Globusz^® Publishing 

To granny, my childhood heroine, whose wish of seeing me flourish did not come true before she died.

Maurice is an asset of a brother, who knows what I feel like.

Each New Year with you, it is the best part of my life.

Shout out to the Alabis, Ibukuns, Okis, Omesebis, Fabodes, Dainty Sisters, Tunde, Ope, Papa and Mama Jem, Dr. Noah, of the state specialist Hospital Akure, Dr. Ajewole, Mrs Oguns, Mrs Dupe Adesida, Mrs Oluwole, Aunty Jumy, Aunty Nike, Mama Heritage, Wonderful friends: Osak, Yemi, Goddy, Bode, Lola, Temi. And AY Oshola, who feels like seeing me, who prays for quick recovery, who loves brothers and sisters and Papa especially, a Mama who stood by me at the crossroad between life and death. I am more determined to live with the compassion shown to me. With God’s help you made it possible for me to know the joy of Christmas and the new year (2006) for which no eternity is long enough to thank you enough. I pray to God that the years will bring to me a dawn of fulfilment – to repay a token of gesture to a people I call my people.

-- Dotun Adesida, October 2006.

You are made to explore how the abandoned become the adored – brought up in one corner of a larger ghetto, onto the merry mud of life. Losing her mum before knowing it, she came into the world as child of destiny, lost her single parent in an incomprehensible circumstance, subsequently given up to the wind without a hopeful cloud. ‘Blown by the wind we flit about’ There is more to life than the eyes can see. She had grown to accept the rainbow – coloured phases of existence, putting out diverse colour as and when it deems. Life is like a man with many faces. What time holds for us we barely know. There is more to the air than our nose can smell.

Once suffering in the severe hands of destiny, led by the all some hand through discomfort to the hall of fame, she still couldn’t understand what good fortune had made of her. The blurred dream became a hope and eventually a reality. Thanks to the luck that smiled on her once and for all. Che sera... sera. Either the cock will crow or not day will not dawn. She lives in Chelsea Park Gardens, London. Her attractive sitting room furnished with taste and elegance, with books and pictures, ultramodern furniture, gay window blinds and aesthetic wallpapers. She looked younger in jackets and slacks, in fact assumed a new personality. Her hair was as dark as pitch black and already turning grey on the temples. The happy days before sorrow had touched her, and it was reflected on the picture on the wall.

‘Not easily flattered?’ ‘No I don’t think I am, she replied. I count myself a judge of others, and about her I haven’t been proven wrong. She isn’t a mercenary – at least not a money monger. Not even the loss of her treasures and her subsequent battle for existence had made her the least corrupt. In her eyes I had felt the old thrills of pleasure. I remembered being warned by a friend: “You are too young for her cunt”. The chance of dating her was as futile as it is wrong. So I locked up my heart to that. I never entertained a single hope that I might think of her as a mother-in-law. I owe a lot to the Jem family. I am today a godmother to their children somewhere in the States.

“Are you a kind of born, sworn bachelor?” I looked at my wine for an answer. Not long we heard the ring of the little bell. Just then did Funmi entered. We exchanged courtesies before she took her sit.

“How was your day?” I asked. “It’s been long and too sticky”. I didn’t hold a single hope that she might think of me as a man. Her dad was a military chief, Col. Stone. Physical beauty was of great importance to any person. I was so lucky that such a wonderful woman fell for me. She could find instead of me, any number of wealthy buddies. I lived quite happily in my own capital city. For all I knew, she might be as intelligent as she was beautiful. I had no doubt she could be right for some other men. I found out she was studying oral medicine at the King’s College in Manchester. She did not seem to want a lot of excitement. She was as gay as ever, so was I. That was the first but not the last evening we spent together. It is difficult to elucidate how we both sat alone at the staircase. I mean she stays with a friend who works for an airline seven days of the week and seldom goes on leave... a leisure he spends abroad on diverse business and at times academic projects. Sometimes he returns only after being exhausted, few days before he starts working again. His job was understandably demanding and equally rewarding. I cannot tell precisely what portfolio he held but it must be a prestigious position, because his sweetheart even enjoys some of his renown – once she makes known her relationship. Like all other achievers around, he was famous. As soon as I set my eyes on her at the doorway, some calmness emanated from the otherwise busy-babe.

A golden curtain ran through the side of the door. I wasted no time and I asked about the household. But hearing the house was empty I’ve chosen to work around the estate, making do with the birds’ and urchins’ frolics. I could enjoy that when I was awake, when I was lying on coaches or I was crossing lawns. I enjoyed walking, but had I brought my bike, we could’ve taken rounds via the orchard path. We picked fruit and once more it bothered me that many of the crops in the orchard would not do well on this particular soil. Because of that I would have loved to transplant the trees somewhere else.

Her bedroom was a pale grey with dusty rose and green chintzes. A Persian rug was laid on the polished timber floor. The rose colour blazed with splendour against the walls.

Sun streamed warmly into the living room. A bungalow adorned with a woman’s good sense. On the bar was an assortment of drinks that cannot be left unopened. A day bed near the window, magazines and journals were in array. Books perfectly arranged in their cases. Behind the cottage, coated in dark green with white paint, is a tree heavy with fruit, shading the façade half way. Beside it is a small grey painted house with blue shutters, beautified by plants that climb the outside walls. She had white Venetian blinds as curtains. She wouldn’t want anything else.

Perched on the river edge, with a small velvety green lawn stretching down to the garden, nearby was an orchid. I adore that sound of the running water. It sounds like the bustle of a great market.

Sharon narrated to me in the dull night what story lay behind the mask-like face that she showed to the world. Testing times have matured her. Her looks gave her an air of a wise woman. 

“Almost every clan in Africa has an episode of a returned soldier from the world wars, and ours wasn’t an exception. They seemed to us sages having been to several places – mostly cities and war-torn places: Egypt, Burma, Lagos, Abyssinia, and Palestine. And as expected, they told tales about electricity shinning permanently, the hovercraft, automobiles, weapons and other sophisticated signs of civilization they could not have known. They were never well off, or bright, or with monies, or with much experience they could’ve got in the course of the fighting.

“I come from one of the several villages in Inuoha, eastern part of the most populous nation, west of sub-Saharan Africa. It is blessed in land and aquatic farming. I am a diligent farmer and polygamist. My mother was one of those unfortunate types of women, of black descent who die annually due to inadequate aid when they give birth. She bled to death. I actually heard her life story from her sisters, brothers and other relatives whose shreds of affection were sufficient. Yes, they always made themselves available to fill her place. And my grandmother suckled me when I was an infant, took care of me and provided for me at least in part, the motherly care a baby needs. She was still youthful and lively. She smacked me, as a pastime. I got few smacks from my aunts just to ‘balance the books’”.

Amaka, her mother was a native of Unoha, a little Neocomian among the coal-clad hills of Udi in the neighbourhood of Enugu. In her early years she was married to a small farmer who farmed his tiny property in the bordering hamlet of Amadi. She was tilling the land and was also a minor seller. Amaka ensured her little cottage was a real home. She was endowed with a kindness that never ends. A family living happily in spite of shortages and Amaka was the family’s soul, until the death of this gem. She prayed a great deal to have her own child. She gave up on the hospital’s operating table while having a Caesarean section. The baby was delivered safe. Her blood wouldn’t clot. The birth of Sharon was to bring her joy having been married for years. A poor mother who never saw her product and had no idea what will become of the child she managed to give birth. This was the first calamity to come upon her out of so many. The idea of her husband having another wife was to her quite acceptable.

“Temptation to accept the invitation was so strong so I have accepted it. The weather felt like summer. An enchantress, she may have cast such a spell on me. With such beauty she puts every other woman in the shade. I wonder what she does with whiskies. I met her sitting in the bar, where she had a drink.

Her car was a lovely Beetle. There was plenty of room at the back. Driving slowly somehow we crawled out of London. Ordinarily on a warm May weekend she used to sunbath but last month we dropped in, at a wedding function. She found a place for her car and locked the doors. In a suede leather jacket she looked so entrancing and I remarked so. I celebrated mama’s beauty and wished more on my woman. Her love of fashion and her genius for wearing clothes were superb. The praise should have pleased her but it didn’t. She wondered for a hopeful moment but it did not come. We drank all the toasts and ate the wedding cake. She had a sincere affection for the country life. ‘Sitting under the tree you will know the strength of the wind’ she would say. She was good at fishing. She could cast quite a pretty fly. She explained that when she is through with her studies she wants to spread her wings a bit before getting married. This young woman had built up an image of herself, as permanently inseparable from me, from then on. My eyes never left her chest.

‘On that fateful Sunday, villagers had gone out of their homes to the market to see what sales they could make of the wares remaining in their stock. Using a small amount of 15, selling to worshipers who had money to buy. There, sales go up on bazaar days, mostly with kids whose craving for intangible items was condoned as parental care.

Traders normally carry over such aspects of their business that could not be done on Saturday evenings. In other quarters the converts dust their heathen attire, trot to arrive early enough at the temple to dust the pews, sweep the red cement floor with long brooms made of palm leaf.

Catholic church never had long hours of service. This allowed villagers to return to their selling business before sun came out.

The only season everyone goes to church is on Christmas and New Year days. The orchestra performed each year on the festive season. The mission band was always a wonder to listen to. My people enjoyed every part of the excitement, clapping spread through the audience like fanned embers.

Not being an Easter Sunday, Papa took to the palm bush with his climber’s belt, a device trimmed from palm frond fastened to the plant. It can carry him as he jerks upwards until the desired height is gained depending on his proficiency – a common business in our vicinity. Pater was gifted. He could be faster than a swallow on trees. He had mysteriously fallen from the top of a palm tree without anyone around to come to his rescue. The cackling thundered so loud that many clansmen afar heard it but mistook it for a tree felling off its tired root as some do over time especially when ants feed on them. Flat on his face, he was already cold before someone going to the stream sighted him. She threw up the pot on her head pad at the sight of the big man. He lay stiff on the twigs and looked bigger. He was quite heavily built but he looked larger in death. Unable to hide my surprise, confronted by the sight I broke out in a cold sweat. I could not forget for a long time his state, lying very still on the mat. The great beyond... what a journey with no time of return, it is. I could not cry, yet I wanted to. Unbelievable, yet it was true. Suddenly I’ve realized that I loved my parent so much. It was sad for me to see that I had no longer a father. A strange chill cast upon my tiny heart when it dawned on me what is going to come. Luck was much against me. Grandma had nearly finished supper. A party had been delegated to give her the news. The elder spoke first. She began to stammer, as they awkwardly broke the news to the old woman. She said it apologetically and looked at the lady standing by for support. She went further consoling the bereaved.

That was not the first corpse I had seen, it was the second but it wasn’t the same. My stomach still tightens each time I replay the moment in my mind, paged down like a scroll of film. The brief moments are rising and falling in my memory. Low whispers hovered mixed with exchange of sad looks. The body was too dreadful to think about, “Dear God” that some well-wishers cried.

Nobody could help. It was so difficult at a time like that to be by myself. I felt alone in a grim dark world that death had made for me ‘I can’t face food’ I managed to say to my aunty who turned and looked at me with grave steady eyes as they broached that aspect of my agony. Nothing can bring him my way again. I had tears in my eyes. I must have dozed off, trying to draw that narrow gap between life and death. Grandma almost cried herself to death. ‘Dear God’ was said aloud in a rough voice. Throughout the night, not for a single minute did I doubt the presence of a monster. Sympathizers were feeling sorry for us but no one could help. They only prayed and hoped that it would soon be over’.

Her voice put forth the sound of her thought.

‘Not one but many times that day I was tempted to drown myself. Mama watched so closely that I could not evade her vigilance. Granny remained inconsolable for weeks. She seemed to be in the disturbed state that needed an outlet, so they let her talk. She found hard to believe that Emeka, her son-in-law, a while ago had become a ‘body’. She took my arm. At a point she broke in tears, racked for words, but her voice was lost. It was a hovel bursting with the weight of grief.

The Obi was empty of his warm, friendly figure.

All the tragedy and sorrow of her life were stored in her words.

‘No one could figure out the mystery of his death. The idea of another plague dawned on me as I trembled at the haunting picture – the crackling scenario.

Sequel to the fall a dibia was called upon to divine the instance. It was customary of my townspeople to consult the oracle whenever misfortune dogged their step. It is a practice still popular in the necks of the woods of black Africa. Christianity struggled to supplant animistic beliefs. The people struggle to retain their ancestral achievement.

The whole kindred listened to him. The gong spread the news. Satisfied with the condition of the sacrificial bird and other items of libation, gins, kolanut, palm oil, and a white goat with no admixture of colour. The least of it is a three-leaf yam. A number of elderly men regarded as initiates have assisted in the rite. Others have formed a half moon behind them. He slit the hen’s throat and allowed the blood to exude violently into an aperture. I was too busy with my own kind of talk to grasp everything the elders revealed’. “A great evil has manifested upon our land,” he said. The sacrifice was made to atone the suspected ancestors and ward off such evil. The sunlight was swinging back and forth like an undecided child. By the power bestowed on him, the danger of the night didn’t exist for him. Those days there were wonders without number. A street full of evil odour was somewhere in the joining villages. After taking several hoes full of soil, a pit was dug. Buried naked, but for a cotton wrapped around his bare body. No ideal beyond death, only reality. He left as he came. The idolater priest had padded away into the dark, folding his wrappers in noble folds. Laying emphasis on the fact that he has been spirited way.

I walked the distance between the grave and our hut in a daze, my legs managed to carry me. Though he had been interred the main funeral parlour still had traces of him. Tobacco he left behind was still on the plajais. His memory filled me with fear. Mama cried no more. She had lost her voice in the rush and gurgle of flowing doom.

Suffering a case not of her making. The world spun very fast. “I had come to the end of my world” I had felt. The following month was the worst in my memory.

Two years had gone past since papa’s demise – days of dearth and needs.

Escorted by a young big boy with palm fibre torch, she approached my uncle’s quarters – a large place occupied by the sons of the family, their wives and wards. God knows, a hut would have been raised for me once I get married, or about that time, had it been I was a boy. She met them in a fit of festivities. A round pot of palm wine under chiff of tobacco was centred on a stool before the party surrounded by horns, cups, and chinas. They sat shirtless beneath the moonlit. Uttering an audible greeting she heralded her presence, paused to receive their reply. By the corner was an old man blabbing. He winked, gesticulated as if he was communicating some unseen spirits. He did all that being drunk. She proceeded to tell him about the purpose of her visit. “Perhaps you have guessed what I come for”. Of course regarding money, she experienced hardship, everyone knows that, but she carried on. Before she mentioned money problems, the atmosphere was vivacious, but the minute she ended the plea, a deep silence ensued, like a clout blown by the breeze. A loud bickering had started from the oldest member whom I supposed drunk. Though at that age I did not know what it means. I could not understand anything out of the old man’s word, because I was very little. The rancour heated into blatant arguments. With a negligible chance of getting what she wanted, she dropped the topic and left in the heat of the noise. “Maybe we’ll reopen the talk some other time” she suggested without much hope. Very few are ready to admit responsibilities for others, while most are eager to avoid it. There were many more cynical family members who would rejoice to see the then ambitious proposal thrown out. Just before our set of buildings, the man said goodnight to her. “If you wouldn’t mind, I will say goodnight,” he said. Pleased with the joy of doing a regular task where most appreciated “Goodnight my son” he heard before taking turn. His house was placed about four fences away.

Already these values had gone to the dogs – every boy was every woman’s son in my village. Amadi was a communal clanship. In our childhood we fêted everywhere we went. Friendliness flowed down naturally like the spring. Culture and custom replaced by convenience plus pride on its head.

My aunt emerged from the kitchen, breathless, so anxious to know the outcome of the meeting. Aunty Oluchi made to welcome her with an inquisitive gesture. But Mama was in no mood to exchange greetings. As the young man went on his way home through the linking garden, the light of the touch looked like it danced along the road.

She went to bed not speaking a word that night. I pretended not to see her cry just to save her pride. She had to cough up nothing less than twenty pounds six shillings in less than a year’.

“I had been offered a jar of Beck’s which I guzzled. I gave her the entire morning that Easter. Having set me up with a drink the house girl excused. Funmi observed that the mark on my face is larger than a birthmark – a wound that took seasons to heal. The scar is there even now. I recounted how the short journey of two hours expanded into six days. The mystery of that year was the mystery of my life. Even before my belief in fainting, and the intrigues, I thought these were the job of the fiction writers. I might have never known it, if it wasn’t uncovered. But I discovered the truth. For me to make a story of the whole incident would be an ordeal. We had a clear two hours before Sharon returns. I linked my hand with hers, drew her close, sensing my dick below her loin she pulled away so vigorously that a mirror shook. “Don’t you want me?” My question remained without an answer.

Before I could figure out what was happening I found myself in a place too strange for my liking. I later discovered myself hungry on a bench in a room in the form of a midwife’s parlour, vacant, other than two benches and one seat bench. I could not describe what brought me there, and how. Someway I got there having no wings. The rest is history. She won’t give in until she could hear from me the full story.

As I raised my head, blood was on my cheekbone. The drips soaked on my collar. ‘Obviously it was serious’ I thought. Solace sank it down. Looking at my wet clothes I realized they had poured water over me to bring me to revive me.

They cried as if I was about to die. “Try not to fret sister, or else you will scare me,” I said. I don’t enjoy sobbing on somebody else’s shoulder. ‘I suppose I must accept the blow. What a shock!’ that was mother. ‘Considering what happened he is in good heath at least he has a good constitution’ my mum’s nurse friend stated.

“Thanks, my trusted one,” I said, tightened my teeth, to Edward for turning me on a side. I drew comfort from their passion.

I woke up because the silence was broken sporadically by yelling victims. Some were moved in, and died under the pressure of their wailing sympathizers, some waited to breath for few days before kicking the bucket. And others, being admitted on wheel beds, slept, recovered and got up on their feet from their sick beds to go back to homes they have abandoned weeks or months ago, so it seemed like forever. It was something that showed me that life is brief. It comes and goes like a flame.

One of my cousins came in the morning on his way to the office where it was mandatory to report on time. He was too shocked to find his beloved one in a fair-sized bed. He would calmly exclaim: ‘Yeh... yeh... yeh’. We shook hands like the cousins shake hands. I had to go through the stress of retelling this episode. He spent sometime before he went to work in a hurry. Visitors expressed their sorrow at the calamity that brought me there and prayed that it will soon end happily.

Aside the chatter of nurses or of quarrelling cleaners, and other staff members, the state of the sick is unchanged. You are left to rest in this noise in a world of your own.

Maybe the drugs administered to me were sedatives. I haven’t felt any pain. Most often the soporific had its way. Indeed some of my moods were full of phantasmagoria. As usual I slept during daytime. Mama rocked my feet for me if I have slept at night. My gagged mouth would hinder my eating. I made efforts to eat beverages, appetizers and ill people’s diet. In short, I helplessly left the foodstuff. I gave out the bread crust, which I thought was yummy. My mind skipped to call my neighbour, to settle an issue with the shylock caretaker. I was as pale as the waning moon.

It was interesting to watch the nursing students, zealous to perform the tasks well. Younger and more diligent than the tired and lazy heavy nurses, that were hostile and without manners. In there I met a senile nurse, in the shape of an ordinary Christian. But seeing her working no one would give her better recommendation than a cold-shoulder. You can easily see that she missed tertiary education. Other patients in the ward discussed her actions. A good number of the ladies were friendly and nurse – like. They discussed closely with the patients to find out whatever they needed, when they needed it, to detect what was required. The experienced nurses also had a pleasing way of greeting the patients.

Family friends left in a hurry and left for me bean cakes, orange, apple, pap etcetera. I was treated like a prince, and in my own way, I felt like one.

One night, I was sitting at the receptionist’s desk. I watched crested men and ladies featured on TV screen. It was a cocktail conference, and some other state banquet. I could see in my mind mama’s eyes. And my prayer went silently. How could she have her baby in such a place? Amen! I sighed in silence, starting a conversation to make her smile. And I prayed that one day I shall become a big shot and her image will be seen abroad on the television screens.

I fully appreciate the general idea of those well-wishers and how they were worried about me, clicking bottles, stamping feet to revive me. And praise God for the joy that my survival had meant. God denies evil.

This incident has kept me back but hasn’t taken my life. I thank God for that.

Going to school was an uphill task.

‘At age six I was already doing my share, tending herds, gathering wood for fire or checking the cereals she had to cook. I gave a good hard tug to the tough stems before I could pull the plantlet. The goats continually grazed on fields freely. I had no intention to displease anyone, least of all my grandmother. She was due for the respect.

Considering me an orphan she cared for me more than Funke or any other grandchild. I see her face in all I do, her frown causes me trauma. We would wake up at down, on rainy weather or harmattan. At times the tiny vineyard beside the house could be stripped of its grapes by the hailstorm. Sitting by the fire on a cold night one could listen to the wind that howled around the shack each evening. Rain provided abundant water for storage. Floods sometimes occurred in rainy seasons. Granny set herself bravely to the task of providing for the household. It was a family house of three generations: grandchildren, children and my mum. She would fetch brushwood from trees in the heart of the forest, break the firewood into pieces across the sole of her foot, and make a fire blowing into it. Those were terrible years of shortages and ignorance.

A cousin was always ready to think that he was being maltreated though in his heart he knew better.

In spite of those crest-falling results hope did not depart from her bosom, and I learnt to make un-removable my desire to do extremely well. It seemed she knew that among her children Sharon was cut out for great things. Suffice it to say as a child of nine I used my influence for good. Wherever I was I stood out as a leader – a lover of peace and of challenges. I carried my sling with me all time (during the holidays, since I started school) because I grew up with other boys. I had the roughest boys to play with, and so often, I came home with my clothes shredded and sometimes get smacked for that. It was customary of grandmother to wash me with hot water, mixed with fairly cold water, soap me then rub me thoroughly down with a sponge. She led me out of the wash place, wet, and then to dry the remaining water, I had to face the breeze. My blood would rush. She delighted in my smooth skin. In a woven drum she sorted for me a clean cloth, which I slipped on. I ate with a good appetite of a starved traveller, arriving only after miles on the road. The silence and beauty of the lofty hills led my thoughts to exciting activities.

My grandmother never reneged on her resolutions. Once she made up her mind she was iron-willed. She was very young except for her years. Here she was grating cassava tuber to be fried later into garri, picking the root and rubbing it vigorously. She paid full attention to the job on her hands.

She abruptly stopped to chase off a male goat. The goat had buried itself with tubers freshly uprooted from the plantation. I was equally busy with my own kind of job, feeding the poetry with ears of dry corn. All was quiet but for productive activities going on at our yard, a subsistence farming behind a mud house, almost crumbling walls. The thatched roof was sagging.

The following month, like a granted prayer, her farm was bought. And all that was left was a strip towards the hills, at the time an overgrown lot, formerly cultivated by her late son, who died having smoked tons of tobacco, and having drank gins than was good for his heath. What a careless way to die. The narcotic substances sent him to his untimely death.

She began to add pennies to shillings, beg for borrowings, and appraise her valuables. It came imperative to tread the path providence had traced out for me. No school in the nearest settlement and Azazi where there was one, but was far away.

I was going to school and coming back from school with few other students. The first week was like learning about life on another planet. As a newcomer I looked in turn at the other two girls on my sides. One was merely something more than skin and bones. The other was chubby, not more than eight years old at the most. The other girl I knew her for years and was bursting with health. Our teacher had a smile behind the seriousness of his gaze. Going to school meant that I had to wear sandals five days a week for more than ten years of my life. There rests the dark side of my school life.

Stanley would have been a wizard if not for his thievery. He habitually pinched chalks, duster, toys, snacks, running away the next day, only to reappear two days later. We were so naïve that we could not plan ahead beyond today. Being constrained to a time sequence of yesterday and today, we couldn’t trace issues outside yesterday – today – tomorrow. “But yesterday I wasn’t at school,” he would rightly say and we go dumb even more on hearing that trick. We lost to him on different occasions. Two years later we knew better.

Abinitio and my peers used to pick on me, but they were astonished when they got their backs on the ground. I graduated as a raw-boned creature.

On holidays I could hardly wait to see my grandmother. My youngest uncle always came for me. We would trek for two hours. At first we would decide to walk fast for fear of the creeping nightfall. After a short distance it got much strenuous than I could bear. Then we would decide to slow it down a bit. He carried my things. But before too long we usually arrived – dusty and tired though. He was found of telling me fairy-tales about birds in the fields and crabs in the rivers. On the way we talked about everything from Jello to afterlife. Sometimes I cut the conversation short. I was nothing more than an ignorant child prone to phobia of apparitions. It pounded my heart and with a pounding head, I would like to close this chapter. We could never be bored.

Christmas always found me at Amadi, where a band of young urchins swarmed the place. In the morning, the air used to be very cold. On this particular month the heat was a burden. Festive explosions echoed in each and every heart. Seasonal unemployment comes in. Even at that we still rove about the chilly shadow of Iroko trees. It was interesting catching traps, fishing in the brooks, once in a while one of us slips from the top of log lying across the stream, as a bridge over the waters for passers. As they set out I would fall into line with them. As a matter of fact, I was not particularly skilful in any of the arts. We also had the job of chasing pests on the fields. Of all, exchanging secrets not meant for grown-up ears was the greatest hobby we had. We made remix of nursery rhymes, mostly church hymns originally sang benevolently in English into vernacular. Tales beneath the moonlight was the night alternative. The atmosphere was always roaring with laughter. I fought my disillusionment with prayers. It was a moment in my life that passed never to come back. It was all sorts of little kids’ nonsense, happiness untroubled by desire. I went through primary school, then to secondary school.

Leaving my kindred was as if taking leave of the past itself. When the time came for me to leave we all shared the pain of saying goodbye. I had hoped to make the voyage by boat. On hearing about the waters of the lagoon, thinking it could be for local and international navigation but learned better from an adult. He told me a boat was too fragile to venture against such strength of rough waves. Mama had let me more freedom than most kids were allowed.

Perhaps I had made a pledge alien to my nature, cuddled with the mild pressure of a woman losing her little pet to the lagoons. I tossed my head to reassure myself. With the perk I had to leave their gentle pressure, which had made the separation a burden. Fluttering my eyelids I caught sight of Funke waving to me. Mama normally held herself straight, on that day taller with the prop. She had tears in her eyes and that went to my heart. A man is afraid of nothing. I knew I had to be a man. “Keep your eyes upon God and mind no other object,” was the counsel of a next of kin who worked in the vineyards. The words managed to be coherent but still not much sense was made of it. It is a great task to face the dreams alone, yet you must dance to the beat of destiny.

Very early an October morning we left home to catch a lorry destined for Lagos. As I passed out of the palisades I knew another phase in my life would elapse before I walk on same soil again. The mammy wagon of Ford make was loaded to capacity, sorts and sorts, “Say my goodbye to my sisters”. “Go my daughter,” she muttered through tears. Tramped with my belonging were sacks of yam, coconut, smoked fish, palm oil, and plantain. The vehicle left the place.

Approaching Lagos, the gigantic bridges burst into sight, it was a wonder to take a look at. At last she arrived at the address.

The room was in disarray, odds and ends upon the ground. A curtain separated the whole length of a room for two. She flung some shoes on the bed in childish rage, and then picked them up.

To settle in Lagos, was as difficult as learning to become left handed in old age. Her landlady had two stalls in the popular Tejuoso market. She was supposed to conduct sales. The mad modern pace of working was a surge of challenges.

I was left with the option of evening classes, thanks to the afternoon session scheme of schooling in the sixties. Even at that the teaching was sufficiently advanced. I had gone to the new city for a purpose, not just to pass the time. I strove never to change direction from the narrow path of complete discretion. I felt a little out of place and awkward among the younger civilized children. An instructor, found it incredible that I followed the instruction dutifully. “This country lass must either be a half-genius or a moron – strangely quiet.” The challenge of how, and whether to fit in, showed up. My contemporaries did their best to ridicule me.

Lagos was a gateway of all comers and goers – young, dying, city born and country born. It was a mixed bag of opposites. Usually a few customers patronize the market amidst many shoplifters, pushing and snooping.

I remember an occasion, a man was caught pick pocketing and alarmed, the thief ran ‘with his tail on fire’ like a scalded cat. I wanted to take in all that happened so I suspended what I was doing. At the end he was caught. You won’t believe it. They knifed him.

Madam, my landlady, was an experienced learned lady, wise in the world, whose opinion mattered on the issues. She was ready to crush any one who stood in the way of her pleasure. She carried herself with an unwarranted arrogance. Trying a new colour on her finger, she would query on all we transacted in her absence. When questioned we give unrehearsed response. She expected a curt ‘yes ma’ or ‘ no ma’. We received a few sharp slaps any time we made a mistake. At times she did look ill after overworking herself. My hatred for her dissolved into pity on such occasions. Madam’s procedure of scrutinizing my peer before greeting the party irritated me at first but as time pushed on it seemed not to tire me. When I asked permission to do certain things, she allowed it, although with a bad grace. The moment she was out I hopped out. I was never any use except as an errand-runner. Poverty almost puffed life out of me. My body had no time to adapt to the climate. I suddenly fell to fever. It was such unpleasant weather. Lagosians managed to swelter in such a suffocating atmosphere, in the midst of constant mobility.

At night when I try to figure out the sound of the plant, it bothers my concentration.

Taking advantage of an unguided freedom I indulged in reckless habit or what someone called truancy. I kept spending most of my personal time at the beaches or on the streets playing beech games, once in a blue moon: casino, watching jugglers and acrobats who were always to be seen on popular streets of Lagos in Tuesdays through Thursdays, practicing the tumbler’s knack and marvelling at their tricks. One would even walk on a tight-rope rigged up between two trees – not too far from the ground, similar to the training exercise an ex-serviceman of the British West African Front had told as back in Amadi.

Someone would have called the school roll before we came in. I wasn’t expecting a miracle at the School Certificate Examination results; I did not bother to register. I knew I got half as mush as I needed.

The fateful accident, though it happened long ago, causes my blood to run cold each time I recall that fatal scene. Most of he senior civil servants gave themselves superior airs, an inflated sense of importance that gave them the opportunity to ride on others’ back. They represented the maddest of beasts, to the poorer guys. They are fond of appalling doings, and they consider human life like a disposable item that can be paid for. The poor share a common list of grievances; for the real people, their salvation will only come when Africa and its posterity shall find prosperity. A wretched driver knocked down a boy and would not have stopped if not for some suspecting mob. The will of the mob became the effective law at that instance. They threw themselves upon him and threw him naked after they had punched him. I could not bottle up the frenzy of anxiety in me. Reporters and photographers buzzed around like hornet. They spared no pain in spreading the news.

The waste heaps are to be seen, and not spoken off. Streets full of foul odour. Strong smell of rotten flesh oozed from the sewer. I was concerned about my window and the creatures that called it home. If you open the door air would circulate better. It only means free meals for mosquitoes and such biting creatures. The rats were really enormous. The government promised things will change but it still goes on the same. These made me admire my former abode with the strength of a thousand memories. Trying to create the life I had first known as a child.

James was a kind neighbour in the building. He was never at home during the day. He came home late yet had no job. Though he was honest. Whenever he was paid to do a dirty job he did it. Already half drunk, dressed in trousers by evening, a typical guy from the Nigerian Delta.

Next to the local store was a woman with a medical problem of unremarkable looks asking for money and in return giving all she had. The only thing she had it was her voice. She could not be ashamed of her handicap. Something she couldn’t help. Blind to her pain, I swept on.

Sometimes in June 1966 a letter was delivered to me, which I handed over to the landlady without making an effort to see the addressee. I watched her opening the missive. She gave the letter to me after reading it. The letter contained apostle John’s discourse of preaching about grace, holding out his belief that by faith the infinite grace of God will be sufficient for me, to lead and protect me. His book always brought me hope, encouraged me to take a fresh look at the Holy Book. This will do me good. The text wasn’t such music to my ears. It helped me to bring many objects in my field of vision but not in the area of reach.

I can’t tell if the screen saver on my phone had prompted her to ask my age. There was a long pause after her question. I made a show of blowing my nose. I did not only sound embarrassed but I looked embarrassed as well. ‘Twenty two and why?’ I asked. The next guy to express his disapproval was my fiancé. I rather waste my time on writing platitudes and grammar than fiddle around a woman. The world is full of promise for me –simply: my cigar, my work and my play. It is a path free from mistake. She would not immediately agree, that a bright girl like me could be too preoccupied to afford the ordeals and expenses of dating. I nodded vigorously to make the hard-to-believe fact sink down. She wasn’t a good cook but that afternoon could cook potatoes for some visitors, a couple from Barbador.

She had a dizzy spell on the way – a late night hangover. Funmi pulled the car up at a lay-by, handed the wheel over to me. ‘I hate driving in fog’ she said. The drive was smooth, no murky or gravel roads. We covered the distance within the twinkle of an eye.

‘I will rather you don’t read when your mind is gloomy’, she had suggested. Can a student in my condition afford that kind of pride? If you go on that way, you may end up gaining nothing. “But that is how we live”. So hard but we survive it. There are usually more candidates than there are places. A total of one hundred and four students enrolled into three faculties: Medicine, Arts and Science at the inauguration of the Premier College Ibadan in 1948. About thirty federal Universities spread across the looks and corners of the Federal Republic today.

The motto of the power supply company is: ‘don’t expect electricity at all times. And to be safe you must have ready candles or torches until the power is restored. I write my work, at great intervals under difficult conditions. We eat soaked beans cooked over the night. The power supply is so intermittent that the food will never burn. It is hardly ready at 5’oclock. We swallow it quickly before jogging to the sports pavilion for morning tutorials. You scribble what parts you can catch of the dictation. You let the book fall until you fall asleep. Even in the middle of the night we keep vigil so that we may iron our uniforms for the approaching dawn before it is black out again for God knows how long.

The reason we stay to wash at late hours is to make for the next days in case the lines run short of supply. A thousand reasons can be put forward to explain why rusty pipes carry liquid to places where it is not wanted.

Dirt (everywhere) was a landmark seen at daytime and smelled at night.

Authority? I hardly think there is any credit due to them. They are the strangest of the human kind. The senate is a bench of guilty verdict. You are condemned before you hear it. Despite countless times of complaints laid by the Student Body, in this as in all other questions the common victims were left to get out of their difficulties as they could, and if they practically would.

Political jobbery is the order of the day. On the faculty walls I sometime saw IRSA, written with huge letters. I understood it, to mean Independent Republic of South Africa, while it stood for International Relations Students’ Association. This example is to tell you how far students embark on elaborate campaigns. Scientists are the ardent political animals.

When she heard twelve persons are crammed in a room not large enough for two people she lamented. “It is far worse than a detention centre”. She spoke with feeling and so enthusiastically. “In South Africa things are not alright but at least above water”. I agreed she had a good point, not being too noisy. In Manchester they bath with warm water. Her fingers weighted with heavy jewellery. The fringe splendours she highlighted were enough to dazzle the eyes of my poor natives. There in Nigeria, we keep connecting ends but they never meet. I do not anticipate anything new on my return. My dad returned after twenty years around Americas in 1963 full of ego, came back to find his kinsmen carrying firewood on their heads through roads free of cars with donkeys for miles. That was the third anniversary of the Independence, of the republic. Stagnation there is phenomenal – a hindered project. With all this poverty, could we be proclaimed sovereign? Penury and selfishness, downright sabotage, is underpinning our society. “Little wonder your folks excel when they touch on the gleaming side of life. You might be much worthier of yourself than you think”, she encouraged me and I smiled pessimistically.

Sharon is back from shopping.

‘By the end of 1967, Lagos had been declared unsafe for Ibos. I was fortunate to board a truck meant for passengers and small luggage. Some passengers managed the get in with sheep, goats, dogs, and other domesticated animals transported to the East by their owners. The crowded transport moved so slowly. During the struggle, the Scandinavian District Officers left, and were replaced with black District Officers. Stories circulated about the DO’s failings, politics, corruption, nepotism, bribery and administrative incompetence. She wore a withdrawn, emaciated look, and she offered me a seat. ‘The war was a dance of death soon to be played out’. She shut her eyes and thought about her life. Thunder in the air made her call Latifah to pack the clothes she had laid out on line before daybreak. She put a cigarette between her teeth. ‘That was a time when death held no fear for me.’ ‘It seemed that our trouble had no end’ she continued. ‘At first, joyful explosions echoed in each and every heart for a vision. Even humming birds move their wings so rapidly away that they appear to be hanging in the sky. We were on the way to make history with our lives. Looking for good riddance to a bad rubbish place. Easternisation was the slogan – pre-war era when all was fair. The gulf between the East and the North had grown so wide. Later, anyone realized that the prospect was one of gloom.’ She lit a cigarette, trying to find herself.

“A bit short than the required height 5 feet and 6 inches, I was not given a shirt in the Biafran Army.” She was almost ready to sacrifice her life that she thought it is not good enough.

“Indeed, I scrutinized a young commissioned officer’s route through a nearby highway, an officer whom I have taken time to watch at a place of duty. Watching him, would usually stir up admiration in me for him. And imagining myself in ‘camo’ arouse some indescribable pride in me as abstract as it was. That image thrilled me so much that from that day I was keen to join. It was an exuberance that could not easily wane off. And since it was a secret, I thought that sharing it with my uncles would make them think of me as an eccentric. Yes! Not all of one’s views are meant for the other people’s ears. Some ideas, I should best keep to myself.”

She found herself in a world she had wanted to enter.

“But due to shortage of men on the Biafran side I was enlisted in August 1968”. Trained as a nurse, she assisted the Biafran Force Medical Squad: administering drugs and injections to ill combatants, treating wounds, helping those with fractured bones or sprained, taking them through physiotherapy sessions, rolling bandages on wounds and making sets of clothes for the gallant troops. For many weeks some wounded soldiers had to lie in plaster. Some had to sit in wheel chairs. A mile long line of patients, she had to attend each day. We were awfully squeezed in the suite we lodged in. The people had unpredictable moods during the hot days of this episode would swing from hope to fear.

“When night comes you never know if you could see tomorrow. The rockets would leave traces of light into the night for a few seconds before exploding. A giant shadow on the ground meant that there were the Nigerian’s army paratroopers.”

It was no time for looking back – no time to duck for cover. My uniform would sparkle, giving me courage. Life is swim or sink affair. At the moment of explosion, my whole body felt cold – though the day was warm. My colleague was a real swinger. Divinely, I got out of the way’. One kills his foe before his foe kills him. That is the idea behind a skirmish. “I assure you Biafrans sought refuge in the bushes. Married and unmarried folks joined and lived together during he bombing time. Spatter of shots were heard very near. The bairns were right to have been knocked senseless seeing that several soldiers and volunteers drowned in the rivers. For the helpless mothers each day was a renewal of grief and anger. Landlords ran disorganized for holes to cover their heads. Infanticide has reduced the baby boom that was seen at the beginning of the crisis, to a sizeable population. Trenches were dug here and there, so people could dodge explosives. The Commander-in-Chief fought so terribly to command an army of his dreams. He was a man with a strong charisma... “Please, run until you are breathless”. He spoke with great ability, ditched out orders, but there were no time to press him down with details. He answered with little clever remarks to the ones that would look intently at his orders. The majority of the National Forces were paying visits to recaptured territories and congratulating the annexed regions on their choice. The Westerners had all fled, assisted by their respective nations. Our Biafran instructors rattled along the bushy roads for months, growing more alarmed and determined, with sizeable number of veterans on each batch – the presence of whom was symbolic. Hardly standing and without hope as we were, we spend too much time thinking about our condition. Determined to put to rest the ghost of ethnic minorities, we could not underestimate the situation. It was terrible. We fought for all we were worth. Cigarette packs became empty and God alone knew where the next cigarettes would come from.

She recalled the haunting sight of a crash in which hundreds of their men were hurled to death. “The flight had been scheduled to take off at a stipulated landing field, but later had to be rescheduled, at the news that the federal troop had besieged the said landing field. It could have been a successful landing. There came the helicopter. It chopped its way round. The loudspeaker on the hovering chopper was so loud, for the benefit of those still hiding in their caves. Most of the crowded towns had been depopulated. Rising living standards were cut down. So many people were stranded from their loved ones for decades after the cessation of the conflict, to come back some day only by a miracle – some would never been seen again. Pregnancies resulted from the war would beget babies who had no acknowledged fathers. The babies’ mothers were sacrifices to the struggle. Secondly, there were uncontrollable waves of rape. These exemption from the norm left many orphans. In support, we hung on to the bitter end. Just days before the end of the war, she became worried – when everyone would leave all that behind for a fresh start. I lost Chioma –under my command – and a number of buddies that have fallen heroes. She had been spared only to depart now. I was agitated to see such a fabulous beauty, that I was so fond of, wiped out. She wasn’t the only one of those in whom old habits would die-hard. A nursing employee posted to look after her, has told us her ordeal and we pitied her. A strong smell of fags around her cubicle explained her activities. Eighteen GOCs were dead in a ditch, crushed by a truck of the Federal Troop two weeks to Christmas 1969 on a Biafran mission along Agbor – Uromi axis. The casualty toll was staggering. It was on one of those days darkened by deeds of horror. I had felt the pinch of an object on my sole through the waterlogged rag of a boot. It turned out to be a Station of the Cross. I made a solemn vow to it then and there that: “if heavens can please spare me, I will devote myself, alive and in death to the Supreme Being”. The drills and lessons were to sharpen our skills as the fire progressed. The games were intended to kill time. I was named Korand, a name adapted from an image I sculpted. Others in the cast were John-no-problem, a carefree guy bred in a guy’s style. Trouble-nobody, were a handful of travellers just crashing in our bivouac in time of war. Together we sang songs from the plantations. On a hot afternoon we were blind to notice we had inadvertently disturbed a snake from its hole. I found a long stick and hit it.

The war had ceased since 1970 but we got no clue of the news.

Being placed in a state of uncertainty can be so tormenting, as was the situation when ‘the conch’ of communication suffered. We wandered in the rough country in small companies damaging the remaining cassava and corn farms in particular, and feeding on raw corn, coconuts, palm fruits and tuber, after starving days and nights. Stranded, we took advantage of raw foodstuffs. You will feel there was a hole in you caused by the hunger. No village elder took any notice of me before I went to war except to advise the teacher to lash me. The masters actually found it easier to whip us instead of giving us direction. After the war we were flinched by the irreparable loss. I swatted at something that looked like a mosquito. She flashed a friendly smile assuring me ‘that is a Nigerian factor’ she ended it in tears hiding her face in her hands.

Funke couldn’t stop. She was through with secondary education in a short time.

Good day to you responsible parents, staff and students – especially the outgoing class of five students. It is sure that today, will mark a point in the annals of this prominent school, and the prominent destiny of the graduating students. It is naturally a day to mirror their experience from day one and the journey there in, indeed it is worth celebrating, considering the huge task of keeping one’s head above water in the face of the painstaking routine. Anybody can figure out from these. This day is the happiest day to some of them: ‘a day of much awaited liberty. “One can never have it better than this” they speak quietly to themselves. An occasion as this calls for cheers going by the value of this achievement, in the sense that many of their peers with whom they sat the entrance examination could not meet up as a result lost the admission privilege. Not only that some actually got admitted but couldn’t finish their five year course at this moment, either by way of being kicked out or by academic performance which encourage my emphasis on the successful students, for some are outgoing without attaining the primary objectives of passing through the four walls of college. As such, whatever amount of congratulation showered on these fortunate set, they deserve it.

But more importantly, there is need to acquaint these crop of youth with the preview of life outside school, seeming to them a draught of liberty and gyration, but ironically a zero coast, where you ought to apply the instinct learnt in school while hustling to make ends meet. It is not always as rosy as you thought. The world is enthralled with extreme be it negative or positive. Here if you cheat, we redirect documents for you, but there you are sentenced to jail. When you steal, you are brought before a court to which you consult lawyers at exorbitant fees to advocate on your behalf, unlike here where we establish a jury. Here we lock you in the dark room for one or two days to be visited by your classmates who bring you biscuits, chips and garri. You often lobby staffers to plead on your behalf after perpetrating misconducts to scale down the call for your suspension but the jury and lawyers are familiar with the expert matter, no cordiality, therefore no likelihood of pardon.

Note that the prisons are meant for criminals.

However, these must not extinguish the intense urge in you. As much as it is delicate, it possesses its flavour, which you explore – with virtues as well-bred representatives of the leading establishments.

I implore all of you that work while you study for the G.C.E. O’ level or A’ Level, and are hopeful of good results for your SSCE: Distinguished and praiseworthy ones, if you do work, work hard. And if you choose to study further, do it conscientiously. In whatever position of trust you find yourselves, always do your best. The road to success isn’t so smooth, and it is a testimony you have gone through while in school – waking up to the duties of this life. Draw near to God in need and in deed. Put your best into life, so it may pay you back in the same way.

I am sure that when next you are going to visit this ‘alma matah’ of yours you will come as Governors, statesmen, VIPs, Old Boys and Old Girls. But my fear is similar to what my teacher in the primary school reminded us during our last days in the final year: “You will never be collectively together as this again. Even when invited only a number will be able to come. You might bump into one another, to get one or two together. But a teem as this, it is torn apart tonight. Accept my wholehearted congratulations. And on behalf of the staff and students I wish you prosperous years ahead. Good night and good-bye!

At the end of the long-winded elaborate message read by Mr. Alake, the V.P. everyone gathered for a group photo session. Funke walked to her uncle’s house in Agbowo, Ibadan. It was a happy polygamous relationship, which has found comfort in its own circle. It was a friendly atmosphere, where the flowers never pop up in both rainy and dry seasons. Three months later, her dad stormed in, putting things in order. Funke had returned from her holiday to Lagos triumphant inside. “Could that be Funke’s voice that it reaches my ears? Olufunke hopes that you have appreciated every pleasure in Ibadan. I know that my brother and his wife would have made you explore the pleasure that you wish for. I hope you had no squabbles with anyone. How are they doing? One of your associates called requesting you to do the same whenever you are around. I think the name should be in the message pad; was it Kunmi?” Trying to recall “Kwensi”. There is a male quality in her. Funke cuts in: ‘She is more than a tomboy. She was already like a man in our class four. She talks, walks and even rocks in the way a man does’. ‘When do you think your result will be released? Now, that should make you keen. We have heard enough about her convulsion that makes me cool down a bit.’

Sometime in mid rainy season, Funke’s dad obtained her result from the WAEC office; distressed by her grades, he walked solemnly into the pantry to call her: ‘Welcome Sir!’ She would curtsy to him “Here is your WAEC result, he said”. She didn’t pass her school subjects.

She couldn’t cry anymore. The following months had dried up any tear she had. Her dad regained the necessary courage, took her to a new generation post-primary school to try once more her luck, hoping she would do well this time.

After her arrival she had to go to lengthy coaching hours at maths. The teacher would try various formulae to solve the complicated mathematical problems. Her mind concentrated at a glance. The work turned simple with the comprehensive shortcuts created by the teacher. She instantly confirmed the youngster in charge was a Mathematics guru. He represented calculations made easy. The end of the curriculum has reached the beginning of her liking of the new environment. A few students now her colleagues – pupils she would have had two years juniors – practised the new methods. The rest would huddle in groups discussing their interests. As far as she was concerned the long day has ended. She went to sleep before others came back to the hostel and before they could start telling her what happened to them that day.

I begged of Sharon to use the laptop she was charging at the wall. I carefully disconnected the plug, typewrote to my childhood friend now a qualified nurse in New Orleans.

Though I sent 30,000 in Nigerian currency and the money is lost in transit, probably to plug up holes in the banks here. I trust that US banking system is faultless. I imagine you couldn’t have fooled me by denying that you received it. But time and distance conspired so I can deserve your distrust. Even if I may be in Yahoo domain you can’t just be my prey. To me, your riches I count as glory that my former hood boy makes good in U.S. Perhaps you thought less that I could have enchanted you the very morning you hit me up with a call or even via e-mail, God forbid! If you have changed so much, I remain the scrupulous buddy I had represented as a kid, not a money monger. I asked you to forget about the lost cash and let our friendship thrive on old time basis.

Your silence these days turns me cold. Not on earth will I count myself worthy of your hatred. You mentioned the last thing I would do even if I’d be a cop, to nab you ‘U’ – my close countryman, from the times when we were boys, sharing secrets that were not meant for adult ears. I sobbed on your shoulder and you sobbed on mine, terror days of beatings from the teachers – Uncle Bola and the pack. I cannot bring myself to believe that I can forget the good old time and get rid of you – you were mistaken to think so.

I wished you the best of luck in your final exam but I got no answer from you. Well if it wasn’t so good never to give up. I believe in an unalterable destiny. I might have ill will towards you, for your wrongs but memory won’t allow me put these feelings in practice. The fact that you were good as a pupil, would make up for any ill you did. My temporary phone number is +2348050884879. U may ring me or not. I just wanna let out my heart. If U still believe in God will agree a flight could take me sometime across these seas that cut you off – though the skies will not change me like it changed you. Be merry. Be happy. DT.

The week went on, and on Friday, Funke’s note was begging for attention. Tinu gave her assistance, and before three weeks could elapse, she was busy. Gradually to her surprise, the agony still occurred when she had remembered, but didn’t hit her like it had earlier on. She was absorbed in a group reading, weaving and plaiting, trekking to become fit. Her pain was unbearable. Somehow it turned out to be an incredible time yet very useful. She kept working day and night, making use of every resource that she could find. With a wealth of knowledge about the English language, and with tremendous efforts of her English teacher, she took care of the basics – and hardly ever of the errors that accumulate for the exam-takers throughout their limited time. When her exam came, the school officials addressed the ones that sat the exams, in a warm manner. The exam papers were handed out. The students had to fast since the food could not be cooked till after eleven. Coincidentally, they had then the first period break.

It all ended at last. Much drama that has taken place at the hall and could not be forgotten in a jiffy. A supervisor and a candidate had a clash. It surpassed the commemorative plaque gathering and the obituaries of remembrance. How could one forget it? The supervisor had sauntered for an hour, and was about taking a turn to resume his sit, but took a sharp turn.

Supervisor

Stand up... You are cheating? His voice’s echo drew everyone’s attention. Every candidate in the lecture hall was quiet. Of course it was a comic relief in an otherwise boring Biology exam.

Vincent

Eh Sir, Eh Sir, I ah... ah... Sir... Sorry Sir...

Supervisor

Sorry for what? You are doing a serious offence and you plead sorry! You haven’t insulted me, but the students who worked hard, who must have burnt the candle at both ends. How old are you?

Vincent

Sir, I... Sorry Sir.

Supervisor

Are you out of your mind? What have I asked? Vincent’s eyes caught the wall clock and found he had one and a third hours left.

Vincent

Fourteen... twenty-four...

Meanwhile the other students were enjoying the melodrama. It hid their ‘microchips’ and at a time shut up and ceased the cracking laughter: they sympathized with him, appealed on his behalf. Being swayed by the other student’s pleas, the supervisor gave Vincent back his papers.

Vincent

Thank you Sir, he said submissively.

The supervisor continued.

Supervisor

He must have attended a party last night and as a result could not read despite that he is an old pig.

That was how the incident ended unceremoniously.

She wrote to the National College of Education entrance examination. Fortunately almost everything went fine this time around, including the College matriculation. The college had admitted her on a Tuesday – no one could remember the date. She was quicker than her classmates who were as fast as her only that they arrived earlier and behaved more cordially. She was well adapted to the weather. Funke shared so much in the excitement, going to parties. She turned up at different parties be it birthday, get-together, even undisclosed occasions. There was no boring moment. She came back either drunk or drugged.

She got a pair of her shoes full of dust. She rushed to the bathroom; washed, made sure she was freshened up. She strutted on. Wind blew her short gown against her thighs revealing the under garment. After was sight seeing the ever-busy town, which a pessimist would call lazing about. She carried home luggage filled with cosmetics especially French perfumes, hair sprays, Miss Paris, and Chericoco. Confectionery was not left out. She had yoghurt, chocolates giant coke, ice cream, cashew nuts, green beans, salad cream, carrots, lettuce and cabbage. Close watch of her weight was paramount to her. She intended to keep sporty and that had made her to watch what her eats. Sportspeople pick what they eat. She begged her cousins to give her a hand. The taxi was unloaded. Normally, Funke was not a hooker like those in the movies. You can think of her as flirting with married and unmarried guys. She was that kind of girl right from her teen years. She would find pleasure in wandering the town’s main street up and down a number of times. She would have different partners, buying for her fast food, sweets, flat cakes, candies, gums, peppermint and any new snack available in the remote part of the peasant-populated land.

She is just the right description for the modern meat-pie style – let’s say she was a pretty girl, not the prettiest girl. She has a dark complexion, and was larger built. She walked smartly. And she seemed to be tall. Her skin was glossy – beneath which cholesterol clogged up. The chest was, say, needlessly bulky. She had no swelling on her pores. Pride burst out of every pore of her body.

Funke’s attraction for men of substance was visible.

Socializing well, after a while she walked into four other babes discussing their day out. They commented on their costume, examining the style and every embellishment sprinkled on it. ‘These are cool’. ‘It’s cool but forget it, it holds its beauty,’ said another. ‘Who has her hair up? She would rather have tresses.’ ‘I am not coming... not tonight... I just don’t feel like anything’... ‘Let me search my wardrobe and see what suits my blue jacket – the one spotted with pink bits’.

At 7:30 pm, they began to varnish their fingernails, to pedicure their feet, to delight in trying on clothes and to smell perfume.

They finally marched out in even steps, sparkling radiantly, after mimicking some fashion models. The venue was a motel just double kerb afar from their school. The street was humidified by dark night’s dew, and it would enable any group of people to get to the party. They went into the awe-inspiring night. They happily walked on their way, briefly searching through their filled make-up bag, getting ready their ID cards with photos. With her upper garment designed in a show-it-all fashion, she was revealing her breasts. The light made their garments glitter, lingered on their buttocks in some of these skirts clinging to the hips provokingly. Most women under normal light pretend what they are not.

Sammie, a Higher National Diploma holder had earnestly taken note of their eminent presence especially Funke the Ebony, casting jealous gaze at every length she projects. She is a younger brother to he celebrant’s best friend and that amounted to knowing so many faces in the gathering but to his amusement no soul around seemed to have knowledge of her whereabouts.

The social gathering ended without a hitch.

Funke wasn’t strong enough. She hurt her hips from dancing. Before she could settle on what dancing pattern to display, she found herself on the spot, swept away by an instinctive tendency. On the other side was Sammy who told remarks to his young friends about the beer on the up to date insinuations about ladies and particularly in the festivity. He began to make passes as soon as he met her. In his mind, he just wanted a young woman to bed with. He had lost interest temporarily on any other thing. He let his mates know: “I lost control of myself. I can’t tell if she’s tall or pretty. Anyway, she is pretty. I couldn’t help but fall for such scented hint. I answered the call – fast. Nothing is more inviting. Her smiling mingled on and on with my laughter, even if it had been a vision that I hope it should lasts. All had warmed through my heart. My entire body looked bubbly as the party progressed.” From his estimate they had spent so long time that he could not wait any farther to throw open his card, expecting a definite priority whatever the price might be. He let her know this.

‘I feel terrible. My head aches.’ She pulled the zip of her dress. It ran down.

‘Anyone coming to give me a lift would wait till I get out of bed.’ Feeling big, that’s like Funke. She was an exceptional girl and she paraded in front of various cars – all brands, all lengths, all sizes.

Sammy made up his mind to put up with whatever would impact on people.

He shouldn’t miss a dace with her and he carried on further. He was trilled at the idea of losing out but evaluated her sex appeal. His heart waxed for the worst. “Man, I must take a break and go to the bathroom... There might not be a better chance.”

Compiling a letter in his mind to his love, he left.

‘Sorry to have intrude upon you’ she pretended. ‘Oh you need not apologise.

You are welcome anytime’. She marvelled at his possessions. ‘Are you comfortable?’ Ye...s’ she nodded. There was the ‘White Carnival’ comedy on the radio. She allowed herself to laugh. They debated views over French wine. She was piqued to ask him why he appeared to stay alone, seeming not so accommodate friends or families.

‘Our Society adore you when they sense fortune chokes you, though, no one seems to know you while you amass wealth. Those who seem so preoccupied to see you, they unpredictably turn their faces the other way, to avoid your problems. But the moment you have cash on you, they are at your feet, prostrating on their evil-thinned bellies.’

He had hit at a rather early stage – when the day was still beginning. Ladies flung and clung around in tens and twenties. He was wise enough to build an empire.

Buying flashy cars was another fad. In the neighbourhood he was called ‘Young-benzer’. Of course, it was uncommon to find a guy younger than sixty, toying with the king of cars in the early nineteen seventies’.

Funke could not tell how it felt like, been driven in a sport car, blazing in front of her home. She walked tall.

Sharon told me a lot... The stories went volubly as if it were autobiography read aloud. She said a lot... I heard a lot but can’t remember all, when what was told has to be retold. Enough to say and the poorly lit space around us made her confide much to me than she would think she should.

‘Whatever is hot must sometimes turn cold.

The evidence of the civil disorder was left on the roads, farmlands, schools, offices and industrial areas. We passed by the church aided by a dilapidated road sign. A derelict mission structure, having signs of bullets on its walls, stood alone at a previous commercial junction. It had one of the very few palm trees that survived the era mentioned earlier. The bastilla missile shook many of them, collapsing their roofs and burning up more than a few. She remembered the past with mixed feeling. Hazy as a bad dream were these memories.

“Some youths have been so irrational since the war ended. Months before the end of the struggle, the soldiers had thrown away or burnt what was left of their uniforms as well as other emblems, buried the signs of loyalty to the defunct republic, stripped off their wartime identities. Matured faces stared at the bus, which went past at a high speed, a rusty Russian model. The bus came out from what was left of their ‘castles’ with balconies. The driver found a place for his vehicle and he got off. Fear of war had opened a new book in the history of Aba folks. Even when they returned it was never the same. They succumbed to uncertainty, neglect, economic problems, and failing health. As late as 3 pm into the day they were swaddled in shrouds often worn for sanitation purposes, clearing weeds, sweeping, painting walls. The smell of wood smoke could not be hidden. The confusion that hung in Amadi was one that surpasses description. I shook quite a number of hands, the ones I couldn’t hug. More and more flocked in, and filled the balcony where half a decade ago I had met an exodus of Ibos heading for refuge.” She recounted: “We journeyed under fire and through fire until we safely stopped at Enugu. At the checkpoint in Asaba we were forced to disclose our mission under the watchful eyes of a Charlie, looking from the watchtower. We presented the pass given to us as an ID and signed by the Chief of Internal Security, Late Brigadier Oke Wazurike. The ensign we had on our bonnets saved us the day.”

‘There were watching towers around the compound as high as six feet.

There was a mud house with a sorry look. The building held too many bad memories. There were patches around the compound. Tell tales of the people’s poverty, spread through the air like perfume. Most of them were wearing the worst of rags. The children were hardly better off wearing flattened stomach revealing their ribs as it could be seen on an X-ray machine. Many of those children were amazed to see me glowing of health.

“It is great you are still alive. With all that shelling, we were afraid you could be dead.” Uncle Nzube who wasn’t interested support me through my schooling years felt my cheeks and shoulders, ‘Sharon!’ he cried, trying to steady his trembling voice. The same relations had become my friends – those who formerly stamped their foot on a decision about my education. I was a star in my own (little) way. I hugged them in a cuddle as if all was well.

Their bony hands felt something like claws when pressed against my palm. Windows and stairs were not spared of the dismal condition – as though were equally worn and dried out by hunger and diseases.

The worst had happened, and no one was left in the next compound – just an empty hut. I was appalled about the situation that those old neighbours were now in. Many students that left school owing to total breakdown of the public order had not recovered yet, to set themselves back on the right track. Thick bushes and high grass stretched over wartime-abandoned schools. Hospitals, police stations and barracks were worst affected, a heap of ashes, manure on which diverse sorts of weeds throve. The Land Force had indiscriminately put aside for farming every available plot of land.”

She laughed suddenly – it was a gruelling laugh.

“I wept non stop and they joined in. The hope of a republic would dissolve in the river. The noise of marching soldiers would not cease. It was a show of force.

The driver was working for one of the big lorry transport business – hauling between Akure and Onitsha. He reminded me of my duties. I counted the banknotes I had in my wallet and I paid him the fare.

We had already had enough lessons to learn. A new page must be turned. The post war challenges lay ahead. Manufacturing had to adjust to peacetime conditions. Factories had to be retooled to meet civilian needs. Diversifying food supplies and other relief material constituted a new hiccup. Whether land sold in Biafran pounds should be re-evaluated in Nigerian pound or not since the former had become worthless money, was quite relevant. My heart ached for the ignorant dying children, that were exposed to adversity to the limit, with no medicine, no beds for the sick, no medical doctor, no running water, no electricity, no classrooms, no sewerage, no factories, not even workshops – only a continuous cycle of hardships, on and on deaths.

Not until the very minute did the letter sent by a clergy while in Lagos, began to make sense. Faith resurged in me with clearer appearance. It dispersed through me unearthing near the church the same crucifix, and brought back the memory of my wow on that night when I feared for my life. My memory brought back the pledge I had made, bringing everything back so fondly, that I was disturbed by guilt. The clouds opened and sunlight beamed at my feet. I experienced a change in attitude, regarding my faith. Then I felt I had been enjoying immaculate grace even though I took it for granted. The very first time I acknowledged grace, I resolved to pay my debt. God had faithfully fulfilled his part. Now I had to fulfil my part. He shielded me with His steadfast hand, when the weak and mighty were falling. I had to do what I had promised.

Two wandering souls were the winners: Maggi, a Librarian teacher, and Joan, an American launched out in a ferry. They were godsend. They came to the faraway African villages, preaching on the shore, bringing the word of God, and helping some lost African tribes to develop local trade based on their home made produce. A tribe they met on Zugu hill, in the highlands along the Niger River, was extremely strange to the world in same way the life of the people living on the lowlands was strange to them. They were yet to find out about electricity. They were nearly nude except for strewn leaves. A hunter in search of wild animals might aim at them from afar mistaking them for some sort of animals. The party had a hard time getting through the forest, but the gifts they brought did some magic for them – winning a few converts. The expansive use of biblical photographs won the way for them at several destinations. No doubt they came across numerous tourist destinations that no art can craft on paper and at the tail were able to discover some attractive tourist features in the voyage. They picked precious stones, dark snails, crabs, local delicacies, turtle, and photographs. They met with the war ravaged faction in Burundi, converted some of them and handed out food and clothing. They left the area on good terms with the promise of trying to get more help for them from charitable NGOs and foundations, especially the ones based in UK and US. After the tour they became very tired, and stopped and had dinner with the food they were given on their journey. My encounter with them gave me the chance to come in contact with Christianity. They were the ones who formally initiated me to become a Christian. Though the vow I’ve taken during the heated days of the war had kept the place of the cross so firmly in my heart. My confession lasted for a week, followed by confirmation and I was baptized alongside other converts on the 14th July 1978.

Sincere enough, they forwarded the drafts.

Hammond, a tall man with a head of thick grey hair and very large blue eyes, with slightly drooping lid was the head of the United Body of Christ Mission.

A welcoming and good-tempered fellow, fond of helping friends and congregation who were less fortunate than him, he gave his words and lived up to his promise. He spoke in unconventional but accepted ways. Earlier than anyone had expected the restoration kept coming in. The picture of the ministers with the natives seated, were on the wall at the lobby.

Joan was as good as an angel. I began to dine with her regularly. She cooked exquisitely. She insisted that I attend St. James seminary in Moronvia. I count as good fortune my encounter with her. She has given me more than I could ever give her in return. And I will not stop giving what I can to others. To some I give words, to some I give money, to all I give hospitality – a kindness that never dries up. “Our life is a little time squeezed between two great peaceful times,” she would say with her eyes fixed on the invisible. These were everlasting words.

On the afternoons, all of us were having a siesta. Funmi my friend was often much awake. Life at the Chateau was but memory to us. She wasn’t a good cook but that day she could make omelette for everyone. Seeing her as one of my elder sisters, my mum used to offer her food. We went out to a club not so far away. Ping-pong is one game I enjoy. We were in third round. I’ve already won two sets.

“You have lost this time,” she said gleefully. “That remains to be seen,” I responded calmly. I was seven points down and she seemed to have decoded my antics. Somehow I stepped up. At long last the deuce gave me a breather. She said something with much quietude that I could not hear. “What did you say?” She repeated: “Goodness.”

Two Cypriot young women were in the pool topless, and the waiters were watching them intently. The cooks in the kitchen were fighting an endless battle to cook the meals. Funmi recognized a colleague she had met on a holiday camp in the Cape of Good Hope. He was on an official reassignment of the British Shell Company to its London Office. I had never been formally presented. We greeted casually. I smelt something strange about Johnny. He resembled a typical coon with his burnt lips. His smile had an expression that I understood.

I started asking Funmi questions. I trusted her. I only wanted to be sure that everything between us is OK. Her mum – a wise advisor – had always left her free to choose in life, although she gave Funmi a bad example. She will look angrily at any form of triviality even the modest form of it. I was busy signing my name in the air in front of me, standing knee-deep in the pool. She threw me one of those white balls that children toss to one another in the water. I offered some well-suited suggestions. She managed to stage her entry into my heart with all the flair she could muster. We gathered our laps to form a stool, and placed the tray on it. We had barbecued ham with cheese to complement it. We spent money with every plate we bought. As a gentleman, I paid the bill. She lifted her face so I could kiss her. Where do I fit in among many admirers, previous and new, swarming around her? We each took a taxi and she went to her home and I went to my home. She was smarter than any young woman of her age that I knew. On my way home, I thought a lot about her. She must have gone to bed, wept into her pillows, closed her eyes and felt as though time itself had stopped.

“I cannot describe the joy that immersed me at the offer to go to a theological school, knowing fully well that my school reports I got up to the last class before the war, were now but ashes. My studies had been lacking continuity to boast of knowing a good deal. My heart was full of anxiety on December 23 1979. Then with a valid Passport, a ticket, and PTA, plus a baggage, to take care of the little details were bequeath to me as my travelling accessories. I realised how great it is to live in faith. Whistling the tunes that crowded my head. At least I had the possibility of becoming something. That was how God saved me from heaven knows what depth of misery. Too thrilled, I almost died of happiness. My mum couldn’t hide her feelings, so joyful she was.

I headed for the departure section of the airport that was still at some distance. I tucked my ticket in my back pocket, while I was chewing gum. The security at the door would pay no attention to me. I was so happy. The room was still ringing with laughter when I came in. I was travelling in an aircraft for my very first time.

A crowd of people were waiting at the arrivals section when I got off the plane. I had hardly got my luggage from the conveyor belt when a chauffeur instructed by the Vicar to bring me to the vicarage came in. He had with him my photo and other details. He took the roundabout way to enable me explore the sights and sounds of Liberia’s capital. The airport and the capital were worth seeing. So many Courier and white merchants lived in the estates. On Clay Street, Licoln College of Professional Studies, Press Union of Liberia at Nr. 44 among others, were unforgettable. The driver explained the preponderance of foreigners in the popular quarters. Most of the businesses were owned and run by Americans including rubber plants, bakeries and confectioneries. And to the music of his soft voice the journey seemed much shorter. We arrived at the vicarage, 1000 Moronvia Liberia. Some of my early and fondest memories came from the years I spent with the church in Moronvia. A room was allocated to me at the clergy court’s extension. On the floor, were debris of glass lying all over of which no truthful account could be given. The sole content of the room were a bed, a desktop with a moving chair, an wardrobe, a vegetable trolley, a box, a fan, a colour television, a video recorder, a quartz wall clock, a shoe rack, a duster, a calendar, a carpet, a Bible and SOP, some photo frames and a plastic Sacred Heart stuck to the wall. South African archbishop Desmond Tutu’s portrait hung on the wall. I was on an equal footing with those I met in the yard. I piped down not because I had to but because I wanted to. I saw the need to be grateful. The past had been a prologue of trials.

The Rector of the academy was an accommodating man in his sixties. He spoke an impeccable English. He used to be the head of a dairy farm in South Africa in the nineteen seventies. He was of slight built, soft spoken, skilful and refined. He had a mini-bus for personal use but he was accustomed to drive a motorcycle with a side seat. In the side seat was often seated a helper from the orphanage.

He had introduced me to the surroundings the very week of my arrival. A brand new BMX bike parked in the garage was set-aside for me by the rector. It was my first useful asset. His daughter rode the other Raleigh brand.

Nelson was met mowing in the orchard on my arrival. Nelson was much older than I but didn’t make that an issue. Our friendship brought together the worlds of West and Southern Africa. He was a Namibian. A relationship built in due course, bit by bit. He unrolled to me plans he had in his mind, ‘plans he meant to share with no one.’ These mornings during lent when we were hungry and couldn’t talk. We exchanged meaningful glances as though we were co-conspirator in some transgression. He has settled down with his family in Miami.

I found that way of life tough but I followed it with all the energy I had. I learned in earnest and my wonderful memory was my great asset. “What a sudden occurrence! What an intelligence and what a memory!” He remarked on phone to a fussing sister Joan, wanting to be sure I was copying. “Everyone here loves her,” the vicar added. The students in my class started liking me. Again with my gift of story telling in a dramatic way, I became the favourite. Everyone was astonished at the gushing energy bottled up in my small frame. But I could not get over the longing to travel abroad.

“Establish yourself as a person, not a robot. Participate towards positive goals. Life is for living and not for going by like a shadow”. That was the chaplain. He was so straightforward, inspiring us all. What a dream he inspired in me, to make the best of my potentials whatever it may be. What does one profit to hide behind a pretending smile, one’s entire life? If just for a second my guard should drop from me. One should face one’s cross. That is why the chaplain is so straightforward, inspiring us all. So I could enjoy the rainbow, I was more than prepared to endure the rain.

I was assigned to present a talk show of my Church on the Liberian airwave on my graduation in 1980. A promotion impelled by the brilliance with which she won over the audience with a sermon delivered on the preceding Sunday, standing in for the Parish shepherd who was on an assignment out of town. She gave a good account of her genius and was consequently deemed competent to be in charge of the media relations. I am glad to note that her talk stuck her name on the lips of Liberian audience. In a matter of months, Sharon became a household name. “Among my greatest fans was a loud guy I found in the shop of a pastry cook, who was running a small restaurant as well. He had a shop indicated by a sign browned by dust. ‘Spoon and fork,’ was written with chalk across the window. Steps of the old house polished by generation of footsteps led into the room. I jokingly regard him as a son. “Sonny, how do you do?” He replies making a negligible turn around: “Cooool”. Even though he seemed drenched in sweat. Life is not easy everywhere. It is struggle in some places. You must devise something or go out of business. Raising a cloth from his mass of rags, he tidied up like a skilled cleaner. All these things do not matter in the end. He would cut the largest chunk into two, serve the largest to himself in a bowl, and the smaller part into the second plate for his assistant – a shop girl who also worked for another shop in the main market. He would scoop out two mouthfuls to taste if is salty enough.

He did all he had to do to swing the customers in his favour. “Am addicted to my job and I’ve learnt a lot about it.” “Be sure you are doing it right,” I said. A short man often poked his head in the window to inquire if lunch was available. Once he burned the food. The boy he had asked to wake him sneaked out to tap soccer. The burnt fume woke him up.

Exactly three months on air Sharon was already a household name.

‘A woman pastor once visited me in the studio, amazed like other brethrens who visited me, ‘Morning,’ and she tried to go through. She could not hide her surprise. “Jesus!’ I expected to see a bigger woman,” she remarked. I told her: “God hasn’t completed his work on me”. We ended the conversation smiling. A title-holder in white sleeved flowing garment, thought that he could impress me with his gift. But he was stunned when I retorted: “I don’t like taking money that I’ve not earned.” The motive of the proposal wasn’t disclosed. He barged into the radio station majestically. He could not present himself in the manner of sophisticate people. That has bothered me a little: “I can only do what I can.”

In my early life my peers found it easy to pick on me being not tall and sometimes being grumpy.

My work was getting fascinating. I almost wished not to be replaced. Anyhow, I could not predict the chaplain, and I worried what he would think about me.

I lived a busy life that wasn’t altogether dull.

‘After reading the typescript I prepared, Don Roberto rewarded me with a smile. That was the manuscript of a speech that would be read out, at the service of the graduation from the Theological College. I happened to be one of the students who graduated. When my time would come I hope that my ‘grace’ would chuckle as it did. Most Italians are musically inclined. Roberto taught me to play guitar. You would always find him thumbing his instrument. There were three days left until my final flight to the University of Philadelphia. I had stocked my few belongings and bags in suitcases, boxes and trunks. It was thought wise to enter the ‘El Dorado’ looking tidy. Having lived with some Americans for sometime. It came to my mind me to act as if I was in a hurry. I had swung my body on the barber’s chair before taking a keen look at the barber’s shop full of curly wigs. There was the news, with the headline: ‘Just A Word.’ From immediate examination it suggested to me that it was another newly edited line, warning sinners to give up the sinful ways. But a closer look proved me wrong. The title was nothing but writing in the spur-of-the-moment, a handiwork of journalistic skill. A slogan on this line: ‘I wanna go home, to tell the guys there, what I’ve seen, how it’s like here.’ Then it came to my mind that the message was for young hopeful, telling them not to waste their time and life by dreaming of going to Europe, Canada or South Africa.

Put the accent on it is slavery of a second kind. The second enslavement although no shackles or padlocks this time or ‘the point of no return’ where slaves were bade to offer eternal goodbye to their origin, somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean. There on the Badagry River, the captives were led to the waiting slaves ships to continue their life farming sugarcane and potato plantations in America. They left Africa at the Baracoon or at Amena or at Port Accra. To give a further, a degree holder on Sociology with Post Graduate qualification in Education and Management and was working on a Ph D. What use were the degrees he bagged. These counted for little in the job he was holding. He was reduced to a mere parking attendant in Central London. That was in 1984.

He is one of thousand legal immigrants from Africa in search of skilled jobs. Unable to get a place in their fields of expertise reluctantly take up unskilled jobs many Britons were no longer prepared to do. Chilling out on the trunk roads waiting to go to work via the London underground, going for jobs that sometimes feed them, and sometimes not. Many were vendors, drivers, private security guards, road cleaners and community carers. A few of them were actually semi-skilled and unqualified. Others were highly qualified. They go to school while doing these jobs.

Economists say the drain of the African continent’s best brains to the first world is barring Africa’s development. Problems facing Zimbabwean immigrants to Britain and South Africa was that the qualification gained in the universities and polytechnics across the third world carry less weight in Europe and America than at home.

Doctors have to retrain to practice what they have mastered for seven or more years in Premier College, University of Lagos, University of Jos or Independent University. Long and possibly expensive retraining course or lengthy search for semi-skilled job had undermined their human repute. At that many a scholar was tempted by the ‘quick fix’ of unskilled job with instant rewards... still free yet already a captive. The endless struggle for acceptance in the lands they have known, led them to these. Workers from countries of Eastern Europe that joined the European Union are there to compete with unfortunate Negroes for the available menial jobs. He stressed that out of five hundred Zibabwean doctors, forty found employment in the staff-starved health care system. Teachers found it more difficult to get job in Britain. They end up as road repairmen. Many dreams turned into nightmares. A host of them die in the prime of life at Morocco-Spain border, in the Mediterranean, crossing Tunisia to Greece. But for many Nigerians the allure of going and living in Europe is too much to resist. They are complete outcasts in their own home country. The great finery on offer is enough motivation for them – a strange change that drew many of them together. The reality is that the situation in African is becoming an unmanageable calamity – rich in culture, poor in organization, tough in torture. A song we sang in the high school on a concert’s night captures the story: When I remember poverty I remember Africa. When I remember the future I remember torture. When I remember the government I remember looters. When I remember the gutters, I remember malaria. When I remember elections I remember corruption. When I remember desperados I remember Africans. When I remember the society I remember disparity. Zaire, eh eh eh Zaire eh eh – a catalogue of tragedy.

A door began to open in my mind to let in my doubt.

Time passed by for her to breath the air of liberty.

‘That night reflects to me like events of a far-off past, though only yesterday. Just two decades away yet already so distant. I spent what was to be my memorable night writing letters. I had to say good-bye to my nearest and dearest, brethren of brothers and sisters whose actions helped me a lot. It was a night without electricity. They followed down with a candle to light the way for me’.

Studying in the United States of America turned out to be the opportunity of a lifetime. It was a step into gracious living. I was like ‘the troubles will soon end.’

I was curious about so many things. First, I was to take my seat on the plane. Sitting beside me was a beautiful lady – with braided hair, wearing a navy blue French outfit. She looked something like the Chief Accountant of a North African state I’ve met somewhere in the dark past around Tejuoso market or so, but I could not be so sure where I’ve seen her.

She spoke every word with a Parisian intonation. She parted her lips in a pleasing expression. ‘Hello,’ intoned the title on the back cover of the treatise before me ‘Because I Am Involved’ she spelt making much emphasis of every word. She couldn’t catch the writer’s name. She tried without success. One of those naturally gifted women, on whom, make up would have seemed as an insult and excess, is Henrientta – superbly warm and surprisingly down to earth. I almost laughed at her difficulty to pronounce the name of the Head of State who only lasted for thirty months, “Dim Odumegwu Ojukwu.” He lived an exile in Cote D’Ivore for thirteen good years and wrote about his life as an exile.

On my right was a Viennese with black eye, manipulating figures on a mini computer, smiled at the computer box at irregular intervals. He did not take part in our conversation. Her chatter seemed to be incurable. The talk degenerated into a learned kind of nonsense. She was talkative for two hours before she began to dawdle. She started with Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, GREAT EXPECTATIONS to other literary works: ‘Strictly For Cash’ – James Hardley Chase, Death In The Clouds and Ordeal By Innocence by Agatha Christie to Vorster’s Gamble For Africa. “Negros love Africa,” she explained, “only Africa of a kind”. The Hound of The Baskervilles fell off the pouch below her armpit. I didn’t notice the hostess’s figure requesting my choice of relish. “A glass of Porch will do,” I lately said. “Her jaw hurts” She told the hostess. “If the sun would permit I will tan at the beach,” she yawned. I turned in for a nap. I could no longer catch the end of her words. Eyes grew heavy and we drifted off into sleep. A deathly silence descended on the board. The pilots were deafened to snoring engine by their earpieces. We could not feel the Bermuda Triangle.’

No mountain is too high for a goal-oriented person. The craft arrived at the International Airport at Philadelphia. ‘I admired my outfit. I was neatly dressed in corduroy, a cottony material blouse. First light at dawn, fell so gently. Obsessed with the mental map of what I was about to meet. Pictures drawn in my dreams could not reconcile me to the reality. She was beautiful beyond belief. Eloquence will fail me to convince you of my disappointment. You can count as many pleasure cars on the highway as pedestrians rushing about the Lagos metropolitan police. Broad streets flooded with lights that kept the shops permanently opened. I lost track of time. We had it all day long, without night. The world was at my feet. There were large numbers of black drivers – many were Liberians. With the little idea I had about the dialects I’ve got a good bargain. After all I had been to Monrovia and Buchanan.’

I knew her intention just as I knew her. As a boyfriend I would never mean more than a dance partner or escort for the odd parties. We could get on for a time on dates but we weren’t a fine pair elsewhere. Her hair fell on her shoulders like a flame. I tucked an arm through her arm and I walked with her towards the cars. “You will be figured in Ecomium someday as a glamour-girl, believe me,” I joked and I smiled. She knew so well how to kill a man’s spirit. A man who seemed to me that he was drank had asked her for a dance –the fool looked too rough and haggard to please her. Dry gin had kept him thin and pale. He was beginning to lose his youth. She loathed saying, “I don’t belong to your crowd.” Men staring at her irritated her most. He bowed away with a pang of dejection. Her dad seemed to me a man with heart – understanding, sympathetic and kind type. ‘Your pink lips...’ I didn’t complete the adulation, when call upon one of the tall-capped chefs hanging around.

She looked over her horn-rims at a painting. There was a lot of common sense in her – complete self-confidence. Let me lay it on you ‘No one rips off what he can’t use or sell,’ said a desperado from the adjacent table.

Most dances there were high lives. It was a black outfit. The music was a Zulu pie. The good thing about rhythm and harmony among Africans is that you can always wriggle to the beat. The instruments anywhere produce familiar sounds. I danced some steps to her amusement. She had maintained an indifferent attitude to everyone. “You seem very choosy.” ‘That’s something you should know about me right off the bat’ was her reply – under the care of a woman who would not want to marry her to just any fellow. Feasting my eyes on her boobs, we inadvertently stepped on each other. “Sorry dear”. I tried to be polite. “So I am,” she said. The thought of home had become very faint and distant. Time was flying faster than a speedy bullet. We spoke to each other in a polite first name basis. Her greatest joy was that I seemed to need her company for the rest of my stay. We looked each other full in the face. “I am learning the Law in a prominent University” I chipped in, wanting to sound important “... wanna be a lawyer?” She questioned. “Not exactly, I do not mean to practise in the conventional way. My place is in the world’s politics”. That was a dream larger than life. “I once told my father: I would do whatever he wants other than practise in Nigeria. Never!” “I admire barristers in their wigs,” she added. I wasn’t shy to add that schooling on the black continent is a difficult life when she asked about the most interesting part of my school life. A couple of prospectus and CDs had honestly furnished me with studying the situation in Europe and America alike and I’ve made personal effort to gather from friends in Pretoria about Unipretoria, UniRichmond, University of Port Elizabeth, University of South Africa and Witzwatersand. Asking anything would only give authorization to an answer. She agreed that the necessary facilities were on ground to stimulate learning. An American scholar had rightly informed that growth stops in homo sapiens at age twenty four whereas a high school student in the Niger Area would register twenty one as been wrongly taught and assimilated in our dry biological science classes. In fairness to them, our teacher doesn’t know not about changing trend in flora and fauna study, but is eager to deliver the same anachronistic methods passed onto them from textbooks. In my judgement tutors in the third world deserve importance for treating topics on which they copy diagrams and enunciate. Dry laboratories are shops allotted to them. They can only do with what they have.

A physics professor copies diagram of shrapnel in his lecture note, and invariably downloads it for the physics students. Of course it takes more than ordinary understanding to accomplish such feat. One needs to have a gift of imagination. Funmi found it difficult to figure how a bloke can suffer academic stagnation for four years. But when I pointed out there was nothing like College or Foundation Year she saw quite well that ‘the only way was the hard way.’ Most often when you score high, the results are withheld, and the chance of getting a steady result at the appointed time is very small. You can vista all the unfulfilled promises their life held out.

I did not forget to mention the extensive use of jewellery. It drew my notice to several friends I came across the first week I met her. And the answer: ‘Well it’s not absolutely so, actually there are trinkets but also there are categories of them, according to price. Some are very costly while some are not.’ “I tend to think it is part of the dressing – the way it is boasted by London’s City residents”. ‘I wouldn’t want to think it is so... It is just a matter of taste. Some cherish it while others don’t. In my own case, I do and it suddenly came to my awareness that I’ve got the habit.’

‘Poverty wasn’t over with me. Sharing a flat with other girls who offered little but superficial friendship. “Back in Monronvia I didn’t pay a penny” ‘I lived on charity’. Now she had to pay something.

One could get used to anything. She soon felt like one of them. As days drifted on, my heart felt lighter. I was determined to move in any direction provided it was forward. I was more hopeful than convinced.

We went to a grocery a shop. We had to buy some tinned food. The alarm suddenly went off. A notorious gang was robbing the place. They jumped off a jeep. The offenders shot a uniformed guard who was in their way. He tried to duck for cover. It was of no use – the bullet hit his chest. They went for the cashier. She pointed to the safe. There was a lot of cash, neat cards. They kept the pistol in the casing. The robbers unloaded the box. Every other person had ducked for cover, including myself, except for the robbers.

Lying bodies no longer spring phobia in me. A couple of missiles had missed me at a close range many times except that the rifles handled by the light-equipped gunners were rare – entirely unique from any class I had seen on the police either in Nigeria or Liberia, not even in the Biafra artillery. An elegant old lady with cheery little wig, raised objections, her eyes and my eyes met, and she closed her eyes –she felt terribly week, you could nock her down with a feather. However, she endured in the interest of safety. We were held hostage of the drama.

A Cherokee jeep reversed for their transport. They vanished in a dash, hopped in the truck and raced off. There was no soul in sight. Sooner had they gone than some vans with sirens on had arrived. The speed at which they stop crime alarmed me. I suspected there were hidden monitoring cameras on the streets. I was too naïve to notice which was which. Askaris were the only anti-crime police. US has security network tightened by Federal Bureau of Investigation, Central Intelligence Agency, cops and military.

We were too sad to speak among ourselves on our way back home. My mind drifted back to Lagos. Those days come alive to me, trapped in both memory and imagination. Yesterday views woke as soon as I blinked to remember. Such undignified details as taking shelter under bridges were prohibited, all else made it comparable to Lagos.

I applied for a part time job basically for survival, the school fees was cared for by the Church. I was to resume my studies in a matter of weeks. I took the modules seriously. But in the third year my combined marks dropped. Putting in so much time into social activities I lately realised I had been digging my academic grave for myself.

Taking a job I received my first pay packed on November 1985. Work again had for me the pleasure I once derived. ‘Whoever needed my service I shall deliver knowing one day I would be delivered,’ was my watchword. Praying that my memory will not be cursed by my kids and my children’s children

As time passed, things were improving’.

Then came the November when her past came back to her life.

‘Truly any picture firmly held in one’s mind will come forth – emotions can go up and down like a yo-yo.

One cool morning in July, I sat in the train on my way to New York. I presented myself at the address given in the daily newspaper. I arrived at the largest city in the world as a nobody.’ She met a supporter in the liaison office to get a form for recruitment into the United Nations Peace Corps: a partnership run by member countries of the United Nation coordinated by the Head of Security Council of each nation’s consul in the United States, Canada or office of the Chief of Army staff in the confederate countries. Kate had pushed to have her way. There were more than twelve people standing in front of her. Should the taking notes finish before her turn, she would feel bad. Sharon turned about and caught a glance of her, somehow their eyes met. Her hands shot out for an embrace. Her heart leapt. She came towards her. The interview lasted for about an hour. She only thought of the job but there was something else in the wind. “You seemed just right for the job,” the interviewer pointed. The gentleman had charm, looks and brains, truly adored by women and respected men by. He was far too professional to be guilty of an affair with a woman applicant. Stone looked so entrancing a bachelor. He looked confident. “A first class mentality, young though you are, you seem to speak like a mature woman”. She tried to be glad at the idea, though she couldn’t help. Serious love was very disturbing for her peace of mind. He proposed to take her out for supper ‘Sorry, but not tonight’ She protested. Just the working of the inner wheels had been thrusting her forth, led her to school, the seminary in Liberia and to the West. These were the powerful wheels of destiny. He is from the upper part of America, Alaska to be precise. “I left home because I do not want to marry my mother,” he said among other things.

The sight of the BMW was so well known to her. Memories sprang to life. Kate recently filed a divorce. She endured being a good wife all through. The couple had to face up to the fact that they were far from compatible. They got on so well in bed but nowhere else. Sharon looked at her with cold accusing eyes ‘That’s not true,’ she protested. They eyed each other thoughtfully. She could not be two-faced so she had to stand up to one kind of embarrassment or the other. That is a face of what marriage looked like. Sharon nodded but her heart sank low. “Men are without feelings but women always want to hang on and play the game to the bitter end.” Still, there wasn’t much sense in her action. ‘I gave her a melting look that left her uncomfortable.’ She could not trump up enough excuses. No time for them to argue with one another.

I wrote on, encouraged by the sunshine abroad. She relayed one day to me in Spain – one month in summer, while on my mission. ‘I sat in the shade, thinking about lunch. A branch of the Peace Mission showed us the tricks of the trade in Cadet College demonstrating how a burglar with a plastic playing card can open a spring lock. Also was explained to us the use of the cattle-fish bone, to take impression of keys and the like. After several years on the force there was little about the tricks I hadn’t experienced though I never created an uprising. A ruined tower was desolate behind the dark houses. Rod, a half-Jew smiled apologetically as his stomach rumbled. His gun sagged in his right hand pocket. A lamp was burning at one end of the expanse. Some distance thereof were heavy old dwellings with flowers. Growing on sagging verandas that leaned forward precariously. Rod’s tough leather shoes were scratched and cut. Dragonflies whizzed voraciously over the flowing surface, catching insects in flight. I shoved my fingers through my hair. Our team leader had admonished: “If there is a chance of good, okay if not we‘ll survive.” He was referring to the various commands in use. “They have no more chance here now than we have.” Somewhere nearby a leather-capped man kicked a motorbike to life. The flat fields on each side of the highway had been harvested. There we lay in the shade of branches full of leaves, as we pushed on under the relentless sun’. Her youthful body flowed in artistic proportions, she made mention that in Spain they put the mother’s name after the father’s but not so in Portugal. “Only my driver’s license. I had left,” she went on as the border’s checkpoint took care of the rest. The few reals in my back pocket jingled. Every sound marked the passage of time in my head. The background became stonier. We sighted a dark skinned girl washing clothes on a flat rock close to the bridge along the gondola. Sheets were drying on the bushes behind her. The girl below was also with her legs bare, spreading wet washed clothes over the bushes with her back to me. She cupped her hand for using the water to wash her face. We pooled our smoking materials, roll-ups, firelight and that and that ‘cause we were already feeling cold. Amy gargled and spat out the water as a fighter does between rounds. We needed the young woman to guide us through, but instinct prompted mistrust. Everything seemed to move at half speed, the figures crossing the steps. The adjacent well was obviously used as a rubbish dump. I climbed a fifty feet to what was left of the rampart; slightly above the roof of what looked like a defence academy hung a flag. Here in my hands is a bottle of water each. We took off our shoes upstream and rolled up our pantaloons. We pushed our way upstream for a couple of hundred yards till the hill lay between us, and a farmhouse.

Some were still standing knee-deep in the water. Someone brought her fingers close to her mouth and nibbled at them. Way back, dust floated in the sunlight but not amidst chilly rocks here. She shivered violently, whether it was real or an affliction, I could not tell. “I wait to live,” she cried. “You think you have a monopoly on my thought”. The struggle was taking place in his mind showed in his face, to give his girl the mute in their way. “Now what?” He made it sound as if he had been put to great personal inconvenience. There was an edge of fear in his voice that embarrassed me when he asked. The look he gave me was an affirmation of his solidarity.

Vondee’s fingers were hidden behind his back but I guessed they were encouraging him. The pigs in the adjoining barn set up a racket. I shut my mind at this and moved on. Already the key to our lodge had been misplaced for a while but as soon as the platoon commander in charge of the operation, a Sierra Leone major, by the name of Smith, asked for it. We made a show of searching our pocket for what we knew wasn’t there. In the end we hit the door with full force. It almost collapsed, leaving the lock dangling.’

After that she expressed her knowledge of music. Against the rumoured that she had lung cancer she delivered to me in words that Bob Marley died of a foot cancer developed from playing football barefoot in a novelty match he took with an association of journalists in Miami. Moletta’s was years behind the legend as a diva and her debut. ‘I should consult my colleagues we are due for a meeting tonight at the Young Disciples Club,’ were her parting words that evening.

I was returning home for the first time in five years of military service.

‘Time was ticking like a time bomb. It should be about 15:50 hours. I had emerged with my briefcase from one of the air liners, an airplane that had taken off some previous hours from J.F. Kennedy Airport in an extreme poor weather, there was no wind to move the forming darkness of the low-lying cloud, fog was rapidly descending, visibility very nil. Many travellers noticed the increasingly bad weather set in. It was bitterly cold but I felt it less after falling asleep in the warmth of an overcoat, which I was glad I had brought with me. But now there was a sudden transition with the afternoon sun, which was burning on my head and my lower arm. I hardly walked to the taxi when someone came galloping towards me, with certain cheerfulness. I recognized Kate at a glance – A fellow army officer chocolaty in complexion, pretty and very athletic. I was impeccably dressed in ash khaki uniform, expertly tailored, a black beret with an artillery emblem tacked on it, gleaming big belt and a pair of lather black shoes. My face, and everything about me, shone. “It gladdens me to see you Sharon!” She cried suavely as we could not help hugging each other, standing – surprise and pleasure spread over our faces. ‘Am equally happy to see you Kate, I responded in reciprocal appreciation with affectionate familiarity. We had both come from the same state. And coincidentally we had both been enlisted as nurse staffers at the military hospital same day, and we are both survivors of the civil war. We had our basic military training at Sandhurst and further training in Canada. Surprisingly we had not met since our departure from the States. She returned home after a ten-month officers’ course at an unknown military post. I had to stay back to attend a six-month Medical Officer Career Course at Fort Belvoir, Virginia. “I say: you look fine and cute Sharon.” She went on, her eyes roved all over me. “There is certitude that the time in the States have worked a pleasant nourishment on your body”. A necklace on me was glistening by the last shine of the sun. In return I roared with laughter and blinked my eyes. “Can I believe that?” She insisted. “A mere glance at you is sufficient to charm a dandy”. ‘How I wish I could say something similar about you. Why have you aged so soon, my dear Kate?’ With a fake smile, though she was a bit self-conscious, she explained: “I really need more than two months rest somewhere far from the hospital.” “They didn’t let me go on leave. My brigade was far too busy to give me even an hour’s leave.” Without thinking she lifted and pressed a tired hand over her face. “Men! I am just returning from Accra with a contingent there to complete an intensive eight-month battle group course.”

“Then, I understand,” I said nodding vigorously. ‘How was the exercise?’

“It was average.” She sounded like she wasn’t interested. ‘When again is it coming up? Do you know?’ “Not decided yet.” “My doctor convinced me I have to play it cool for fourteen days.” For a while, longer than usual we just stayed there on the platform exchanging pleasantries in exquisite sensibility and unbridled enthusiasm and a growing restlessness. We were both exhausted and hungry for a meal. Yet so engrossed in our chat, obviously oblivious of the passing crowd of people walking about the tarmac. The power of distraction had lost its strength, not even the beggar’s chanting could call it a day. Turning to my batman to be sure my luggage, which I handed over previously without looking sideways, was in the right hands. Naturally we swung to thoughts of the social situation in the most trouble-triggered nation in the heart of Africa – blended with the highest number of ethnic groups. She asked my view ‘Heartbreaking.’ I replied at once with all my heart. She nodded agreement, briefed me about the journey she was about to make. Within a short moment of raking we arrived at the Terminus. Just then the stationmaster’s bell jangled and a livened, Captain Kate strode across the network tracks and vanished into an East bound diesel engine. “Oooh” the engine coupled. The locomotive chugged and puffed winding into the belly of the hills in a sinusoidal way, like a rattlesnake, Unless God rules otherwise it would rain, was the general feeling.

I beamed my aide with a rough smile before re-entering my saloon car. All around the railway station were eddies of mist mixed with dust. I drove into the heart of Lagos, in the direction of my Ojoo residence trying to piece together portions of my dialogue with Tony, a young intelligence officer attached to the United Nations with whom I had tea on the deck, three nights to my departure from Galapagos Island. Somehow the scenario began to form. A war was imminent. That was late 1989, prior to the Gulf War.

The weary day was at last dragging to a close. She fished out a bar from the coolant placed on an alcove to the living room and scooped out two mouthfuls of ice cream. Looking through the louvers the sky was incredibly dark. She spent the night scanning photographs. Back home from vacation in the West where she was among them, but not one of them. Once more her home welcomed her. ‘I was consumed that I considered necessary to go to sleep earlier. At the end of it all, watching a late movie, dining, bathing, reading mails delivered in my Private Mail Bag, sorting out stubs and cards in the Chalet where I lived – a property of the Defence Ministry. I found my way to my bed, after which I wrapped myself in the waiting blanket. Vainly I tried to tune the radio to SABC. With heavy eyes I slept shortly. I was supposed to make a call on the telephone box attached to the very block where I belong to report to my superior to the tiniest detail that my arrival was safe.

The morning had a hazy look. I was woken by a knock on the door. I made towards the door and shut the cold out. There was Temi a lad of Yoruba extraction. We lived on the same avenue. He was a very striking figure, tall and chubby. He is a living image of a dynasty, a ruling house characterized by illustrious descendants. We had been so intimate in past years. They much wished us to put more effort to educate our youth. But that was more than our timidity would allow. His mum imported expensive linen articles for display in a roomy warehouse in Tejuoso. He had been so free to tell me anything. Consequently I took him into my confidence. We remained everything but nothing to one another. And our bond was an innermost thing. Dating we did. Madam would normally hover by, those days, listening patiently. ‘Pour yourself some wine’. He thumbed its cork at the ceiling fan. His promotion through the ranks of the Marine Section had been swift. He was the diligent, brilliant one in the sector. So the success corresponded with my expectation. To him, work and leisure existed side by side. We wove our experience in the last period into an elaborate talk, making much of every detail of it. There was this air of familiarity. I was to resume work the following week even as every ache and itch in my body came back at different times. Seeing him off he whispered: “You are such a darling. I‘ll always love you.” I still don’t know where his courage came from but he found it’.

The next day she made for her granny in Anambra whom she had been sending money. She removed the clean laundry on the bed and laid the blue before leaving.

Before now a hug was all the thanks she had expected. But she got much more than that Sharon could afford the luxury of a village-born that had made good in the force, dining with whites, earning fortunes. ‘Now very old, too thrilled to see me,’ referring to her grandma. Her Kampala blouse boasted a masquerade of colours. Mama watched her from head to toe. From a schoolgirl to the military personnel she had done a long leap. ‘Mama’s words fell on my shoulders lightly and pleasantly with the delica