CHAPTER ONE
Benedicta, a half sister of mine, called me on phone. Benny informed me that Aker was dead. My nerves shrank at the news. I had not received such a terribly shocking news all my life. And, it also threw me off my thoughts. Guilt quickened in my mind immediately because I felt that I had a hand in the boy’s death. And in fact, I did.
Of all my father’s children, I can say I like Benny very much because she has a kind spirit. No less, we attended the same primary school at Saint Augustine in Minlan – Akan, the closeness in our childhood has fostered our friendship. I have grown to admire this friendship that exists between my half sister and I. apart from my mother, Benny reminds me that I have a family, after all. And because she has been so close, a few worried mind have been worried. I wonder why they should. I mean, it’s funny.
Benny told me one day, with tears in her eyes that a step mother of ours; my father’s sixth wife – Kwaghgandekpan – had accused her and myself of having a romantic affair. I never stopped laughing – how people can have very dirty thoughts.
It was an afternoon, after I had a second-year philosophy lecture, when my phone was ringing. I picked the ringing phone and answered very excitedly seeing that it was Benny who was calling. The last time Benny had called before she was calling this time was about three months ago, and I was missing her already. So the call really excited me. “H-e-l-l-o-o-o!”, I answered the phone artfully with a deep but clear and styling accent. And I gave a cheap smile into the air. The line was quiet with a fizzling sound of air for a while. Her voice didn’t come through.
“Hello, Benny, are you there?” And then came her cold voice, “Aker is Dead…”. She tried to speak further, but she could not. even the much she said, she had spoken so coldly I could mistake her voice. I could hear her sniffing her nose and sobbing into the phone like a child. And, she must have cried a lot before she called me.
The phone line went dead I tilted my head and trained my ear on the phone “Hello! Hello!! Hello!!! Benny!!!!” The mobile line was dead. No response.
“Damn!” I said hushly. And then, without the slightest consciousness, I flung the phone into the open air, madly. The flung phone cut across the thin hot room afternoon air smoothly, made a reasonable noise as it hit the chalkboard on the wall, and then, the phone sprang to its pieces on the floor. The battery of the phone was at some place, the cover at another.
The heat that came with the afternoon air made the classroom even more unpleasant at the instance. The room wasn’t big enough for good ventilation, even thought it was tall. There was a wooden blackboard on the wall between the front corners of the room. Two slid windows stood between two reasonably sizable glass doors – that were rarely wide opened. One of the doors was towards the front of the room, the other was just close to the rear wall. Three lifeless ceiling fans hung overhead. When a lucky day brought its fortune, the school power unit would release a tiny electric current into the fans. Then would they labour as sluggishly as possibly, making some irritating twink-twink-twink noise. Fifty iron-made chair were lined in equal spaced rows between the walls.
Most students had left the class by the time Benny called. So most seats were empty. I myself was just sitting there and going through the notes of the lecture we just received. If I would go to the hostel and hoped to revise the lecture, the room would be too noisy, so I sat in class. Apart from me in the class were Edo and Sala talking together in low tunes near the front window. The girls were so found of spending time together after classes, jesting. Jagara was on top of his voice at the back of the class where he, Fazi and Jamuta sat. Ojama Obie and Reuben Ibwan sat beside me. The boys were consumed in an argument concerning European football.
The noise my flung mobile phone made on the chalkboard, obviously, attracted attention.
My head began to ring inside, inside instantly. It was as it, some crazy man was beating two gongs in my head simultaneously. And then, my lips fall open like weak petals of okra hibiscus during a cruelly a hot noon. I stared at the chalkboard blindly, blinklessly. Suddenly, I was feeling like vomiting!
“Aker is dead”, Benny’s cold voice beat in my mind with a talking drum. And then my eyes shut with an inner pain at once – or, I shut them. My late friend’s face appeared in the eyes-of-my-mind. His face was gracefully carved in my mind. Dark thick eyebrows. A fairly pointed and slim nose. His shying woman-like smiles that had always pushed his thick lips wide. Beyond these, the eyes-of-my-mind caught a clear picture of a great-young-man who was growing rapidly, in wisdom and intelligence, like a yam tendril in the rainy season – suddenly, it dried up and dead!
Aker’s death caused great pain in my heart. This was not because the boy died – or, rather was killed – when he was a third year university student, his death touched me by the circumstance of its shame. Campus cultism. And, very embarrassingly, my hand caused it.
Years ago when I was a little boy, my mother told me a funny story to guide my spirit. She said a man had a wife, many daughters but no son. The man would lie on his Agambe bed throughout the night sleepily. He was worried that when he finally would join his ancestors without a son to inherit his worth, his effort would perish. But his wife kept pouring out all the daughters from her womb. One day, she had a boy for him. The man was so full of joy that he ran to a shrine and fetched a very famous medicine-man. The medicine man was believed to be the most powerful in all the world. without delay, the medicine man came and drove away all evil spirits that would inhibit the child’s destiny.
The child was fortified and wished longevity. Afterwards, the man had a big feast for his son. Merry was made and the child was given a name. The child was still wished life and prosperity by all who came for the feast. The feast was over, people went home with glad minds. The same evening, the boy-child died. When my mother told the story, it amused my young mind then. How could a story of grief have amused me? I feel bitter and pity, Aker was a friend, and more than a brother.
When I finally opened my eyes, tears were bleeding vastly in the left. I smiled foolishly, and then threw my head backwards to the head of the iron chair and stared at the ceilings.
Ojama, who had sat with Reuben arguing something of football, walked to me and patted my left shoulder. I turned and looked at him, and then I smiled. I didn’t want to give him an impression that I was looking like a snake-chased mouse, for its eyes will almost come out of his skull! Ojama threw a feigning smile at me and patted my shoulder again.
“Be strong, man!” He said and walked to the front of the class where my phone was in pieces on the floor. I wiped the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. He fit the pieces of the phone together and blew on it – the phone must have caught dust. My eyes met with Reuben’s and he spoke in his throat, ‘Sorry-o”, maybe. I smiled at him briefly.
Ojama returned to me and handed me the phone. I managed to thank him. my left eye kept bleeding tears. I held the ear of my shirt and dried the tears. And then I picked my two note books. I walked away towards the front door of the classroom. It was when I was at the door that I cleared my throat.
Edo and Sala were staring at me with eyes full of sympathy. Sala tried to wave, my depressive look scared – I am sure. I walked out looking as horrible as an evil spirit thumping in the forest in the dead of the night. Sala could just stare.
Rueful piece of memory. My head is full of pictures. Ugly pictures are blinking excitedly in my head as I see Amake when I have attended my convocation ceremony, the sixteenth and seventeenth convocation ceremony of my Alma-mata – University of IBRU. Amaka brings back to my mind an active smell of bloodshed. Manslaughter. Murder. Ridiculous and ridiculous feelings.
As invisible as the memories in the mind are, they are – surely – no less the casket with which events are buried. Bitter pasts and sweet pasts fall into the vast sea of history and remain most inevitable assets of times pasts. It is amazing how events rust and rot but the casket in which they events are buried is ever fossil.
CHAPTER TWO
In Africa, events seem not to die with time. the continuity in the life of events here is in the consistency with which they are administered in Proverbs – especially by the elders. The attitude of recapturing events in great sayings has been made a great magical therapy for healing the soul. And, it’s excellent. So, past events are chewed in the mouth like kola nut.
And, it is, in fact, in this life of concern for the past that Africa is accused elsewhere as being backward.
One of such therapies has come to establish man-dominance, where the male automatically assumes superiority in his society from birth. From birth, a man must be known, especially for guts and then adventure rather than for tender open emotions. He should grow to have the-heart-of-a-lion. That is what makes a man. A man who puts his emotions on his palms is a kwase-kwase or a woman-full-of-weakness – even though physically he may be a man. He will be made jest of. And his talk will receive no honour in the presence of his peers. So, men hide their tender feeling like the back of a tortoise in its shell.
When a man should go to seek the hand of a woman in marriage, he should present himself in full capabilities, especially by taking many gifts to prove his strong hand to his in-laws. When food is brought to him, he should not act in haste in emptying the calabash, he should always remember to have left over of the food in the dish – else, he would be regarded as tor-rwam or king of eating. How would he like to be known by food?
Africa says soft emotions are women’s assets. But truly, even the elders do know and admit in their minds that there are a handful of women who can throw men in a wrestling contests by guts. But women should be women anyway, so it seems.
Now, I am feeling very shy. How can I so openly confess that the first time I had ever seen Amake, my mind was beating with lust. That, I liked the girl remarkably at once! Is this talk not one showing my weakness?
I was still an undergraduate then, in my second year. School had resumed for academics. I, too, resumed, but with a tough challenge – I had no money for the payment of a hostel accommodation. In fact, normally, in my second year, I was not entitled to hostel accommodation. The accommodations were only allocated to fresh-students and final-year students. And that year, most final-year students could not have legal allocations since the bed spaces were already insufficient for the freshers. I had to buy a bed space from any student who had acquired from the school, but decided to sell out. And that was to cost me more money than I was to pay to the school directly.
So, I went to my Head of Department, Professor Abu and I pleaded with him to allow me stay in with im since he was single. The man eagerly accepted. He promised, though, that he would get me some money to get myself an accommodation in the hostels from any student who was willing to sell. I was okay with the idea, and I moved in with him, for a time.
One evening, as I was reading by the dining table under a weak wall lamp, a knock came from the door. I went an opened. Before me, the most beautiful lady I had ever seen stood by the door. Some was light skinned and entering-in-the-eye. She smiled at me and we greeted. I pulled wide the door and she entered, and went straight to the Professor – who sat watching the TV – and they hugged. I swallowed a huge saliva that was gathering in my mouth, then I went to the dining table and continued with my reading. And the girl joined the Professor on the chaise lounge.
That lady was Amaka, then twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, not more.
For no reason I can remember, my eyes were so curious to steal a look of her. And then, suddenly, I looked. I saw something that was outmostly suprising to me. Amaka was now layig straight across the sitting man, with her head on the arm of the chair. It was the way her breasts were almost pouring out from her wide-neck stripped-arms top that got my heart thumping. Ver, you stupid Ver! Bladifool, stop staring!
The Professor’s eyes met with mine in a lasting brief time that I stared. I was confused – I thought of giving out a smile, it would have been a foolish smile, indeed – and so, I took away my eyes from the Prof and then I continued with my reading. The poor book was a vast of invisibility. Ekwe!
As my eyes wondered in the book, I heard some footsteps as the two walked into the Professor’s room. A door opened. The girl’s laughing voice. Door closed. And then, silence.
Few minutes later, Amaka came out counting a few leaves of money. I pretended I wasn’t aware she was there.
She picked her hand bag from the chair, turned to me with a ‘hi’. I lifted my head, she smiled shyly, waved at me briefly. I, too, waved. And then, she walked to the door.
At the door, Amaka struggled her feet into her shoes, and then, pulled the door and walked out. As my eyes would return into the book I was reading, they stopped at the Professors portrait on the wall – and I smiled, shook my head, breathed heavily once. And then, I buried my eyes in the book.
A picture of Amaka silhouetted on my mind, and stayed for sometime. And then, I realized I was not thinking of Amaka any longer, but of my sister Benedicta. Smiling Benny. Lovely Benny. And then, Benny and I were children once again, playing together in the dust at Saint Augustine Primary school in Minlan – Akam. My mother’s picture, a typically beautiful African woman. She is talking to Eliza, the Catechist’s wife. Eliza has a child in her arms. I am told his name is Adu.
Now, the terrible memory of my mother’s death comes to my mind as I see Amaka who is sitting just four seats away from me at the convocation ceremony of my Alma-mata. The picture of Aker comes to my mind. Benny is talking to me on the phone, ‘Aker is dead’.
I turn towards Amaka and look at her, she smiles – the same smile I saw that very day when I opened the door for her at Professor Abu’s house.
CHAPTER THREE
The convocation ceremony of my Alma-mata, the University of IBRU, is heavily attended. Yet, by to ten, people are still pouring into the school for the occasion. The day is bright. The skies are blue. Trees are swaying with the winds. Zora hills are appearing slightly faintly from the clan of Yenu. The voices of men chanting in and within the convocation tent is a buzz like from a corwded market square. Birds on trees are chirping tirelessly. Walking towards the convocation tent, I stop at a dry leaf that is stumbling idly on the ground with the gentle blowing wind. The leaf rolls only awhile and then it becomes dead.
I walk into the tent and take a seat. And honestly, I am feeling proud of myself for the success that I have recorded as a graduate of the university. My graduation is worth being glad about. If I am not to be proud of myself as a graduate at least, I should be as the best graduating student in Philosophy of my graduating year. E no easy! And, I am sure that this my academic performance will fetch me a handful of tribute. I am anticipating a prize, or something good.
As I take the seat and wait for the while for the commencement of the occasion, I can picture my future. An anticipated good future. What else would a man want? A good wife after getting a good job? That will be okay! And then, my children. Good schools for my children – I will show my children love. A nice home for my family. A good car. Two, three good cars. Good. Okay. Ah, why am I being ridiculously self centered? What about my contributions to humanity? Start a charity, NGO? Good. Support the good message of Christ? Good. Fabulous. I have to love my neighbours and everybody. But this is a commandment in deed! My enemies, what do I do to them? Love! Ah!!
My friend, Ajegbaje, is walking into the convocation tent. He is coming towards me. The boy is looking poorly good. Then, in our school days, Ajegbaje was a very good keyboardist. No less. He played for our church, campus fellowship, at school. The New Anointed Christian Campus fellowship was fast gaining acceptance, then, on campus. When Ajegbaje would mount the keyboard, very church member knew we were in for a sway time. We would dance and dance and dance. But Ajegbaje himself is always strange, a very quiet young man. OJ had always found Ajegbaje to be rather funny. And life, as it is, is diversity. Every individual is unique. One can’t always expect the other to live up to one’s expectations, socially and otherwise. Ajegbaje walks into the convocation tent and takes a seat beside me, on the left. We exchange pleasantries – and shake hands. He smiles at me! It’s surprising that this young man, who would smile once in a year time, has smiled so broadly at me! I do not hesitate to smile back. But his smile is as brief as within the tick of a clock. He becomes cold and turns his face away from me – staring towards the left side of the tent. I am thinking: the boy has put on a lot of weight just this soon after our school in IBRU. His cheeks are sagging.
Pride is beginning to gather in my heart again. The convocation ceremony promises to be a beautiful occasion. My name would just be called for a prize as the best graduating philosopher. And then I would walk to the platform of the tent with a lot of good swagger, get the prize and walk back to my seat. Many cars are still driving into the school for the occasion.
My thought is interrupted. Jemi is waling to me. He is dressed in a fine grey pinstriped suit. And, he is already giving me a smile as he is approaching. Bright smile. Wide mouth.
‘Aha! Boy!’ He salutes me. And he stretches his hand forward. I grab it and we shake each other, powerfully. I suppose Jemi knows I am the best graduating philosopher. If he doesn’t know, w-e-l-l…
I perceive a light and lovely perfume on the boy.
‘Ol’ boy, you de work for bank, ni?’ I joke. Perhaps, I may just be correct. “Every” graduate these days want to work with a bank or oil company. It is said banks and oil companies throw large pay into their workers hands.
‘For where! Where I take see bank work?’ Jemi laughs, pats me on the left shoulder, ‘I dey come,’ he says and then walks to Ajegbaje, and they shake hands.
Jemi walks three seats away to a lady who is sitting two seats beside Ajegbaje. He and the lady shake hands. The lady is light-skinned. Amaka! It’s Amaka who Jemi is shaking hands with. The boy turns back to me and takes a seat just beside me by the right. We shake hands once again and begin a talk.
‘What for goodness sake are you doing, man?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like a job…”
‘Hmm…,’ he laughts, ‘Wetin dey? There are no jobs. You see, when I was in school, I used to think jobs were there waiting, until now -. In fact, in see toilet to sweep, I go happy.’
‘Haba, it’s not that bad –.’
‘I am not joking!’ He swears.
‘You see, I am hoping that as the best graduate from philosophy, something good should come out of this occasion!’
‘Are you the best graduate for your department?’ he asks, his eyes are pouring out at me. And I tell him that I am.
But how can I be sitting so close to Amaka without knowing? I turn to the lady and send a hand waving in the air. She waves back gladly. She is smiling. This smile reminds me of the first time when I saw her at Professor Abu’s house. And then, it brings me terrible memories, and poor picture of beloved ones who are no more. ‘Aker is dead’. My mother – a pool of blood is running from the cut of her neck. My heart is thumping chaotically. I am feeling the sounds of gongs being beaten madly in my head, as it is when the spirits make merry at night.
‘Ol’ boy, yo use that guy there?’ Jemi turns to me pointing at Eglagwa.
‘That boy sabi book! That is a brilliant chap!’
‘Sure,’ I reply, for goodness sake.
‘Eglagwa made a neat first class degree, he is denying it.’
‘Why?!’ I ask sharply.
‘Why!’ Jemi is pouring his eyes at me once again, and looking indeed very surprised.
‘It’s jealousy fa! It is said that Professor Uzune deprived the boy an A grade. Instead, the man gave him a haggard, horribly tattered – looking E!
‘Really!’
‘Ah!’ Jemi’s Yoruba accent is terrible.
Ah! And how come he is so glad about the Professor’s art? Or is he glad, rather, that he is giving me the news first hand. Which exactly?
I turn and look at Eglagwa who is sitting a few meters away.
‘So what did Eglagwa say?’
‘What should he say? If na you, wetin you go say? You go take the man go court?’
‘N-o-. But, at least, Eglagwa could have informed the Senate.’
‘Ah! S-e-neti! You no hear say Uzune fight for senate meeting three times them suspend am!’
‘Poor boy,’ I say hushly and shake my head –
If I have ever so respected any young man, it should be no other than Eglagwa. And I have reasons for doing so. For any reason, Eglagwa seems to know everything so well. Even so, he is equally so humble. And that’s what I respect him for.
A gentle cool blowing wind turns into the convocation tent. It has rained in a nearby village – Aje Ikie, Lafia or perhaps the hilly Zora. I take out a handkerchief from my trouser pocket and clean my face.
‘Distinguished ladies and gentlemen, please, welcome the members of the School Senate.’ An old jazz that has been playing into the air from the mega speaker systems dies away suddenly. A man with well kept beard is standing by the mike stand on the tent platform not much bigger than a podium.
There is a clamouring of feet as people are standing from their seats. And, we are on our feet. A procession emergies from the right wing of the tent. The academic officer is leading. He is followed by the Dean of Student Affairs – Doctor Godwills Ujo. Deans of Faculties are following closely with Directors of Centers. Other Senate members are then following.
The senate procession is being followed by the Chancellor’s. Chief (Barr.) Ugaji Asaju – the Udulaguna (III) of Kubwa – a rather smallish man, is the Chancellor to the university. Following very closely to the chancellor is the Registrar of Council. Ministers of the Federal Republic are following with State Governors. And then, the school VC. The Vice Chancellor is a man whom I admire a lot. A man with great visions and full of achievements. I can never be to sycophantical about him.
The Chancellor, Asaju, is being followed by the Pro-Chancellor. The Pro-Chancellor is followed by the Senate President, David Wami Udungu, who is standing in for the school visitor – the President of the country and commander in chief of the armed forces.
Jemi turns to me, ‘One day, na so you go be SP for this country’
‘What?’ I ask calmly.
‘You are surely going to be a Senate President to this country one day’, he says smiling.
‘A-m-e-n-.’ I say smiling back at him dully. I snape into my watch, it is a minute past ten.
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