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.

Counting your chickens…….

COUNTING YOUR CHICKENS


George sat in the bus going to Enugu city. He was now sweating profusely and his handkerchief had gotten heavily soaked. From time to time he would wring sweat out of the handkerchief through the window. The midday sun overhead was merciless and pierced the bus windscreen and body as if there was none. George wondered when he will get to Enugu city today. He dared not wait for the epileptic train shuttle between Aba and Enugu city. The tales of stranded travelers passing nights on the rail tracks were legion. One was better served in a broken down bus than a train. One could always hitch a hike from any other vehicle going that way or be rescued by another bus from the firm’s fleet. A train on the other hand left one high and dry on the rail tracks in the event of a breakdown, mostly in the middle of nowhere.

He was sat in a 14-seater passenger bus which had advertised Enugu city. He was clad in an old T-shirt, with a welcome slogan about the USA. The colour of the shirt could no longer be made out, but it was safe to assume that it must have been whitish at some point in the very distant past. Mama had scraped his scalp clean of all hair, ‘to drive away malaria and evil-spirits’, she had claimed. At the time he boarded, there were 7 other ‘passengers’ in the bus then. In addition to him making eight, the bus ought to have been full since another five passengers had arrived and now made fourteen, the driver inclusive. What he hadn’t bargained for was that they could have been fake passengers. Mama had warned him about buses in the big city and their tricks. She had also stressed that he should only join a bus with a known logo on the sides, and stationed inside the bus terminal. He had felt Mama was exaggerating as usual. He knew Mama had such a big fear of the city. Mama who described an extra cup of water in the soup pot as a huge drum of water. He could handle it, he thought and hadn’t bothered to get to mama’s preferred terminal to board.

He was shocked to realise that those seven inside the bus were merely ‘Ocho-passenger’. They were baits used to lure travelers to come into the bus and part with fares believing the bus would soon depart. However for each new passenger, one of the previous seven surreptitiously alighted from the bus. With offhand comments like ‘I am coming’, they quickly disappeared into the distance only to re-appear as soon as another vehicle began loading. With well-choreographed steps, their coming and going was over in a matter of seconds.

George was aghast when he noticed the fifth ‘Ocho-passenger’ trying to disembark. He grabbed the bus conductor and demanded a refund of his fare. The conductor grabbed him as well, and a lot of pushing and shoving went on before the other passengers helped to separate the two. Meanwhile the other two ‘Ocho-passenger’ left in the bus, used the melee to exit the scene as well. The conductor merely referred George to the bottom section of the bus ticket. It stated clearly that ‘there will be no refund of money after payment’!

Dejected, shirt rumpled, ego bruised, George sat back in the bus. The argument meanwhile raged on. Few applauded the concept of the ‘Ocho-passenger’, others criticized it. Some were for the conductor, others were against. Some even berated George for the display and wondered aloud why the young ones always seemed in a hurry. Others were upset and felt shortchanged that after all the buildup, not even a single punch was thrown in anger or disgust. Disgraceful. What a pair of wimps, they thought!

More painful for George was the fact that there was no way to recognize the average ‘Ocho-passenger’. One had carried a small briefcase like a Jehovah Witness member. One had been reading a newspaper, the other a magazine. One had been listening to music on his mobile phone through an ear device. There was no guarantee that outside the seven, that there weren’t more still left. Other things now began to make sense to George. The little hawkers with their trays full of confectionaries hadn’t bothered with some of the passengers, who had all turned out to be all ocho-passengers. The bus conductor as well hadn’t bothered any of them for their fares and George had erroneously felt they must have paid earlier before he had gotten there. How wrong he had been! There had even been one sat in the driver’s seat, who only made way once George confronted the conductor. They were all in on it.

Finally the bus was full. Enter haggling session between the conductor, the driver that just appeared, and some men who claimed to be from the Government. The bus was parked on the roadside, far from the bus terminal. Another twenty minutes was spent on this before the bus moved on to the road, then veered right into the next gas station they encountered. Why the driver hadn’t filled up the gas tank all this while, no one could tell. George, with his ego already bruised refused to join in the cacophony of voices criticizing the driver. He just closed his eyes to the events in the vehicle. He would fight no common battles no more.

He was going to Enugu city to meet up with his uncle. His uncle was to house him until the University Matriculation Examinations taking place nationwide. George was a gifted student and consistently made good grades in School. Mama was determined that he received University Education. He had his pocket money from Mama, N20, 000 only. It was in the pocket of his inner shorts. Mama was a petty trader in their hometown and worked hard for any money she made. George had sworn to face his books and make her proud in no time. Not like Samankwe, the Catechist’s son. The family had sold their prized farmlands to pay for his education outside the country. After 10 years in the foreign lands, he had returned penniless. More like deported back with only the clothes on his back. He also had ear-rings in his earlobes and spoke with a funny accent. He now greeted people ‘hi’ in the mornings instead of the town’s customary salutation ‘Isalachi’. He had also acquired a drug habit and had since sold off all his few belongings to fund it. No, he was much smarter than that and would make Mama proud.

His thoughts drifted to his uncle whom he was to live with in Enugu city. He used to be known in their town as ‘Kusorochi’. These days he was only known and referred to as ‘Prince’. Even his new car had customized plates with ‘Prince’ printed on them. He had gone to Mama for answers to the puzzle. How come uncle Kusorochi was a Prince, and he George wasn’t? After all they were descended from the same Family Tree. Uncle was son to Papa’s senior brother. To the best of his knowledge, there was no royal blood in their lineage. Mama had asked to wait for his uncle’s return in December. She also confirmed that Papa’s family had no traceable links to the ruling houses but also knew that Kusorochi’s mother hailed from Opobo Town and could have provided the royal title. George felt the Opobo connection was a long shot and counted the days till December when uncle Kusorochi would return.

In December, Kusorochi returned. His fancy car horn gave away his proximity before the car rolled down the street towards the house. George was first among the throng of neighbourhood children and youths that ran to welcome Kusorochi. It was a long wait till the backslapping, loud laughter and tumultuous dancing finally toned down to barely audible chatter between the returnee and the various compound breadwinners. George finally got his uncle alone as he made to go relieve himself in the bushes behind the main house and immediately asked him about the title. Kusorochi confirmed to George that he had been born a commoner and his full names were Kusorochi Charles Nema. His City friends began calling him Prince due to his other name Charles. He was a namesake to a certain Prince of Wales known as Prince Charles. So he had also adopted the title to go with his name.




Three and a half hours later, after several stops and bumps on the way, they arrived Enugu city. They had got in before 4pm and there was still plenty of daylight around. George alighted at the terminal and felt the bulge from his inner pocket to be sure his pocket money from mama was still intact. He had heard a lot of the tricks of the city used to separate one from his funds. They had met their match in him. A very streetwise young man. Only death could separate him from this pocket money, he swore to himself. He considered those who fell prey to the sweet words of fraudsters as mere weaklings. The money was still there. He smiled to himself and picked up his bag.

He walked to a tri-cycle parked just in front. There was a driver and one passenger in the tri-cycle. He mentioned his uncle’s bus stop, Independence layout. The driver asked him to hop in. The other passenger wore a faded white tunic with cap to match. He had a foreign air about him, like someone newly returned from the West African coast. The other passenger stopped the tricycle and alighted. He began fiddling with his pockets looking for his fare. George looked elsewhere whilst waiting for the journey to re-start. He wondered if his uncle would have any dinner at home being a long term bachelor. He had told him on phone that they’ll mostly be eating out when he George arrived. The idea appealed to him, something different from the norm whilst with Mama. He closed his eyes to imagine the exotic aromas that would assail his nostrils tonight. He wondered if the uncle will take him to the famous ‘Polo-park’, with the numerous cafeterias built out of old container units. Mama had told him how the women used long wooden pestles to turn the ‘fufu’ in giant pots, clad in aprons stained with oil and perspiration. He had also heard how they regularly clashed over customers and sundry matters, bumping their mammoth bosoms against each other, like two rams locking horns. Or maybe to Ogbete junction, famed worldwide for the ‘abacha’ delicacy. George couldn’t wait! He had heard they garnish the abacha with rings of fresh onion, chumps of garden-egg as well as roasted cray-fish. Hmmmn. George couldn’t wait to meet his uncle, or for dinner time to come.

‘Excuse me Sir, please pay me in the local currency’, the driver said. George was startled out of his reverie ‘Please this is what i have, and i had been using it to pay others since i arrived’, the man in the faded tunic replied. The driver was shocked! ‘You mean you have been paying people in $100 bills’? He asked. ‘Each of these bills equals N30, 000 only in our local currency’ he continued. The tunic wearing man was nonplussed. He claimed to have loads of dollars in his bags at the hotel. He would like to reward them for their thoughtfulness and kind consideration for him. He was ready to exchange up to $50,000 only for N50, 000 as well, as a token of his appreciation. He would also collect their phone numbers and will reach them immediately he arrived on subsequent trips. He was in Enugu city once every week and was a rich textile seller in his native Abidjan. He bought bales of textile from importers in Enugu city for resell in his native country.

George quickly did the math. If he exchanged N20, 000 pocket money for $20,000, and subsequently sold same at the going market rate of N300/$1, that would be N6, 000,000! Six times a millionaire. A millionaire at 18 years of age. ‘Brother, this is our lucky day o ‘, the driver said to George aside. ‘Me, I will like to drive a real car and not a tricycle ‘. He had only N1, 000 on him though. George quickly brought out his pocket money from Mama, all N20, 000 of it. The man in the tunic collected the total of N21, 000 from both of them and left with the driver to get the other money from his hotel room. George was to wait in the adjourning bar for them. George was so happy and insisted they share a round of drinks before the driver left with the man in the tunic dress, who had now revealed his name as Alhaji Musa Yusuf from Abidjan, Ivory Coast. George could see the hotel gate from the bar and knew the man was lodged in room 51.

‘Thank you, Jesus', George exclaimed as soon as he was alone and made a sign of the cross. He smiled into his glass full of chilled malt. His Literature teacher in school had a favorite quote from Shakespeare; ‘there’s a tide in the affairs of men’. George’s high tide had arrived. In his town, it was said that ‘one couldn’t tell a good market day from a dull morning’. If the bus hadn’t been delayed, he might have missed this great benefactor from Abidjan that was going to help him make 30,000% instant income without even lifting a finger. This must be what the preacher on radio had referred to as ‘uncommon grace’. Yes he may have been school mates with his other town boys, maybe even age mates and room-mates, but he was clearly not their ‘grace-mate’. He was about joining the big leagues!

Once he received his windfall, he would make his way back to the hometown the next day. Of course after paying for a new accommodation in a highbrow area of Enugu city for his uncle and then buying a car. No, two cars. One for himself, and one would be for Mama. Her’s would be colored red and he will also employ a driver for her. He would learn to drive and upon gaining admission to the University, take it along with him. Before then though, he would build Mama a new house. A colorful bungalow with all the modern appliances. No more trips to the stream to fetch water for Mama and his siblings. There would be running water, washing machines as well like the type he glimpsed in the Reverend’s home, while on an errand. He would also incorporate a vacation to foreign lands with the rest of his siblings and Mama. They will visit the city of love, Paris. They’ll have a picnic lunch at the Eiffel Tower and spend the rest of the day marveling at the wonderful artefacts in the Lourdes museum. Maybe a quick walk through the fashion shops and colourful bistros, enroute the famed ‘Champs du Elysees’. He couldn’t wait to hear the excited shrieks of his siblings as they run amok on the grounds of Disneyland in Paris. Mama would likely sit out the trip to Disneyland, likely to prefer sampling the gourmet on offer. Mama was a huge admirer of good food, and the French were famed as the best.

A quick tube across the channel to London would also be in order. They could even include his Uncle so that he could visit with his namesake, Prince Charles. He, George would be revered in their hometown. He might even condescend to accept a Chieftaincy title from the King. Maybe ‘nwata kwo sia aka, nke mbu’. Yes, if the child washes his hands clean, he is allowed to dine with the elders.

“Hello Sir”, the waiter was speaking to him. ‘It’s been 3 hours now since your friends were gone’, he said. ‘Kindly pay for the drinks as we are about to close’. What! It was true. His watch confirmed same. He also confirmed from the waiter that there was no hotel across from the bar, but a mini residential estate with dual entry gates on either side. His world came crashing down. His dreams. His chickens all counted before even laid. Mama always warned against counting your chickens. The Alhaji and the driver must have been collaborating together. Chei! He exclaimed again, Chei! He was done for, finished! He thought of a quick escape but considering the other workers had now begun to gather, the chances were slim.

He begged the waiter to help make the call to his Uncle to come pick him and clear the bills to enable them let him off. The waiter only did so after lashing him severely. It didn’t get better with his uncle either. Uncle Kusorochi was furious when he arrived. Despite the plans to acquire better accommodation for him in the other side of Town. He railed throughout the ride home to his dwellings. How could George do such a thing? Now he would have to source money, as such news might just kill George’s poor mother. Since their dinner money had been spent on paying for drinks consumed at the bar by George and his business partners, they went to bed hungry and teary in the case of George, who was also too ashamed to speak.

His tears soon gave way to the sweet call of sleep. Once George began to snore, uncle Kusorochi remarked that to himself on how much the boy’s snore sounded like his late father’s. It still seemed like yesterday when he had been running around in diapers. They grow so fast these days, he thought to himself. The boy had grown into a fine young man, but like his own father always told him all those years ago, “that a boy has grown tall does not mean that he has acquired the wisdom of the elders”.



Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.

A Friendly Dilemma

A Friendly Dilemma

Tagbo sat on his pushcart outside the warehouse of Ambrose Enterprises .His was sixth in line, waiting turns to lift a full pushcart load of goods down to various buyers in the market. Tagbo also joined to offload the Lorries when they arrived laden with goods, into the warehouses. For offloading, they manually loaded several cartons on their shoulders and stacked them in lines inside the warehouse.

Tagbo was popular in the loader’s union and amongst the hiring traders. He was known to be energetic and honest. The loaders’ Union ensured only their members could load, offload and operate pushcarts in the market. They had issued identity cards from the union with their given numbers emblazoned on the bright red bibs they wore atop their shirts. The union also had records of individual loaders’ and their mobile telephone numbers.

The Union was led by a renowned loader called ‘Ifeadigo’. His alias translated from the Igbo language meant – one who had arrived in wealth. He no longer had to load since he was the President of the loaders’ union, but from time to time, stripped off to his torso and joined his men offloading. The loaders were paid at agreed rates for individual cartons of goods. This varied according to weight, as cartons of noodles attracted little fees per carton, compared to cartons of soap or condensed liquid milk.

This was Tagbo’s world. It usually began by 7.00 am when he arrived at the union office. He paid a daily fee of N20 only to obtain a ticket. This ticket enabled him access to load, offload and operate a pushcart. His pushcart had only been recently acquired on hire-purchase. He remitted N300 weekly to the owner. He still had 2 months to go of the remittances for the pushcart to become fully his property.

He had faithfully fulfilled the contract for the previous 10 months. Then after his ticket, he speedily dashes to Mr. Njoku’s place. Mr. Njoku had constructed several little anchors cast into the cement flooring of his vast compound adjacent the market. Pushcart operators, wheel barrow operators could lock their carts and barrows overnight there with a chain and padlock. He paid N10 daily to lock his cart there every evening after work.

So apart from the occasional call from Mama Beaty in Nekwa Town to complain about the irregularity of his visits, life was fairly uncomplicated for Tagbo. Mama Beaty, was Tagbo’s mother. Beatrice was her first child and in Nekwa Town, mothers’ were called after their firstborn’s nickname. That was why one heard rather exotic names like Mama Yoyo, Yoyo was her son Humphrey’s nickname. Or Mama Popo, so called after her daughter Mgbokwo’s alias.

Tagbo worked hard and usually had the weekly remittance for the hire-purchase ready by Monday evening. His Tuesdays began late, as he made sure to first visit the bank and pay into the owner’s account firstly, with the teller photocopied and copies well folded in a dry corner of his carrier bag before stripping off to his work clothes. One day in the bank, a slogan caught his eye; ’WITH YOU, TO THE TOP’. He liked it. Liked it so much that he painted an abridged version on his cart; ‘WITH YOU’. That became his name. Other loaders, traders, the food seller referred to him as WITH YOU. It was common for invoices issued by sellers to their customers to have ‘WITH YOU’ inscribed as the one to collect the goods. Life for Tagbo was simple. WITH YOU by day, Tagbo by night and Sundays. He had little troubles, till the phone call that changed his life.

It was a Tuesday. Tagbo remembered because it was his bank day. He had just paid in the week’s remittance and was on his way to pick the cart and change into his work clothes, when his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He picked the call. Big mistake. It was the Rev. Luke. Could Tagbo kindly rush down to the church, there had been an emergency. For any other reason, Tagbo wouldn’t have budged. It was a busy Tuesday. He already had five text messages from different customers of their goods to be collected by ‘WITH YOU’. Also there were about 10 trucks that came in over the night to be offloaded. But how could Tagbo not answer the call of the Rev.? He was an ordained man of God. Regularly mentioned in his sermons about conversations with God. Last week he had preached on Obedience being better than sacrifice. What if he reported Tagbo, that he had been disobedient? Tagbo hastened to answer.

The emergency was in the form of a festering trouble left behind by Cletus, a man who also hailed from Nekwa Town. Cletus had been a thriving business man, with a large shop dedicated to the sale of cosmetics and female inner garments. Had. For the past 2 months, Cletus had abandoned matrimonial home, wife of 2 years standing and a child, to move in with a middle aged woman who ran a beer-parlour shop, two streets from the market.

His family had gone to talk to him, to no avail. His bible study group members, no dice. The madame who now harbored him, sat with him through the various meetings. All reported that Cletus had an odd smile and a vacant look spread from ear to ear. When the wife attempted to see him, the madame and her attendants engaged the young wife in an uneven bout of pugilistics. The lady landed in hospital and had to be discharged to the Rev. Luke after he paid her bills. The Rev. himself thereafter went to see Cletus at this place and marveled that Cletus wasn’t moved by hearing the Rev. Luke describe his conversation with God on Cletus. The Rev. Luke kept shaking his head as he left the seedy beer-parlour. ’Den of iniquity’, he remarked when relaying the story to his wife.

The Nekwa Town residents in Onitsha at their urgent meeting, had only one item on the Agenda; Cletus. It was resolved to hire a bus to bring his ‘Umunna’, to come and rescue this man from whatever diabolic charms may have been laid upon him, that he abandoned his home and shop to move in with a woman old enough to be his mother. The members wondered amongst themselves which far away herbalist could have prepared a charm as potent as this. For there was nothing physically appealing about the madame. Her outer mammary glands had long obeyed the gravitational forces and headed south with little fuss. Her facial features were always shrouded in layers of cheap make-up. She had two frontal teeth that seemed out of line with the remaining teeth, and even protruded when her lips were closed. It was rumored that her first husband left due to those teeth, poor man. Too many nights he had turned in bed to behold 2 shimmering white spear like buds, shining in the darkness. One day he was gone. There were rumours of his sightings in Fernando Po, but nothing concrete.

In an average Igbo town, the Umunna (for the men) and Umuada (for the women) are usually the last resort. They are members of the village, not necessarily kin and are drawn from across various age grades. They were the equivalent of enforcers. They were tasked with bringing to heel members who strayed from acceptable norms. During funerals, they were feted and they had to confirm that the deceased dues and levies were paid up, before interment dates could be announced. Yes, the Umunna disciplined both the living and the dead.

It was no different in Nekwa. So one fateful morning, 7.00am prompt, their bus landed at the madame’s house. Ten able bodied men in their prime. Biceps bristling, they were unsmiling. They had Cletus in their grasp in no time and quickly filled up their bus and made to speed away. One of the madame’s patrons however was a policeman. He had been alerted by the madame’s frantic calls and also happened to be patrolling the adjourning street with his team. Cletus was freed and returned to the madame, while the Umunna from Nekwa were apprehended and passed the following week in police custody. They were later released to the Village Head after huge sums exchanged hands and undertakings as to future behavior jointly and severally made.

Cletus was thereafter left to his fate. The wife also to her’s. She made her way to the church after the Landlord ran out of patience waiting for Cletus and threw out their few belongings left. They had already been evicted from the Market as well. Obidiya, the wife knelt, her son strapped to her back with a wrapper and begged the Rev. to help them.

The Rev. didn’t have a place for them. He would have let them squat in the Children’s playroom section of the Church, which was yet unutilized, but had observed the frown on his wife’s face as Obidiya spoke. The frown spoke volumes without words and the Rev. knew the option was a no- go area. He decided to call on Tagbo, who was also from Nekwa, to house her and the baby for the night and escort them home to Nekwa next day. He walked them to the gate, all the while exhorting Tagbo with copious quotes from the scriptures, and harped severally on the need to store up treasures in Heaven, and not of the Earth. Once they were out of earshot of the Rev’s wife, the Rev. Luke slyly slipped some money into Tagbo’s pocket. ‘To help with the transport fare to Nekwa’, he said. Tagbo only nodded, too dazed to speak. Just this morning he had been ‘WITH YOU’, now he was with Obidiya, wife of Cletus and their child.

Tagbo lived in a semi-slum. The dwelling area comprised series of blocks of one bedroom apartments. His own block had ten of these, with all sharing 2 toilets and bathrooms, a pair located at each end of the block. Five rooms were allocated a pair and rosters drawn up as to daily maintenance. Each tenant also had keys as the conveniences were always locked to avoid usage by sundry passersby. The whole block of ten apartments shared a common kitchen behind the block. To this residence, Tagbo now led Obidiya and her son to.

Tagbo couldn’t travel the next day, Wednesday. He decided to hold on till Thursday or Saturday. His biggest customer, Oga Ben, was coming on Wednesday. ‘WITH YOU’ had his hands full anytime Oga Ben was around. He decided to show Obidiya the daily routine for the shared tasks, where he kept the toiletries as well as the general layout of the one bedroom he lived in. Her baby was so well behaved and rarely bawled or disturbed. Tagbo left the set of keys with her as he left for work.

Once Tagbo got to the market and changed into his work clothes, the pace of the day took over. There were orders upon orders waiting. All the activities of yesterday were a blur on his mind, as he became ‘WITH YOU’ once more and clad in in his shorts, torso covered in beads of sweat, he grunted his way to and fro the market with his pushcart. Tagbo was driven by the desire to make up for the lost hours. When he had finished the several orders, he joined those offloading the trucks. It was a good day. He closed early, so as to seek out a toy tattler for Obidiya’s baby aptly named Miracle.

The real miracle began when he returned from work. Someone had dusted the mosquito net cover on the window and the glass louvres behind were sparkling. The curtain had been washed and spread on the cloth-line outside, as all his dirty clothes. Living in tight spaces meant there were few secrets between the neighbours. Your neighbours and everyone else knew when you had received your payslip, they knew when you were broke and when buoyant. They knew who boiled chicken and who made do without. They knew those that patronized the cheaper ‘iced-fish’ and who was celebrating by steaming stockfish.

Tagbo began trailing the rich aroma wafting forth from the foot gate right up to his door. The air around his room was suffused with appetite whetting smells. Even the caretaker was sat on a stool outside his door and made sure to shout a greeting across to the returning Tagbo. Strange that. Tagbo still debated within himself if this was the right house. He was pondering if he dared cross the threshold when Obidiya came out and welcomed him most warmly. She took the bag off him and led him into the room.

Tagbo had never eaten such a sumptuous meal in his home. The food was so inviting that he forgot to bathe till he was through the very last morsel. She had also taken up Tagbo’s turn with the convenience and had given it a new lease of life with a thorough scrub down using disinfectant. Tagbo there and then decided there was no need to rush her return to Nekwa Town. His clothes had been washed, ironed and hung on the wall hanger. The room had been cleaned and now sparkled.

Tagbo woke in the morning to sweet rendition of folk tunes, sung in a sonorous voice. Obidiya had already been up and his water was ready in the bathroom as well as breakfast. Tagbo was experiencing a new level of grace. That day he went to work whistling and humming through his repertoire of praise songs. Obidiya had only made one request from him as he gave her money for minor purchases. To come back with a food warmer or food flask. ‘That must be for warming the baby’s food’, he thought to himself as he left. He was happy she hadn’t raised the topic of their travel to Nekwa town.

The next day, Tagbo went to work with his lunch packed in the food warmer. He carried it in a little canvas bag which he secured with a tiny padlock. He was the only loader or pushcart operator that carried a food flask. He was a novelty. Sitting on his pushcart behind the union building that afternoon, eating from his own lunch packed with care. Even Ifeadigo looked on longingly. And so stopped his acquaintance with the itinerant food sellers. After all there was no relationship between the vulture and the barber. Tagbo’s life had a new boost, there was a new drive. Life was worth it again as days passed into weeks. Weeks became months. Three months passed thus.

The stories began from the church. Obidiya was now always well dressed and in matching outfits with her baby Miracle. She was looking so rosy and lustrous. Cue the whispers. She was second- hand, not original. After she had been with another man before now. Who knew what she did to make Cletus run to an older woman. Some opined that she must have strange growths sprouting from uncommon sites. Only stuff like that could make a grown man show a pair of heels, they reasoned. Envy, that deity of the embittered merely fanned their embers after each Sunday Obidiya was seen.

In the market as well, they were all over Tagbo. News travels fast. They sought to know what he thought of her as a woman. Tagbo as much as he didn’t want to drive them on, was forced to clear her name by disclosing the truth. There was nothing going on, she was just a friendly guest he harbored who happened to be from Nekwa and female. They returned in torrents. How could he always play it nice with the ladies? A lady already with a baby and therefore not so fairly used. Why was he playing the ‘assistant boyfriend’, the ‘carwash’, or did he have certain physiological challenges?

And so the dilemma began. Fueled by talk, Tagbo began to see Obidiya for the woman she was. He began to interpret her every move and look. His eyes began to follow the play of her hips when she walked. He began to nurse thoughts. After all he deserved to be compensated somehow for having been so nice. So accommodating. So giving of himself. Did he really? He quickly shut his mind down. Everybody else couldn’t be wrong. Vox populi, vox dei, they said.  

What if she turned down his advances? What if she was so disappointed in his conduct, that she upped and left, with baby Miracle in tow? That was his dilemma. A friendly dilemma. He wanted to do something he was loath to, to prove he was the man. To prove he wasn’t a weakling to his co-loaders, wasn’t anybody’s fool. To push a lady who had only given him care to a tiny corner, cowering or staring him down.

On the appointed night, he made sure to visit a bar on his way home. To numb his conscience, to quieten his true self. He finally staggered home. He had gone from a responsible, responsive man to a drunk, a night crawler, all just to defile a symbiotic friendship forged in mutual respect. To prove he wore the pants.

He awoke with a blinding headache. A hangover. The knocker though wouldn’t go away. ‘Who in the devil’s name is it, so early?’ he screamed. ‘It is me, the caretaker’ came the reply. ‘You came in late last night, you forgot to clean the convenience. Kindly do so this morning before the children start preparing for school’, he said. Tagbo sat up, and looked around. His face wincing in pain as his eyes took in the entire room. His clothes were once again scattered everywhere. The glass louvres had gone dusty again and the curtains dirty. The baby and Obidiya had belonged in a dream! He had been sleeping.

He broke into a smile, shaking his head ruefully. So there was no dilemma waiting, friendly or not. He must visit Mama Beaty this Saturday without fail. He would discuss getting married. He had seen first-hand, its wonders, even if a dream. In Nekwa, it was said that one had to be mad for one to marry young; but they also said ‘that madness tastes sweetest when one is still young’.

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016

THE CHRISTIAN KING

THE CHRISTIAN KING

Ezenmo sat forlorn , head cupped in hands as he pondered the latest answer received from the gods.

He was just a messenger , of the gods to the people . His people .The people say “The messenger does no wrong : his was to transmit”.

However , his hands trembled as he thought of meeting the Eselu III or the Queen Mother . Aagh , the gods. How would he dress his countenance as he delivered this stupefying news ?

Hmmn. He sighed deeply . Yet again . He had been sighing all morning.

Thrice this week he had divined. Thrice the same answer .He resolved to try once more on the last of the four- day Igbo week ; Eke , Orie , Afor , Nkwo .Yes , he would try again on Nkwo. Who knows ? Maybe the gods were just thirsty . He took a huge sip from the Schnapps bottle , and spat across the mini wooden statuettes on the floor. “That one is for you , oh great gods”, he said. He now stood up and slowly walked to the bushes behind for some herbs to administer to a sick little boy as promised the mother.

Nebede was a smallish village comprising five hamlets of Ubi , Kene , Nlo , Nume , and Solam . The hamlets shared common streams , a market and a King.

The last King had been the Eselu II. He was late now and resting with the Ancestors . Nebede had been a very peaceful village until recently .There were few deaths and illnesses recorded till this year . This year when the Eselu II left to join the Ancestors . This year when the newly selected Eselu III was to be crowned.

Ezenmo was the Chief Priest of the Nogba shrine . The shrine housed the big wooden statue of a sitting , cherubic male , which represented the Nogba god . He it was who determined destinies , he decreed which path one’s life will take or what spouse one would end up with . He presided over the number of off springs one would have , the size of goats in his yard and yams in his barn . He determined which maidens will be skinny and which voluptuous . Ezenmo had remarked to himself that the Nogba must be tired of the voluptuous ones as none could be seen lately in the village . Ezenmo had in his capacity as Intercessor between the villagers and the Nogba , strived to remedy this anomaly by quickly appeasing the Nogba then with a big Hen and copious local gin sprayed liberally around the statue.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

The shrine also contained five other smaller statuettes . One for each hamlet . They were lesser gods than the Nogba , and were in his service . They served as monitors for the Nogba on each hamlet in the village .The villagers made annual offerings to the Nogba and then during routine visits to the shrine on sundry problems brought cash , foodstuffs , and drinks to appease and to offer in supplication for their myriads of needs . Sometimes too they were broke and couldn’t afford much for the gods . In such cases they offered to cut the bushes around the shrine or helped to repair the thatched roofs . These were usually done by the men . For the women who couldn’t afford such fees for the gods , they fetched water from the streams and scrubbed the walls , floor of the Nogba shrine . Ezenmo being a kind hearted Intercessor also offered help to the lazier ones who didn’t want to wash or scrub . Some of the more robust variety regularly walked with Ezenmo into the nearby bushes . Many a loincloth had been urgently discarded in the pressing need to appease the gods through other forms of payment , collected on their behalf by Ezenmo . There had been reports of heavy breathing and sudden movements in the bushes adjourning the shrine , by returnees from the far Ujonu stream , whose route was close by .

Once when the stories were so rife , the late Eselu II organized the hunters , who were led by Ezenmo to chase away whatever wild beasts creating the disturbances . No animal was caught and Ezenmo was seen chanting incantations at the site , thereafter declaring the area safe . The reports though reduced , still persisted about strange activity in those bushes at intervals .

Ezenmo wasn’t bothered by mere mortals and their stories . Him who belonged to the gods . Yes , chosen by the gods to succeed his father . His father , the former Ezenmo , whom it had been said , traded riddles and proverbs with gods and spirits . Out of his seven sons , he the last , had been chosen by the gods . Father had often remarked that he was different from the rest . From when he had run an errand for Mother to the shrine to see Father . While he waited for the then Ezenmo , he had seen a tortoise , walking backwards into the bushes on its hind legs . His widened mouth was struck soundless , as yet a four-headed snake bade him farewell as it slithered into the bushes . Once too , as the Elders poured libation on the ground and invited the ancestors to drink , he had seen weird little men with contorted skin appear in their tens , backs bent with little cups in hand . He had fainted and had been carried home . When he later regaled his family with the tale of what he had seen , all had been scared stiff. No one else had seen anything and all seven strong boys had slept at the foot of Mother’s bed that night . To protect her from the little men with bent backs and tiny cups , they had claimed but all their legs shook and quite a few urine drops stained the various loincloths as none dared to go to the latrine to relieve themselves , and none would stoop so low as to ask for an escort , so as not to be labelled ‘coward’ . A man could be anything but Coward in Nebede . Even thieves had more honour in Nebede than one known as cowardly . The women composed derisive songs with their names which the children danced to at festivals and moonlight dances .                                                           

Father though had smiled after he heard the story and kept nodding long into the night . At midnight he had poured copious libations and thanked the gods that they had made a choice . His voice as he communed with the gods carried on the night air through the window in Mother’s room .                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

All wondered whom the choice was or when it had been made . None of them had ever been around when gods made choices so they thought little of it and went to sleep .

Today , after fifteen years , the choice was now a full-fledged Ezenmo and was revered the length and breadth of the five hamlets and neighbouring villages . Ezenmo indeed had blossomed and could be said to have surpassed his Father in wealth and acquisitions . His barns were well stocked with yams and his livestock were highly priced .

All these however did little to placate Ezenmo’s mood as he emerged from his brief reverie . The recent spate of deaths and illnesses only put a seal to the results obtained after three days of divination . The gods had answered in one voice . Just three days before the activation of the newly chosen King , Eselu III’s reign . Only three nights before the dance of the young maidens . Hmmmn . He sighed deeply once more and searched frantically for his tobacco box . He hurriedly stuffed his nostrils and waited for the effect to hit .

The soothing sensation though did little to appease his restless mind . The Nogba , as confirmed by the lesser gods had said that an Impostor was at the throne ! Eselu III to the best of Ezenmo’s knowledge , was a bonafide son of Eselu II and the Queen Mother . Since his selection however , eight people had lost their lives in one week in the village . “Tufia” , Ezenmo exclaimed .

To complete the rites , Eselu III was required to pick a second wife during the dance of the young maidens . The King was mandated to have two Queens as laid down by the Ancestors . However , the highest rite was the “Mkpuchi Azuala” . The new King was required to proceed to an area of semi – swamp features , in an enclosure of bamboo trees , alone . There , he would remove the last wrapper hung there by the last deceased King and dress the clearing in his own wrapper . The clearing within the enclosure known as “Azuala” , was inhabited by a female Deity . Ezenmo had only been summoned there once and had marveled at the impeccable state of the late Eselu II’s wrapper hung there. It was impossible to fathom how it had retained its new look after almost thirty years of being exposed to the elements . Azuala’s frontage was always well swept and clean . It was said that the Deity could be heard sweeping at dawn on quiet mornings .

                                                                                                                                                                       

The Deity was known to have struck two fierce claimants to the throne dead at one time . Her method of execution was with thunderbolts . No other mortal dared to go into the Azuala , unless he had been chosen King and confirmed by the Nogba or summoned . Therein lay Ezenmo’s dilemma . The new King must go to Azuala in three days . This King had however been rejected by the Nogba .He dared not step into the Azuala . The Deity would strike. The Deity’s strike had been known to separate a man and his footwear in opposite directions to one another . The corpse had been retrieved from the village stream whilst the footwear had flown through the air to the village Primary School field.

Ezenmo now waited on the result of his divination planned for the fourth day of the Igbo week , Nkwo before going up to the Queen Mother and the Eselu III . Herb in hand , he closed the shrine frontage by hanging two pleated palm fronts . The sick boy’s residence was across his path home and he made his way slowly, lost in thought at what lay ahead .

He couldn’t even dare to appease the Nogba at a time like this , for it was already upset and had allowed the deaths of its villagers in such unnatural patterns . Never before had two people died on following days .Ezenmo felt the dark clouds gathering . He wondered aloud whether the new King will still be King after the coming three days .

Impostor , as the Nogba had said about the Eselu III , who was this man? How would the village react ? What of the King ? Would he abdicate ? Would he run away , never to return ? Hmmmn . “We could have new songs for the children by the next moon” , Ezenmo thought to himself as he passed the little square , venue of the moonlight dances .

                                                                                                   

Our people say “he whom the gods want to kill , they first make mad” . Ezenmo had experienced bad days before and then he had experienced today . The fourth day of the Igbo week . Nkwo day .

Ezenmo had divined early in the morning . The answer was stark and the same . However this time there was also a caveat , “if the impostor wants peace for Nebede village , he must leave that stool immediately”. The gods had withdrawn their smiles . Ezenmo must move now to save the day or be filled with regrets . His legs seemed full of lead as he made his way to the palace . His legs inching their way gradually towards the gates . He was the one to bear the news , to break the revered “Aki Oyinbo Nsugbe” to the Queen and her Son . Let them hear the message as received from the gods , warts and all . There would be no embellishments nor deductions . Ezenmo knew it was time for normalcy to return . For the death rate to decline once more and for the people and their gods to be on the same page again .

Ezenmo spent six hours with the Queen Mother . At first she had tried to rebuff Ezenmo . She had tried to cast doubt on the words of the gods . Ezenmo had then reminded her of the calamities that would happen if custom was not allowed to prevail .

She broke . The tears gushed freely and the story was revealed as her tongue lost its stinginess and began relating all that had transpired . Ezenmo as an intercessor between the villagers and their gods had seen humans at their worst moments . The Queen mother’s face was etched with severe pain as she spoke . Ezenmo had yet to see such pain in one person before .Deep pain , regret dripped from her voice as her face aged visibly within minutes .

She had been the Eselu II’s second Queen . The first Queen bore him six females , while she bore him seven females . The required heir eluded them all . And so once on a visit to her Mother’s village of Fanma , she was told of a recent cleric whom claimed he could give aspiring couples , babies , complete with the gender of their choosing.                                                                                                                                                                               

Her visit to the Cleric was uneventful , except that she woke up in the cleric’s chamber with a moist feeling in her parts . Till date she hadn’t known or sought divination to confirm the father; the King or the Cleric . She only knew of her happiness at conceiving a male child as confirmed by diviners then . Fortunately Eselu II claimed the boy’s complexion at birth bore resemblance from his grand aunt’s lineage . She had always felt huge remorse , but it was tempered by the huge celebrations in the whole Nebede that carried on for weeks . She never had need to confess before or tell her son that there was a possibility he was sired from her visit to the Cleric . Ezenmo consoled her and then had an enlarged meeting with the Queen Mother and her son .

The son couldn’t believe his ears . The Eselu III whom was only two nights away from presiding as King over all of Nebede . It was hard work explaining to him the links with the current deaths in the village . Once his rage subsided , he began to cry . Those deep sobs that escape a man’s breast , as if his heart had been pried open with a pair of pliers .

He then had to tell his own wife , Lady Gertrude .She took it the hardest . Three days to go from being Gertrude to the First Lady of Nebede . To be addressed , Her Highness , The Queen . It took several hours to convince her to go away with him and the Queen Mother .

                                                                                                                              

It was also agreed that Ezenmo would allow a full day to pass before briefing the Kingmakers , and instructing them to commence the selection process afresh . They would now instruct the town crier , whom would go round the five hamlets with his gong at dawn , to announce the Eselu III will not be crowned anymore and the dance of the young maidens will be postponed till the next selection process concluded .

So at dawn the next day , Ezenmo returned to the palace . He sat at the Verandah and waited . The son was already washed and dressed . He that would have been King . The women even though travelling under a sombre cloud , took forever to be ready . The son sat with Ezenmo in the silence . They silently acknowledged each other and the weights they individually bore on their shoulders . In another life they could have been two friends sitting together and watching the Sunrise . In this life though , they were two men sitting and marveling at their patience and infinite capacity to wait for their women to dress up.

After they were gone and the palace locked , with the attendants sent home ; Ezenmo summoned the Kingmakers . He informed them that there would be no crowning of the Eselu III and no maiden dance as the Queen Mother had left the palace with the son and wife in tow .

                                                                                                                                                                                        

He explained that the son while studying in the city , had taken up the “Christian Religion” , and so was a Christian King ; a reluctant King . He wouldn’t pick a second wife or engage in the Azuala rituals , as the church in Rome would forbid him from their “Blessed Sacrament” and may even ex-communicate . As a Christian also , he couldn’t make libations to the gods or ancestors . That a Christian King would not serve Nebede’s interests and so he had left. Therefore , they were to commence the selection process once more .

The room was silent .The Ten Kingmakers were shocked .They only asked Ezenmo if the Nogba had sanctioned it , and upon his answer in the affirmative , accepted it .After the customary round of drinks , they all departed .

At dawn the next day , before even the cock crowed , it was the town crier that woke Ezenmo ;”PEOPLE OF NEBEDE , I GREET YOU . YOUR SON , THE SELECTED ESELU III , WILL NO LONGER BE CROWNED AS HE HAS RETURNED TO THE CITY TO LOOK AFTER HIS SACRAMENTS . A NEW SELECTION SHALL BE MADE LATER .THE MAIDEN DANCE IS ALSO POSTPONED FOR NOW” !

Ezenmo sat up. “Sacraments”? From the window he could hear a youth explaining to the Mother that Sacraments were a new kind of apartments in vogue in the city currently . Ezenmo shook his head .He didn’t blame the town crier though , for as our people say “the messenger does no wrong” . His was just to transmit .

THE END.

Wabara Nnamdi, 2016.

Journey To Savour

I’ve just arrived at this bus terminal in an eastern town. I’m on my way to Lagos State. Aagh, Lagos. They say it never sleeps. With all the lovely shops and colorful taxis. I’m clad in some recent purchase, a new sweat shirt and lovely jeans. I’m feeling expensive. I’m travelling with a small bag and a medium-sized ‘ghana-must-go’ (a tote bag). The attendants at the booth ask for a tip to load the ‘ghana-must-go’. On meeting their request, their ‘thank you’ is very subdued. They must have budgeted for a lot more.

I got into the bus. I had bought my ticket the day before. Seat no.5. A window seat. I always go for window seats. That way, I can view the scenery outside as we drive past. Most of all, I control the opening or closing of the window. That checks any unforeseen catarrh or cold. Nice idea, don’t you think? Haha.

The bus is on its way. There’s a man standing on the gangway. He’s holding a megaphone. In a luxury bus? Is this happening?’Praiseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee the Lord’. Hallelujah. Oh no. Not so loud. “All the children of the living God inside this bus, praiseeeeeeeeehseeeee the Lord”. ‘Hallelujah’ is the deafening reply.

I turn to my window and look outside. Problem is, nobody cares about the next man when it comes to issues of religion. How can you use a megaphone inside an air-conditioned bus? Isn’t that a definite sign of lunacy? Mr preacher has noticed my reluctance at joining the chorus of his verses. He starts casting out minions of darkness ‘in this bus’. He calls them agents of Lucifer, witches and wizards, mermaids and tortoises. He comes next to my seat, and starts a chorus, which he insists every child of God must join in. Me, give in to cheap blackmail? I bury my face in my newspaper. Haha. Agent of Lucifer confirmed. The rest of his preaching, with megaphone and all, is hurled at my seat. I have to check my auditory nerves on my return.

Preaching is over. He says he is about to drop off the bus. He passes envelopes to all the passengers. Me (agent me) included. Guess money from a child of God and any other, it’s all money, right? I refuse to collect his envelope. He mumbles under his breadth about stingy ritualists. Hehehe.

Next off, is an itinerant drug seller. A mobile pharmacy. He says he has a drug for those who can’t engage in a 10-round sexual bout. He has a special drug for Staphylococcus, gonococcus and all other coccuses. Even the inner caucus. Registration number? It’s on the way, he claimed.

At our stop in Delta State, we all come down. I don’t usually eat on my travels, so I’m drinking my water and digging into my paper when my seatmate asks me to hold her novel, she wanted to relieve herself. A man sitting behind noticed this and comes to warn me. He says most women one sees in buses are agents (guess there are just too many agents in this country). He shares his cousin’s experience.

The cousin was a student. He had lost his mum. He went to see their elder brother in Lagos State. The brother gave him N200,000 to go back to the village and start making arrangements, that he’ll be on his way the next week. The guy boards a night bus. His seat was at the extreme. His seatmate was a young lady. Along the way, still in Lagos, they start fondling themselves. Somehow, she drugged him or so he said. The guy awoke in the town of Onitsha. He started looking for his seatmate frantically, whom had dropped at the tollgate in Lagos. He even had a new seatmate. All he had left was N1000, which he had kept separate. So, lets say he fondled this babe for N200,000, but got a discount of a thousand Naira. Hehehe. Wonders.

I’m putting on a straight face by the time my seatmate returns. Even when she wants me to buy sausage roll through the window at our next stop in Ore Town, I collect the money without looking at her. Sorry sis, but they’ve got us believing there’s terror everywhere. You could be duped, drugged or even made to disappear.

Ahh, we’re now in Lagos City. Fear of the known and unknown makes everybody board taxis, rather than buses. You could be robbed and thrown out of buses. Oh dear, when will one be able to close his eyes in this city? To borrow a cliché from Ben Okri, ‘that’s a riddle for the gods’.

Nnamdi Wabara.