths to feed, as well as ageing parents. They often thronged the miniature adhoc cantonments where the Biafra soldiers were camped before and between battles. In their droves, they appeared with the dusk. They readily gave of themselves for any form of favourable barter. Sam was once propositioned by one, she had declared herself game if Sam would reward her with a half tuber of yam from the Army store, or a tin of biscuits. Sam had declined the offer but had sought out the storekeeper and obtained the materials for her to take home. Sam had been thoroughly shaken by the encounter.

A lot of women too never came home from ‘Ahia attack’. Some hadn’t greased the many security officials on some of the routes sufficiently and never made it back. Some had simply left their war and hunger ravaged homes behind. Some disappeared back across the border when they found themselves with pregnancies, their soldier husbands and kinsmen would find hard to accept. War was a sobering period.

Sam was in the party of soldiers that covered the Uli airstrip, as the General with some of his family members and officials left for Ivory Coast, in search of solutions or armaments as he had said. As the plane taxied off, Sam had a feeling it was over. He didn’t want to wait around to see what will happen. He wasn’t going to stay and await the likely victory of the federal forces. They were closing in from different sectors and who knew what they would do. In Abagana, the destroyed convoy had a truck full of ‘horsewhips’. There were no horses left at this time in the east, and even before the war only a handful. Sam shuddered as he wondered what use those whips would have been put to.

Sam pulled off his military fatigues for probably the last time. He changed to civilian clothing and made his way from Uli through Awommama, Mgbidi into Owerri. This took the better part of three days of surreptitious movements. His village was just outside Owerri. Igbada. He hadn’t been home since he left for the war, it was an emotional return. His In-law’s house was very close to the town entrance. He stopped to see if they were back or Mary was still there. “Ogo bu chi onye ooo”, she shouted. It was his mother-in-law, Mary’s mother. She had always greeted him thus. Translated from the local dialect, it meant that an In-law was one’s guardian angel, his chi. She grabbed him in another of her legendary hugs. She sang and cried at the same time. An old uncle of theirs’ produced a bottle of illicit gin and quickly made libation to the gods of the village for his safe return.

She served him bread and freshly opened can of sardines. She confirmed the town women had also been into the “Ahia attack” trade. She looked quite robust and well attired. Even the china used to dish the sardines was new. It wasn’t one of those he had been served with in the past. “Ala adighi nma, bu uru ndi Nze”, the people said. Whenever there was strife in the land, it played into the hands of the kingmakers who make hay. The bread suffused with the sardine oils, melted in his mouth. He was in heaven! Whilst eating and making small talk, there was a great shout, accompanied by instant music, urgently composed and danced to.

The war had just been announced over. The Biafran side had surrendered. The Head of State, Yakubu Gowon had accepted the surrender and declared ‘No Victor, No Vanquished’. Sam was relieved and happy. However his mind strayed immediately to thoughts of his first day in war. Angus and Major Eze. The riots. Why did it take three long arduous years to get here. He listened to the radio as Phillip Effiong gave his speech on the surrender.

Mary had gone on “Ahia attack”, she told him. She was late. She had been daring and wouldn’t listen. She regularly went beyond the border in search of choice items. Mama Mary seemed really worried over her whereabouts. She had been praying all night for her safe return and of course the return of Sam as well. Sam left his In-law’s house in a hurry. He would visit the village cemetery later when he was rested. His mother had been interred there during the war, she had been caught up in an afternoon bombing by the federal side. Sam had gotten word through the army headquarters. It was hard then, harder now. He sat on the bench at the town entrance. He waited till evening but there was no sign of Mary. He waited till the last lorry came in and discharged its passengers. There were lots of people embracing and seeking out loved ones but there was no Mary.

He walked to his mother’s home despondent. Mama was gone. The border had swallowed Mary. He remembered all the atrocities he had witnessed. Deaths. Dismembered limbs. Emaciated children. Women ready to barter their honor for any palliative/privilege. He wondered what Mary may have had to barter her’s for. He reached inside his pocket for the tiny revolver he carried. He had seized it from the impounded property of a top ranking federal soldier. He closed the door. Was it all worth it? The suffering, the violent deaths, the losses? He had lost his mother and now his Mary! He put the gun to his head. It would take him too beyond the border. Not to barter however, but to continue to strive in the next world.

EPILOGUE

Mary virtually ran to her late mother in law’s home. She had been delayed as the wooden bridge between Oturkpa and Alaede in Nigeria near the Biafran border town of Obollo Afor, was being repaired. She had already heard her Sam was back after these three years, and had bought an exotic set of undergarments beyond the border for such a special evening. She didn’t even wait for her goods to be offloaded from the lorry. She had to see Sam. It had been three long years. Finally she arrived the house. There was a low popping sound, must be firecrackers by children celebrating the end of the war. She knocked……………

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.

Old Things Are Pass Away

Old Things Are Pass Away….

   It was  on the 2^nd day of April. Paul could still recollect vividly, their stealthily steps with their one big bag, as they hurried away from their home in the City. It was still twilight, the Sun was still asleep and a few lazy Stars still trailed behind. He had followed sleepily behind his parents, not understanding, half-conscious, till they disembarked at the Main motor park, from the Tri-cycle boarded just outside the house gate.

Paul was the only child of the parents. Not for their lack of trying either. The mother had experienced several miscarriages and two still-births before Paul. After they had Paul, a friend had talked the parents into visiting a so-called ‘powerful man of God’, to ensure Paul lived to ripe old age. The man of God, who they later came to know as the ‘Prophet John’, wasted no time in confirming that their enemies dwelt in Paul’s paternal hometown of Kese. The Father’s brothers, 4 in total, had been at loggerheads with Paul’s father for some years running over a particular parcel of land. The prophet instructed that Paul’s father must hands off that property and come join his church, for protection of himself and his family.

Paul’s father was an ardent believer. He needed something to hang his faith unto, he had been through trials that would have made the biblical Job to ponder, or so he often claimed. His burning desire had been to have his own child, and so miscarriage, after miscarriage or stillbirth, severely tested his faith. He had been a low ranking clerk at the State Ministry office, being without Tertiary education. It was easy to join his wife in adopting the Prophet’s claims that his brothers’ had been behind his troubles all this while.

Deep down within him however, he had always felt it was Nature’s way of exacting punishment, his karma for having abandoned his studies as a Seminarian. He had been sent to a Seminary by his proud father, a Catechist in their Village. It was a first step to qualifying as a priest under the church in Rome. He had been excelling in his studies at the Seminary, winning prizes in Theology and philosophy all through his earlier classes. In the Final Class, he saw her. He fell in love.

She was a sister to the Seminary Chief-cook, who lived in the Staff quarters. He was the Seminary’s dining hall prefect, and had gone to brief the Chief-cook about an impromptu fasting scheduled for the next day, and there she was! She was young and dark, with a smiling knowing face. She had smiled at him and two dimples appeared on either cheek, as if from a magic wand. Her teeth were the colour of white corals, immaculate and dazzling in their brightness. She had run her tongue along her lips as if to wet them and then asked in the sweetest voice he had ever heard, ‘whom do you wish to see, Sir?’ Her voice was as he had imagined heavenly choristers would sound, musical with yet a tinge of delight. ‘I want to see your Mum, the Chief-cook’, he replied. She had leaned forward and laughed. She was her sister, not her Mum, she had corrected. Leaning forward had stretched the unbuttoned front, He had gleaned the early fair skin above the enlarging buds on her chest. He had begun breathing heavily, no other girl or woman had ever produced an effect on him like this one. The Chief-cook wasn’t home and so he had left a message for her with the young lady, who he now knew to be Linda.

Back in the hostel that Evening, he had been restless. Such animal stirrings were alien to him, but all he could think of was the fair skin on her chest. To touch it and have those eyes gaze into his again. He made a sign of the Cross. No! This wasn’t right. He grabbed his towel with soap-dish and made for the bathroom. It was a communal bathroom, All the students used the same bathroom which was built in the form of a hall with stalls. It was lonely and dark, with light coming in from the outside hallway. His thoughts went to Linda again, and he began to wonder how soft she would feel in his embrace. Unconsciously his hand laden with soap-lather, brushed ever so lightly against his organ. There was a short, sharp thrill that coursed his body. No! He tried to exhort himself again, this was Lust. Lust belonged to the devil and his acolytes. He fought the strange feeling, this new urgent need to rub his soap-leathered hand against his organ. ‘Soapy’, the seminarians called it. All knew of it but only a few had been caught ‘pants-down’. It was from lusting and belonged to the devil. But Linda was calling to him in his head, to come hold, come touch! He began rubbing again.

He began spending all his free time with Linda at the Chief-cook’s house. The Chief-cook was rarely home anyway and he was a prefect and could go into the Staff quarters without any qualms. She welcomed his visits and they became closer each day. She shared her collection of naughty magazines with him but showed little interest in his stories about the Theology Teacher or ancient philosophers. She was daring and kissed him one day that it was raining outside and they were alone and had been reading one of her naughty magazines. That day marked his entry into Manhood, as she guided him into her body, holding him tightly till he was spent and limp. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other again, until Linda had to return home from the holiday’s at her sister’s. They had promised to stay in touch via mails. The Seminarian’s head had been turned. He had eaten the forbidden fruit. Severally at that! He now was present in his classes only in body but not in mind or spirit. Linda had left him a few of her naughty magazines which often had him in the bathroom afterwards most Evenings, rubbing against himself.

Most things done in the dark often came to light in the most unexpected ways. So was the Seminarian’s liaisons with Linda. His father the Catechist, had a cold that morning and couldn’t go to the farm. He was sat outside the house, acknowledging greetings from sundry passers-by. He was popularly called ‘nna-fada’ in the village. It was a name that thrilled him no end. His son was still in Seminary and a long way from Priesthood, but the Catechist knew that his Son would be the first Reverend father in Kese village. Maybe he would even be the first African Pope even. He was admired and envied in the village on his status as a father to a Priest-to-be. His life was one of contentment.

Then the big car drove in. The Head of the Seminary, an aged couple, a rattled looking young lady and then his son, all climbed down. The old Catechist had wondered what they had come for without any notice at all. He wondered to himself if they might have come to baptize the young lady in the village stream or maybe to chastise some of the demons that seemed to have made her rattled into the big forest. Their reluctance for kolanuts and their sullen faces indicated all hadn’t been well as it turned out the young lady had been impregnated by his son, the seminarian. The seminary had then expelled his son and the couple, had insisted on Traditional Wedding rites being performed immediately as the pregnancy had passed first trimester.

Even after a long time had passed, the memory was yet not easier to take. A silent tear still coursed the cheeks anytime the flashback came. He became married and a Seminary drop-out. Worse Linda miscarried! The first in a series of miscarriages and stillbirths. The old Catechist was the worst hit. He resigned his position at the church, claiming old age and poor health. However it was the shame of knowing there were now looks of derision on every face. The old admirers had all left town. In their wake had come the scorners. He had even stopped attending church altogether and only went to the farm whenever he couldn’t help it, with a big Fedora hat on in a silly attempt at disguise. The old Catechist had died in his sleep after one stroke, barely a year after the expulsion. His brothers all accused him of causing their dad’s death and barred him or his wife from attending the late catechist's burial. The whole villagers openly mocked him and his new wife. He was the one that returned with a wife instead of a Theology degree or papal ordination. They fled to the City. Thus he knew there were no evil spirits after him. However a man had to believe in something. Life had been hard and full of menial jobs until his recent job as a Ministry clerk.

Then Paul had fallen ill. Paul was his only child, his light, his world. Paul was all he had to hold on to in the world. After days in the hospital without improvement, Linda had taken Paul to the Prophet’s place. This Paul learned after his return from work. The prophet had reassured them that the son would get better once they forsook the old world and joined his ‘living church’. He and Linda would have to be baptized and given new befitting Christian names. Fear over Paul’s health drove them onwards. The one-time seminarian was torn. Linda wouldn’t let up. She cried all night and cursed the day she had met him and threatened him if any harm came to Paul. The Old Seminarian couldn’t hold out anymore. He went with them to the prophet the next morning.

Prophet John baptized them and renamed the Old Seminarian, Thaddeus. Linda became Esther. Old things had passed away, along with old names. Thus began the new life as members of the ‘Saviour’s Living Church’. Their scalps were scraped of all hair, even Paul’s. Paul soon enough recovered to full health. The parents had become members and were beholden to the Prophet and his church. They were mandated to work with other members most weekends on the prophet’s farm and also engaged in constant repetitive chantings, ‘spirit mantras’ the Prophet called it. Thaddeus had never encountered this sort of worship in all his years, even as a seminarian and beyond. He found it odd but to please his wife Esther, he went along with it.

Then one day, after a few years had passed, Prophet John narrated his vision where he claimed Thaddeus had been ordained to work in the ‘vineyard’, as a helper. Thaddeus was to share daily shifts looking after the members who had developed mental challenges and were now housed in one of the smaller buildings in the compound. Thaddeus was to resign and resume in the vineyard of the Lord immediately. Thaddeus was in shock and vehemently disagreed with the wife Esther who sided again with all the Prophet said. Esther as she was wont, began crying and threatened to leave with Paul to go live in the church. The next morning, Thaddeus resigned his post at the Ministry.

Paul met up regularly with his father after school at the clinic, as the rehabilitation facility within the church premises was called. He would wait until the father’s shift was over and they would leave for home together. Paul liked two of the inmates most as they were quite lively and lit up the place with their activities. His father though regularly joked that with all the chanting going on, it was sooner than later before all the church members ended up at the facility.

One of Paul’s favourites was fondly called ‘School Boy’. He could recite whole conversations from different Shakespearean plays and was enamoured of high sounding words. He also quoted copiously from Plato and Aristotle. Paul had never heard these alien names in his young life, but loved how School Boy called them, with fondness and a straight face. Some days, School Boy would be everywhere, solving complex algebraic equations in the wind and pottering amongst the books under his bed as he debated viciously with unseen men or even women. Paul’s father told him that these people only existed in School boy’s mind, Paul wasn’t as sure for School Boy variously gesticulated and sometimes even patted his opponents on their invisible heads when they made valid but inaudible points. Other days, especially after rainfall, he was quiet and moped around. He could be heard saying his mind had reverted to a ‘tabular rasa’ and doubted if his feet were still on ‘terra firma’. Paul wondered who these foreign sounding men could be but he enjoyed being around School Boy as there was never a dull moment.

The other was known as ‘Old Soldier’. He spent half the day marching and the rest charging at the enemy lines, stick-gun in hand. Paul’s father had told him Old Soldier developed the challenge after a grenade went off very close to his head during his stint with the Ecomog forces in Liberia. He was an incredible sight as he marched around, never missing a step, or when he crawled on his belly as he charged at the enemy, who was referred to as ‘Charlie’. It was odd that it was always Charlie every day. Paul wondered if all the enemy soldiers were named ’Charlie’. During marching, he would routinely scream; ’Remove Headdresses’. Then he would perform an elaborate but smart removal motion involving his hand and head. Paul often wondered if he meant headties, the sort his mother and other women wore. Paul felt really sorry for him, to think himself now a woman and in perpetual search for his headties. On some occasions he would seat on his bed, speaking codes into a clenched fist. Paul’s father explained he was on a reconnaissance mission and was now radioing for air cover, so his battalion could charge the enemy line.

One late March Evening, Paul’s parents were up in discussion till very late. The discussion was full of exclamations of surprise from his father while his mother had been sullen and seemed to be in shock. He was still wondering what could have affected his mother so much, when he slept off. Thaddeus and his wife remained baffled long after Paul had slept off. The wife had been relating her experience that day at the hands of Prophet John, who locked her inside his office and tried to force her. He wanted his way with her and claimed that the anointing in him needed to be shared with her. He also promised her everything he could remember but Esther wouldn’t budge. She may have had a colourful past but experiences had sobered her. She had a husband, albeit a long-suffering one. She had begged and cried but the prophet was determined to have his way. Then there was a knocker. It was the prophet’s wife. The Prophet then unlocked the door and claimed he had been trying to exorcise her of the ‘Lusting Demons’. Esther ran all the way home, fueled by pure adrenaline.

Thaddeus knew he couldn’t fight the Prophet within the Country’s poor judicial system.  Nor could he win in the court of public opinion, the prophet had far too much money and influence. He contemplated the hand he had been dealt by life and decided it was time to try something new. He must run elsewhere with his young family. He was a hardworking man and would make do with any menial job until something better came along. Besides his Maternal Uncle had a big farm up-north in Jos. He would settle there for now. He would start his life again. They must set out at dawn to join the first bus going up north, so as to arrive before dark. He may even change his name again, after all ‘Old things are pass away’!

April 2^nd; Paul sat sandwiched between his parents in the Bus. His father had a smile on his face and he wondered what he was thinking about. The Old Seminarian was only chuckling to himself at the sticker tucked to the top right of the Bus windscreen;-‘For Old Things Are Pass Away’. Must be a sign from the Heavens, he thought to himself.

THE END

WAITING FOR MADAM

WAITING FOR MADAM

PART 1

Barth had finished packing his little traveling bag. He had put in all his Sunday clothes as well as his little pocket prayer book. He now sat back to wait. Waiting for a sign. Maybe a knock on the door, the impatient hooting of a car horn, the hurried loud knocks made by a lady’s shoe on the pavement. He was filled with excitement and anxiety at the same time. He had never been this nervous. He had never left home for a long period, only for short holidays. He hadn’t gone on any holiday visit since Mama died. Papa hadn’t let him out of his sight since and had even pulled him out from the boarding house and made him a day student instead.

Oh Mama! Remembering his late mother often wearied his young heart. She was a simple woman, loving and kind. He was her only child but you could never tell as their home was always overflowing with other children and adult guests. She regularly shared foodstuff and sundry gifts to the compound women. Her smiling face still adorned most walls in the house.

It still felt like yesterday to Barth. He had been called into the principal’s office. His uncle Ben, was there. Papa’s elder brother. He had mentioned something about him being needed at home to attend some family ceremony. Barth had thought it strange that Papa hadn’t come himself. His uncle also couldn’t meet his eyes. He had seemed like a man in a tug-of-war with himself. Even his hug was more affectionate than usual. Stranger was the principal, Mr. Frank. Rim-rod thin, with a tinier chin. Huge unsmiling eyes that harboured even bigger black pupils that seemed to swallow whoever dared to stare back. Mr. Frank’s lips looked like they had long given up, after once attempting a smile unsuccessfully. That day, he tried again to smile, albeit unsuccessful and even patted him on the back.

Everything dawned on him when they arrived the house. Mama’s posters were all over the outside walls. Just like those of politicians during the last elections. Only that Mama’s posters had crosses printed on them. Then he saw the title atop her picture; Obituary. Mama was dead. The ground caved in. Everything else was a blur. He vaguely remembered falling into his uncle’s arms and being carried into the room, of urgent voices asking for him to be unclothed, for someone to open the windows and air the room. After that, he remembered nothing.

The funeral day was quite eventful. Mama had only recently begun following Papa to his new church. The members had come along with the Overseer to conduct her funeral. However her old church members had also come in their tens. They were driven in a convoy of fifteen buses. They had produced Mama’s tithe card which was up to date, as well as her baptismal certificate. Their leader, a man whose build was betrayed by his tiny voice, stressed that they would not be cheated out of their ‘entitlements’, usually given to the officiating church by the grieving family. There was an argument of epic proportions. Just as Barth worried that there might just be a fight, then Papa’s church members, outnumbered and out-shouted, dropped their claim to the officiating. He later learnt that they had been persuaded by assurances on their own ‘entitlements’ even without their leading the ceremonies.

Then the family of the culprit was announced and all hell was let loose once more. Papa had to be restrained. They had come with various livestock and several wrappers, as demanded by custom to appease Mama’s angry spirit. Her life cut short by their Son, who had been speeding whilst drunk and crashed into Mama who was walking home from the evening meeting of the Women’s Guild in the church. The driver, was still in detention as he was yet to be charged to court and they, his relatives, had come to appease and beg for forgiveness and his freedom. Papa was irate and wouldn’t come out until they retreated to the street. Conspicuous in their number and gifts, they stood uncertain and pondering till the light rain drove them into hiding. This had been all so funny to Barth despite the somber occasion. His mother had been a cheerful woman, it was hard to imagine her spirit angry. She had been too forgiving to carry a grudge.

Barth was happy leaving the boarding house. It had been tough for Barth and no one was aware of the daily struggle he went through whilst in there. Barth had been a late developer. While his classmates nodded in agreement to the Junior Science Teacher’s description of the characteristics of puberty, Barth was at a loss as neither his voice had deepened nor any hair sprouted in any of his hidden parts. It would be almost two years later before a tentative strand of hair would sprout on his chin. It had stood alone and wriggly as if it had lost its way and was meant for another. And so Barth began to dread bath time. For the students generally bathed at the same time, each in a hurry to meet the school breakfast time. Barth had noticed the mass of hair and extensive changes in and around the others’ organs. He began to hide, to wait until others had left before taking his bath. Thus he was often late for breakfast and so began an enforced fasting regime. He knew how others who had been unmasked were taunted and called ‘obele’ derogatorily. The term referred to smallishness in the native language. Only the initiated though, boarding students and ex- boarding students knew it highlighted the miniature size of the individual’s particular part of the anatomy.

Barth became a day student and went to school from home daily subsequently until his Junior exams. His performance had been average and Papa had told him it would be best to go serve someone as an apprentice trader, and be settled after five years by the trader with some amount of money to begin his own life. That night as they sat in the living room, Papa-Barth was silent for a long time after turning off the television.  “Bartholomew, my son”, he began. Papa never called him by his full name unless he had received a complaint about him or the matter was serious. “I have received word from Madam Ofor. She wants you to come with them after the Ofala festival. You will join them in their rice-selling business. If you serve them well for five years, they will settle you with your own shop and a principal amount for trading”, he said. Barth was shocked and happy at the same time. He knew how hard it must have been for Papa to agree to let him go. He wondered how Papa’s heart would take it. He feared Papa would visit the Madam’s house every other day to ensure he was fine. Or come to the shop under the pretext of buying rice daily, just to ensure his wellbeing. That would mean the whole house filling up with rice in no time. Papa continued and reminded him of whose son he was, and how a good name was better than gold. This went on till very late in the night when they slept off.

Barth was more worried about being an apprentice to a madam than by being an apprentice. He had learnt most rich women had very little patience with their apprentices and had been known to drum their cheeks with hot slaps. Hmmn, he sighed and wondered if he would cry when her fingers, laden with rings of varying quality, burdened by nails painted in strange hues, stung his young cheeks. Not all madams made slapping their chief weapon though. Most preferred words. Maligning and dark. Bitter words that were at total variance to their powdered faces. Their neighbor’s wife often roused the whole street from sleep most nights as she abused the husband. “Useless Man”, was her favorite expletive. The man had been so abused that he was anything but the term anymore. Even the children mocked him when he walked in between their drawn up soccer fields in the street. He was the only resident they didn’t pause their games for the one’s passage. Everyone else knew he did all the washing and cleaning at home. Why he remained in the marriage was a mystery. Even at Mama- Barth’s funeral, he turned up carrying the madam’s handbag and scarf after her.

Not all apprentices though had such experiences. Some had totally different madams. Like Thomas his former classmate. He was an apprentice to a major importer of used clothing, Chief Jelem. The last time Barth saw Thomas after exchanging pleasantries, Thomas told him his story. “My brother, I had to run away from that place o. My father keeps insisting i go back, but no way. I don’t want any trouble”, he said. Barth’s interest was piqued and he sought to know more. “The Chief is very good to me, but he travels a lot”, he continued. “So when I return from the shop, I am alone with the madam in that whole house”. Barth was taken aback and wondered what was wrong with that. Thomas then told him the other part. “The madam called me one night when the Chief had travelled, to her room upstairs. I had been washing and was in my shorts. She was stark naked! She grabbed me and pulled me on top of her after tearing off my shorts. She pushed my “pee-pee” inside her and began speaking in tongues like that white garment pastor”.

Barth was shocked but he hadn’t finished. “My brother, I began to enjoy the thing. Then a strange current went through my body and I wanted to piss. I told the madam that I wanted to piss, but she insisted I should piss it right there”, he stated shamefully. This had happened five times already. He had pissed in Chief’s wife five times now. He didn’t want to wait for Chief to ask him why he preferred not pissing in the latrine and was now doing so in his wife, no matter how strangely thrilling the piss was. So he had run back home.

PART TWO

Madam Ofor sat in the inner room of one of her several shops in the market. She was a widow of many years standing and was known as one of the key traders in the commodity section of the market. She had been serving as the Vice President of the commodity market for over four years now and was highly regarded as one of the movers and shakers of the market. The commodity section comprised of items like salt, rice, flour and sugar. Madam Ofor was not only a mover and shaker by role, whenever she made her brief movements to and fro her car or home, her massive body shook with ripples stretching the fabric of the dress. She was what they referred to in the local parlance as a “thick madam”.

She observed the labourers hired to help bring down rice from the warehouse and frowned at their slow pace. She had only four hired sales girls’ currently working with her. The apprentice boys had proved a serious challenge of late. They no longer wanted to work, all were looking for easy money and ran away as they cornered any substantial sales amount.

This drove Madam Ofor to leave the boys and a hire a middle aged apprentice man, who was still a bachelor. The neighbor who introduced the apprentice had told her the man was his first cousin and vouched for his hardwork. He stressed on the man’s religiosity and attention to detail. Unfortunately he hadn’t mentioned that the apprentice in question also possessed a rampaging libido. Barely a week after he resumed, Madam Ofor’s salesgirls’ routinely complained of strange incidences of bumping into Augustine the middle-aged apprentice around the corners. It seemed coincidental except that three of them had observed bulges in his lower clothes after such ‘accidental’ bumps.

Madam Ofor only realized that she had a serious issue on her hands when she retrieved the bank account opening forms from Augustine. Madam Ofor always opened savings accounts for her new apprentices, where she made regular deposits till they completed their agreed tenure, when she handed them the passbook including bank statements. This helped make their graduation to being their own masters easier and not financially tasking. The form retrieved was well filled out until the “Sex” section. Augustine, instead of indicating his gender had written out in block letters “TWICE A DAY, EXCEPT FOR THE SABBATH DAY”. Madam Ofor didn’t allow him return home with her that day. He was returned to the neighbor that same day from the shop. His belongings sent to him the next day.

Madam Ofor was caught in a quandary. The younger ones were lazy, the older ones were already set in their ways of immorality. The neighbor was back in her shop the next morning again. “Madam, I am very sorry. I didn’t know the boy was spoilt”, he had said. He had come with yet another cousin. This one was named Clement. From the gap on the unbuttoned opening on his shirt, she spotted a faded tattoo of a star on his chest. She also noted a tiny crack on his right earlobe. He had no ear-rings on but had definitely been a regular wearer at some point. His hair was styled in a punk style, the top so far from the scalp that even a hair louse could sustain an injury falling from hair to head.

“What is your name?” Madam Ofor asked had Clement. “Clement, Ma’. The moment he spoke, the air changed ever so faintly. There was a tiny whisk of something pungent, something strong. Madam Ofor knew what it was, the remnants of suppressed marijuana smoke. Madam Ofor was an authority on marijuana. She had known all the various spots in town when her son battled a strong addiction for it. These she stormed regularly with the law enforcement agents as she regularly searched for her son. She knew the different variants by smell, where they were sold, who sold the strongest version called “Oshogbo” and how much. All though had come to naught as her son remained in a rehabilitation clinic outside the country. She had thanked the neighbor and promised to reach them when a decision was made. She deleted his contact information from her mobile phone immediately they had left. Madam Ofor was aghast. It was hard to believe that the youth were now so difficult to manage. And with such a neighbor, who needed enemies.

 The day was quiet. Market had been slow. It had drizzled all morning. Quiet mornings though could always explode into hot afternoons. One could never tell a bad market day from the morning. Today was the day she was to pick up Papa-Barth’s son. She had asked them to prepare the room for him earlier. Madam Ofor had learnt her lesson though. Her lawyer had drawn up an agreement that the boy’s father would sign, the boy still being a minor. Then her doctor would run series of tests; toxicology, HIV, genotype. Every base had to be covered. She had to know everything from day one. There was no need to hurry or rush.

At home, it was getting to dusk. Barth was still at the window. Waiting. Waiting for Madam. The first tears had begun to form. He hoped she would come and get him. He further hoped that she would let him return now and then to visit with Papa.

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.