Sterile sky, p.7
Sterile Sky, page 7
‘I’d nod my head. And my eyes would sparkle with a promise he understood; my mind would leap to the next level of epiphany. I didn’t go to the farm except on weekends; he was careful not to burden me with much work. While many tongues wagged that my father was spoiling me, my mother understood his vision and didn’t complain that he was misdirecting her first son.
‘“Son of the Wind,” she called me one day. “As fast as the wind are your wings. No witch, male or female, can touch you. Go ahead of them; you are from my brave hips.” I was grateful to her for sharing my father’s perception. I vowed I would never let them down.
‘Then my grandfather died suddenly. He had a large family and had instituted a hierarchy-by-eldest-son. My father, being his eldest son, took over the affairs of the family. That was the beginning of my problems. His siblings, who were now working for him, pried into my future. They became envious, assailing my father with their crooked reasoning. They were working for a man whose first son didn’t work because he was ‘special’, even though the same boy would benefit from their labour. They put the issue to him in such a way that it gnawed at his conscience. My father was caught in the dilemma of either letting me continue my schooling or withdrawing me to join his younger brothers in farm work. Now, Murtala, these uncles of mine were grown-ups and I was still a teenager.
‘One day, my father sent for me. I met him in his uponu.
‘“I have been having sleepless nights over my brothers’ murmurs. You’ll stop going to school.”
‘My eyes dimmed and my stomach tightened. Tears welled up in my eyes. “But I want…”
‘“I have spoken.”
‘That was final. He was a man of few words. Like every old man in our village, my father regarded words as sacred. “Words,” he once told me, “are seeds that grow. If you plant good words, they will yield goodness; if you plant bad words, they will yield evil.” I knew it would be futile to make him change his mind.
‘I was devastated. I plunged into a hunger strike until I was close to death but realised that death was the worst option. I sought solace in the Catholic Church that had just started in our village. The church leader was interested in me. He did his best to change my father’s mind, although my father insisted on his decision, pointing out that I was a child of the family and should gladly accept the decision of the family. I was forced to follow my uncles to my father’s farm. They taunted me and created opportunities to beat me up each time I followed them there.
‘The church leader, a Tiv man, tried to assuage my depression. One day he told me, “I’ll bring you up in a spiritual way. If you behave well, I’ll recommend you to the church to train.” Encouraged by that promise, I toiled for him. For a full year I toiled, waited eagerly, but was not shown the way to school. I became worried.
‘“Be patient, time will come. There’s a time for everything,” the church leader kept consoling me when he noticed my worry.
‘“I pray every day, Master,” I told him.
‘“The Lord answers prayers.”
‘My father did not like my closeness to the church leader and he accosted me. I saw him as Satan obstructing my future. My mother confronted me one day: “Son of the Wind, we are worried that you have become a slave to that stranger, who is himself a slave to one Ijisos.”
‘“Let no one be bothered that I choose to slave. I have my life.”
‘“But you are a descendant of the Wind. The Wind does not know slavery. Haven’t I told you of how we fled our original land and crossed the river because of the slave trade? We eluded the Hausa slave traders. And when they came here, we resisted them squarely. Now, we cannot watch you turn into a slave.”
‘“I’m slaving for Jesus Christ.”
‘“Is that sickly-looking stranger your Ijisos?”
‘“I say Jesus Christ, not the church leader.”
‘“The whole village sees you washing, fetching water and cooking for him. When did you become a woman to cook for a man, ehn, tell me? Do you not know shame?”
‘My parents didn’t have to worry for long.
‘It all crashed one afternoon when I stood by the window of the church leader’s room and watched as he pounded away on Ikende, one of the beautiful girls in the church. I left, disappointed. Shattered. All his overtures to make me return to his house and church failed. I could not reconcile the piety of the revered church leader with such a common sin of the flesh. I convinced myself that his promise to me was false; he lived a life of falsehood.
‘I hit utter frustration. My spirit was drunk on rebellion: confrontational, disrespectful, implacable. I became a recluse. Then, I simply packed my clothes and left the village. I was the first boy in the village to be disgruntled with his father’s decision and to set his own vision abroad. At the stream you cross before entering our village, I took water in my right palm and vowed: I’ll only return when I have the triumph of my soul.
‘I went straight to a recruitment ground: I wanted to join the army to fight in the civil war, to vent the self-righteous anger I carried. The first man I met in army uniform told me that the war was over. He was amused that I didn’t know.
‘I reluctantly settled as a labourer in Nasarawa, not far from our village. I carried blocks and mixed sand and cement for the first storey building in Nasarawa. Traders from our village, on their way to Kaduna, saw me and told me how my disappearance had inspired moonlight songs. When the traders saw me again, they gave me my father’s greetings. I felt uncomfortable, being so close to home.
‘I hitchhiked to Illorin and walked into Talatu’s arms. A great woman, Talatu. She rescued me from the hunger and harshness of the street. She was a slim, tall woman with bleached skin. Her laughter revealed the allure of gapped teeth.
‘On my fifth day in Illorin, I still had nothing to do, so I lounged around and carried loads to earn some coins. I slept on the veranda of the brothel where she lived.
‘“Wetin you dey do here?” she asked me in a serious tone the first day she saw me.
‘“I have no place to sleep.”
‘“Where you come from?”
‘“Plateau State.”
‘“Ei! Plateau? You mean Benue Plateau?”
‘Astounded, she drew closer to me. Her lively eyeballs arrested my shy look.
‘“From Plateau? Who bring you here?”
‘“I’m alone. I’m looking for work.”
‘“E be like say you go school, abi?”
‘“Yes, primary school.”
‘“So wetin you dey do here, fine boy?”
‘“I’m no longer in school. I want to work.”
‘“You come alone? Na master dey bring boys like you to work for farm for money. Where your master dey?”
‘“I don’t have a master and I don’t know how to farm.”
‘She cackled, clapping her hands. “Hey I don see sometin today. Na oyinbo pikin you be wey you no know how to farm?” She turned towards the door and shouted, “Imeri and Matta, a beg make una come see wetin I dey see o.”
‘In a moment, five women, half-naked, rushed out of the brothel. They had wiggly buttocks and bleached skins, their bodies smelling of unwashed flesh.
‘I became shyer as they crowded around me, throwing questions at me:
‘“Where you come from, han’some boy?”
‘“You wan rape Talatu?”
‘“Wetin bring you here dis morning?”
‘“Talatu, wetin de boy do you?”
‘I could not answer their questions.
‘“Na shy boy e be, make una leave am,” Talatu said.
‘She took me to her room.
‘I lived with her, running errands for her. She fed and even gave me pocket money. She introduced me to her babalawo as her small husband and sent me to him now and then to collect incense and concoctions for her. She taught me how to cook jollof rice. She taught me how to speak Pidgin English well.
‘“Why you comot from school, fine boy?” she asked me one day.
‘“My father no want make I continue.”
‘“Your father?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“Why e be say all dose village old men dey so wicked. Na my papa make me be ashawo today. Him and his brodas tie my leg and hand, carry me go give one old man wey dem say I must marry. I run comot from de old man house.”
‘I became popular in the brothel.
‘“Talatu’s husband, abeg go buy me tomato.”
‘“Make you help me fetch water abeg.”
‘“Talatu, I wan send your husband.”
‘“Hhm, Talatu dis ya husband fine well well o; you fit do ojoro marry am.”
‘“Talatu, if you make iyanga too much I go snatch dis boy from you.”
‘In the evenings, when she attended to her customers, I would wander around silently – I had no friends – and return to the brothel at midnight. She insisted I sleep with her. Talatu instinctively knew that I was a virgin, even though I was in my late teens.
‘Half-drunk one night, Talatu decided to give me a lesson. Touching her crotch, she said, “Toto sweet well well,” her lips widening to a toothy smile. “No mind people wey say na sin. No be God make am? I go teach you how to fuck, you hear?”
‘I stared at her.
‘The next day I disappeared from Talatu’s arms. With one menial job after the other, I roamed the town of Illorin. After a year, Talatu got me in the main market of Illorin where I did not expect to see her.
‘“Hey! See my Benue broda wey run comot from me because e dey fear to fuck,” she said cheerfully.
‘I was amazed that she was not angry with me. “Good afternoon,” I greeted her.
‘“Where you dey now?”
‘“I dey with one man.”
‘“Come, you like police work? One of my customer be police officer and dem dey recruit.”
‘“Yes I like am,” I said excitedly.
‘I followed the tall goddess home. For the three days we waited for the police officer to come – for that was what she said – she ushered me into the world of flesh.
‘I trained and became a policeman. I’ve spent about eighteen years in the police.’
I stared at Baba as he coughed and became silent. Then I asked, ‘Baba, if you’ve spent eighteen years, why are you still a corporal?’
‘Oppression, my boy, oppression. Have you heard of an embargo on promotion? We’re in a country where embargoes are placed on all positive things by the military dictators. Each dictator came with his baggage of embargoes. When they don’t promote us, they save a lot of money which would have been spent on salaries. Only for themselves. Let me tell you, Murtala, the police force is the most fertile ground for oppression. Or let’s say the entire military and paramilitary force. Have you heard Fela’s Shuffering and Shmiling?’
I nodded. I always heard that song from Omodiale’s room.
That’s our condition. With a loud yessa, we salute those who oppress us. Then we smile and return home to the hostility of our wives and children.’
I kept watching Baba keenly, my palms cradling my cheeks, my head tilted sideways.
‘But I had my ill luck too, Murtala. It was perhaps my bad uncles who bewitched me. As a young policeman, I was to attend a promotion interview, the only promotion interview that ever came my way. I prepared for it. But on the day of the interview, I overslept. Your foolish mother was there; she went to the market early in the morning without waking me up.’
Baba did not have any reason for calling Mama foolish. She had told us the story. She told us how it was Baba’s habit to sleep any time he was home. ‘At one point, I thought sleeping was a sickness that all policemen had,’ Mama told us. ‘But I found out that it was only my husband who slept without control.’
*
Later in the evening at about six, I took a walk to Kwana Hudu. I walked leisurely along the main street. I did not follow the shortcuts. I did not want somebody lurking in a corner somewhere to attack and kill me. That fear had always been in my mind since Baba told me that people were still killing people in hiding.
In front of one large house I saw a heap of burnt kerosene stoves, water-heating coils, clothes, pans, plastic buckets, small radios, books and other small household items. Rains had washed away the ashes and the burnt objects were scattered around. I saw such heaps in front of many burnt houses. I noticed that men did not sit under roadside trees, playing cards or draughts, laughing loudly as they used to do. I did not see women, sitting under trees, often beside the men, plaiting hair, talking and occasionally bursting into gossipy laughter. I did not see those kiosks under trees, owned by housewives who sat and played ludo. I did not see little children, naked, bathed in sand, seated on the ground under trees, playing. The main street, though not deserted, was quiet. Hausa girls moved around, hawking oranges, bananas and spices. I saw a few non-Hausa people alighting from buses and entering houses. I tried to see if I could recognise anybody. I did not.
I met the barber who saved our lives sitting on a wooden bench in front of the zinc stall he used as a salon. He was excited when he saw me. ‘How are your parents?’
‘They’re fine.’
He offered me a seat. I declined politely.
‘Where do you live now?’
‘Kwanar Jabba.’
‘It’s not far from here.’
‘My mother and my younger ones have gone to our village. It’s only my father and me.’
‘Well, that’s good. Most people have run away. The killers behaved as if the strangers didn’t have their own hometowns.’
‘Most people haven’t returned.’
‘How will they return?’ He looked into my eyes. ‘If they have things to do in their places, will they return to a place where they’ll be killed?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘And yet Prophet Muhammadu sallalahu alaihum wasallam enjoins us to welcome strangers and live with them. It’s the strangers that bring the things we need that we don’t have.’
I looked at the door of our former house intently. ‘Has anybody occupied our former house?’
‘Who will occupy it? No Hausa man will pay Hajiya Halima what your father was paying her. The crisis has impoverished many landlords and landladies here.’
After a moment of silence I told him, ‘I’m leaving.’
‘Thank you for coming. Greet your father for me.’
I took a turn towards Helen’s house. It was a huge house, burnt. The part of it to my right, as I stood in front of the house, had collapsed. I saw a dog, two cats and a few hens amongst the debris, foraging. Helen’s apartment was in the part that had not fallen. I saw the metal door of the apartment hanging on a loose hinge, slashed at the middle. I saw the curtain, dark blue with white stripes, dirty, dancing in the evening breeze. My eyes were riveted to the curtain, willing them to penetrate and see what was inside the room. Would the remains of Helen be there? Had anybody buried Helen the way we buried Ukpo? Did anybody tell her, ‘May your soul rest in peace’? Had anybody prayed for her?
Sweet Helen, why don’t you simply walk out of that room? Where are you? Are you in the marketplace, where Ukpo is, homeless, hanging in the air? I’m standing here, waiting for you. Please walk out of that room, Helen.
Darkness enveloped me suddenly. Even the sun, my companion, did not wait for me. I wiped tears from my eyes and hurried home, afraid that I might meet my own death.
7
Father is Christian, Mother Muslim
‘My father is a Christian and my mother a Muslim,’ Ola said, a smile on his neat lips.
‘How can that be?’
‘Oh, that’s how it is, Murtala.’
I looked into Ola’s eyes. I thought I might see something strange in them. There was nothing. I wondered how a Christian and a Muslim could be in one house as husband and wife. How would they pray? How would they put up with each other?
‘How did they come to like each other? Christians and Muslims always hate each other. ’
‘My dad says it’s love. They really love each other.’
‘What about you and your siblings?’
‘We are free to be in any religion.’
‘It’s amazing, Ola. I can’t imagine my family being like that. My mother quarrels if any of us doesn’t go to church on Sundays. She doesn’t like us having Muslim friends.’
Our classmates had all left. Ola and I were always the last to leave the class after school. Sometimes, his father’s driver came to take him home. In most cases, however, he preferred to go home by public transport, because of me. We often stayed back in class to chat and do our assignments together. I was better than him in maths and integrated science. He was better than me in social studies and English.
‘Hey Murtala, let’s go have a snapshot.’
‘Why? This hot afternoon?’
‘We’ll go to a photo studio. Want to see how our sneakers look in the photo.’
He persuaded me.
We met Millicent on the way. ‘Your father’s car hasn’t come for you?’ I joked.
She always smiled sweetly before replying. ‘I don’t have a father’s car.’
‘But you look like someone whose father has a car,’ I teased.
A mate of ours waved at us from his father’s car.
‘I guess you were too late to catch your own father’s car,’ she said as she walked beside me.
We all laughed.
We reached a crossroad at which Ola and I said goodbye to Millicent. She beamed at me, ‘Goodnight and sweet dreams.’
Ola insisted we have lunch before the snapshot. If we had eaten, we would look more relaxed and the photo would be better. Since he had money and was given to impressing me, he took me to a fancy restaurant. I felt very uneasy when I saw that all the people inside were adults. Their faces gleamed. Their necks were fat. The image of Baba with his thin neck crossed my mind.
‘Take your seat.’ Ola pointed to a seat. He sat down opposite me. He picked up the laminated piece of paper that was the price list and called out the menu for me.
‘I’ll eat fried rice,’ I said.
I had heard some of my classmates, especially Jennifer’s clique, talking much about fried rice, but I did not know what it was. This was an opportunity to taste it. Ola stood up and walked to the buffet. I took the price list and looked at it. I was shocked to see the price of fried rice: a hundred naira! Quietly, I stood up and walked towards Ola. I met him halfway, returning.
