‘Kayode Oyero
“As a norm in Wazobia, to collect,
citizens firstly connect.” O.J.O
The Sun’s face tilted towards the
west. Orange blur veiled the tired Sun after long hours of beating the earth
with a flail of fire. Flapping wings and chirping of birds flood the air the
way disco beats bathes the atmosphere of a night club. Their tweets echoed as
they move in solidarity to their respective nests. It’s evening!
Mama Aduke’s hut is a meeting point
for children. It serves as a brewing pot for wards of the noveau rich and the
poor. Dark and light-complexioned; well-nourished and malnourished kids
habitually cluster round her at moonlight for fascinating tales.
Seated almost immobile like a post on
a wooden stool exuding the calmness of a pond, we thronged her the way toddlers
encircle a Nanny at a daycare center picking crusts from our nose. Mama Aduke’s
fame as a Story-teller is legendary. This is evident from the fact that Parents
from all nooks and cranny of Wazobia fling their wards to her compound. This
they do at moments when Uncle Sun goes off duty for Brother Moon to take over.
Often-time, we come with a token of
gift from our parents in appreciation for her mastery at feeding we children
the morsel of life issues. Memory floods my mind like waterfall as I focus on
the past wanting certain unforgettable events to flow back to consciousness in an
apt and chronological order.
Being the fondest of my Father (of
blessed memory), I was not denied the opportunity of listening life-and-direct
to this Gargantuan Teller of past happenings in Wazobia. That was at a time
when the family vacated to my paternal soil for the forty-one days after-burial
ceremony of my paternal mother.
This Wordmonger creature held my
fancy in many ways. Though at the time, she resided in a rural village, but her
sense of civilization and modernity is incontestable. Noticeable along the
pathway that connects her gate made of bamboo tree to her thatched-roofed hut
of pin-like windows are stones carefully painted in white and black, giving the
aisle a cosmopolitan look.
Dad had earlier briefed me about her
profile: A retired professional secretary who doubles as a childless widow. She
was addressed Mama Aduke for this reason-Aduke being her first name not a name
of a child. She had flown back to her ancestral soil after an official safari
as a white collar salary earner (call it reversal of fortune. She damns not
care!). Her migration to her home soil was after the tragic demise of her
husband: A man whose love was the scent that perfumed her life. She had lost
him to the terminator of all times in a ghastly motor accident two decades ago.
Presumably, her sterility had
influenced her decision to taking into hobnobbing with innocent young minds.
There by, allowing us the luxury to lap up affection from her as a kitten
guzzles milk from mother cat.
The air around her was habitually wet
with wisdom that crystallized from experience and reflection about local and
universal truths and all other forms of knowledge. She was a historian
per-excellence. She was a wordsmith and a wordmonger who hypnotized
‘spirits’ and humans by her sheer power of eloquence. With her mouth she
escavated past stories. To her, a people without a past are a people without memory.
They have no knowledge of how to construct today and how to shape tomorrow.
It’s no doubt that she’s the third and fourth eye of Wazobia: Memory and
Imagination.
“As a woman in the flush of her youth
when beauty is unmistakably natural with breast ripe enough to cushion a man’s
head,” she paused silence reigned in our midst like solitude in a graveyard.
Hundreds of pin-pickable eyes fed on her simultaneously casting gaze that had
curiosity buried in it. Uncle moon was very helpful as he looked down at us
from a majestic vantage with wide-opened eyelid. “I was all-woman:
well-rounded, soft-bodied and a feast for all eyes! I had all the soothing
features that appeal all eyes and titillated masculine heart.” She continued in
a contrive tone that carries the sophistication of gifted Storytellers.
“I worked as a secretary to a bigwig
Manager of a reputable business institution for a period that spanned through
thirty uninterrupted years. In sum, judging by my experience in that office, I
can’t but confess that in Wazobia, to collect, you need to connect! My Boss, a
man in his fifties with spectacular matted moustache was not only a sexual
pervert but also a dangerous and bossy creature once he ascends the throne in
the miniature kingdom of his office. As a practice, sexual encounter with
female staffers was a gateway for them to get effected their ‘deserving’
promotion to higher cadres. To female Job-seekers, romping with them on bed was
a ticket for their initiation into employment. While dealing with female
contractors, sexual gratification is also a facilitation to his award of the
contract such a ‘corporate harlots’ vie for. Of note is the fact that there was
an equilibrium sort of agreement between the two parties. While my Boss
collected a taste of their waist in the form of spine-tingling sex, they on
their part are connected having stylishly but gladly gone whorish to submit
their naked self to him in bed. In sum, anyone who seals this pact with him,
his hand scribbles as the recipient of the promotion and contract respectively.
Gender violence was just too
prevalent a malaise in Wazobia!
And as for the male folks, my Boss
went about the ‘collect-connect’ thing in a different dimension. ‘If you truly
and really need this contract awarded to your establishment, you will have to
join my clique.’ was the exact statement he belched to them on phone when they
cold-call him on their ‘the-contract-must-be-mine’ quest.
To put clearly, Occultic induction
into a secret confraternity of which he was a member was the passport for any
Contractor to secure contract in his establishment. And should in case you want
to ask me as to what they do there, ‘I don’t know!’ is all I can say. But, an
exception to the above trend is nepotism. That was if the subject happened to
belong to my Boss’ bloodline”. Mama Aduke said in a tone laced with awe and
satire.
“Mama Aduke, what is the solution to
this social migraine called connect-collect?” one of the girls, chinwe by name
asked demurely exhibiting the problem-solving trait of a solution-provider.
“That’s a brilliant one young one”
she professed. See, many a student of the school of spiritual wisdom oft-choose
the path of supernatural warfare to control the connect-collect syndrome. They
are wont to burying their heads in fervent prayers whilst not forgetting to
fortify such intercession with white-fasting. These set of puritans receive
unexplainable favours neither by submitting their body to people like my Boss
nor by succumbing to occultic induction.” Mama Aduke explained.
Abruptly, an eastward wind blew
hardly, blasting our fragile chest with its whirlwind. Nearby shrubs and
grasses bow in obeisance to her terrific blizzard. “kkakakakaka” a nerve-racking
Mister thunder announced the on-coming of Master rain. We dispersed from our
point of convergence running helter-skelter to seek refuge under a nearby shed
while we waited for the arrows of rain to hit the soil before we depart to our
respective abode.
Like pus from a ripe boil, the sky
urinated heavily on the earth!
“Rain, rain go away
Come again another night
Little children want to ..…”
(A labyrinth of the past)
…Kip da Optimism Alive!
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