Sterile sky, p.9
Sterile Sky, page 9
‘Did you tell her you were coming?’ Baba asked.
‘I told her once and she objected to it. To her, all I needed was a little more patience and things would get better. When the rainy season came, she would have her own farms and things would improve. I disagreed with her. I hadn’t seen anything that made the lives of the village farmers better. I wouldn’t remain in the village even if we had our own farms. “You’ve been infected with the city disease like your father,” she told me. I didn’t inform her I was leaving. But I told my friends to tell her that I was gone.’
*
‘We’re all children of violence, at least by the religions we practice,’ Omodiale said. He was bouncy and lively. He wore a white undershirt over a pair of jeans. His hands in his pockets, a gleaming necklace dangling on his chest, he looked like those broad-chested American film stars on our TV. ‘Y’know, the graves are multiplying at the cemetery. Go there now.’ He pointed towards the cemetery behind our house. ‘You’ll see many more new ones.’
I stood watching, engrossed. I held my school bag under my arm. My sneakers were dirty from trekking. I was thirsty.
Baba Fatima sat in his chair, staring at Omodiale. Baba Peter, bare-chested, stood facing Baba Fatima. Baba Peter’s worn trousers dropped below his waist, revealing the waistline of his white underpants, coloured with dirt. His buttocks were bigger than his wife’s.
‘But dat cemetery na for only Muslims; why dem dey die like dat?’ Baba Eddy asked, his large stomach bobbing up and down as he spoke. He seemed to be suffering from what my integrated science teacher called obesity.
Baba Fatima said, ‘You don go Christian cemetery to see how dem dey die? Na both sides dem dey kill each other. Anytin pass nine o’clock in de night, dey fit kill you for any corner.’
‘Hey! God forbid,’ Baba Eddy said, making the sign of the cross.
‘Hhm na for Allah’s hand I dey o,’ said Baba Fatima, opening his palms skyward.
Baba Peter asked Baba Fatima, ‘Na true say you become Muslim dat time wey dem de kill people?’
‘Ah, my dear, I for don die if I no join dem dat time o.’
‘Me I no fit do like dat. Man no suppose to be coward.’ It was Baba Eddy.
‘Y’know, Baba Eddy, I disagree with you,’ Omodiale said. ‘That cool, ageing man sitting there would’ve been kpai if he hadn’t Islamised. Really, it’s not cowardice but wisdom. Y’know, the only problem is that the old man has refused to return to his original religion.’
‘Wetin you mean, Omo? Make I go back to Christianity? I go do so when I retire go my village,’ Baba Fatima said.
Baba Peter laughed. Baba Eddy sneered.
I saw Zubairu and another Hausa man walk past to the mosque. He greeted us in Hausa. We answered in a chorus.
‘But I no dey see you enter mosque to pray,’ Baba Peter told Baba Fatima.
‘I dey do am small small. Na…’
A voice interrupted Baba Fatima: ‘Excuse me, Sir!’
We turned towards the thin, feminine voice. Only her head was out of the door. Omodiale walked to her in his room.
Lowering his voice, his eyes still on Omodiale’s room, Baba Peter said, ‘Every day na so so different girls dey come here. Which work he dey do sef?’
‘Ask am na,’ Baba Fatima said, smiling.
‘Na wa o,’ Baba Eddy said.
‘No be teacher him be?’ Baba Peter asked Baba Fatima. ‘Since I know am, he dey do many things. E fit tell you say him be contractor.’
His eyes darting to Omodiale’s room, Baba Eddy said almost in a whisper, ‘He fit be four-one-nine man.’
Omodiale bounced out of the room. The girl followed him. She was petite, innocent-looking and wore a school uniform. Obviously shy that we were looking at her, she turned her face away as she hurried past. They walked out of the gate.
‘Hey! Chineke!’ Baba Peter burst into laughter, clapping. ‘Dis one no be small enjoyment o. Under thirteen!’
Squinting towards the gate, Baba Eddy said, ‘Which kin’ enjoyment? Na children abuse.’
Baba Fatima said, ‘Make una tell am jare.’
‘Who go tell am?’ Baba Eddy said. ‘Talk make you see how he go scatter your head with grammar.’
‘Me and him don live for dis house for long, before crisis. He no take anything serious at all. Na so so girls. And he get degree from Ambrose Alli University,’ Baba Fatima said.
Omodiale walked into the compound, beaming at us, his steps those of a proud cockerel.
Baba Eddy, his squint splitting to a smile, told Omodiale, ‘Na so you dey cool for barracks dat time of crisis, Omo.’
‘O yes, brother. Y’know, I don’t understand why people are so serious about violence and killing.’
‘Wetin you mean?’ asked Baba Peter.
‘What happened was not new. And, in any case, it was bound to happen. Y’know, the number of people killed is so tiny in the history of violent killing. Violent killing has been there since the beginning of the world. Y’know, we’ll all die, violently or not, and leave the violence behind. What do your religions tell you? A simple act of offering to God brought violence between brothers: Cain and Abel. Look at it this way: Christianity and Islam are rooted in violence. When a…’
Baba Eddy interrupted him. ‘Na lie, Omo. God command us say: Thou shalt not kill.’
‘No argument about that, brother. Y’know, if you read your Bible or your Koran well, you’ll see several incidents where the same God ordered killings and destructions. Don’t get me wrong, brothers, I’m not saying God is a liar.’ Omodiale looked into Baba Fatima’s eyes, into Baba Eddy’s, then into Baba Peter’s. He seemed to be seeking consent to proceed. We were attentive, like students before a teacher.
Then he launched into a spiel:
‘And the Lord commanded the children of Israel to go and claim the Promised Land. That land wasn’t unoccupied; it wasn’t fallow waiting for the children of Israel. So what happened? They went, equipped with a holy instruction to kill other people and take the land. Brothers, the tradition of killing people and taking their lands, rooted in Christianity and Islam, has continued throughout all ages. And Saul and David and Samson and other biblical warriors continued to kill other people with holy instructions. And the last messenger of God came with the power to kill, to conquer. And his conquest spilled from Arabia to other parts of the world, to poor Africa, where the sword was placed on our fathers’ necks: they either accepted the religion or kpai. And the children of Cain filled the world. Brothers, don’t you know that the makers of eloquent weapons of mass destruction are children of Cain? And from conquest to conquest, from empire to empire, a lot of blood was shed. And for flimsy excuses, which were not more than the urge to obey that holy instruction, the world rose against itself in what are now called First and Second World Wars. Do you know how many people died in the First World War? Britain lost about eight hundred thousand men; Germany lost about one point eight million; France lost one point six million; the USA lost one hundred and sixteen thousand men. Those were men in some of the active countries who died fighting the war. You can’t count people like you and me, innocent and vulnerable, who died in the remote ravages of war. Figures for the Second World War were even worse. Brothers, have you heard of Hiroshima and Nagasaki?’ Omodiale burst into a song, swaying rhythmically:
‘Remember Hiroshima
Many, many years ago
Mama and Papa are crying
For the plight of their posterity
Hey, come away Rastaman
Are you sure we’re in human race?
Hey, come away Rastaman,
Are you sure this is human race?’
I recognised the song by Maxwell Udoh.
Omodiale continued. ‘Two cities: human beings, their properties, their wealth, turned into the debris of violence with atomic bombs. Those bombs were manufactured with one prayer in mind: In God we trust. Brothers, do you know of the Warsaw uprising where two hundred thousand people were massacred? Do you know of the Great Purge of the Soviet Union between 19S7 and 1938 when about one point three million people were kpai? Do you know that when Hitler got his own inspiration, let’s call it an unholy instruction, he descended on the Jews and, through a systematic design, about six million of them were kpai in cold blood? And the violence was brought to Africa, with pillage and thievery. I mean, brothers, from the slave trade to colonialism. Continental violence.
‘Do you know of the massacre in Sharpeville, South Africa, in 1960? Do you know of the lives of black people wasted in Kenya before her independence? And the children of Cain, in order to keep the trend of violence, killed all our Jesuses so that they could use their Jesus to rob us. They slew our black saviours: Patrice Lumumba, Amílcar Cabral, Martin Luther King Junior, Walter Rodney and Steve Biko. Look brothers, the violence you see today has a history. The first blunder of creation was the holy instruction to kill people and take their lands. There lie the roots of all violence. Now let’s ask ourselves, are those being killed human beings like those killing them? Why are some people created only to be killed? Why are some people created only to have the pleasure of killing other people?’ Omodiale looked at the other men, a grin on his lips. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead.
‘Hhm, Omodiale, dis your talk don make piss dey worry me sef. Make I go piss first,’ Baba Eddy said, as he grabbed his crotch and waddled to the bathroom.
‘Omo, dat na dangerous talk,’ Baba Peter said.
‘Omodiale, if you talk like dis for outside dem go kill you fast fast,’ Baba Fatima said.
‘Y’know, I’m not afraid of violent death, Baba Fatima. That’s why every day, every hour, I live my life to the fullest. I indulge in all the pleasures I approve for myself, knowing that in a twinkle of an eye, the club, the rope, the sword, the dagger, or the gun will come for my life. Or the ultramodern parcel bomb with which they quenched Dele Giwa. Unlike you, I accept that violence is bound to happen. The foundation of the world and its religions is laid on violence. Even our primitive societies were founded on violence.’
‘Wetin yon mean?’ asked Baba Peter.
‘Well, Baba Peter, the empires, the kingdoms, the bloodthirsty monarchs. Have you heard of Oba Nogbaisi and Usman dan Fodio?’
Baba Peter scratched his head.
‘No mind am, Baba Peter,’ Baba Fatima said, ‘wetin him know about Oba Nogbaisi? Dem never born im papa dat time sef.’
Omodiale laughed.
I left them and walked into our room, thirsty and hungry. I kept wondering how Omodiale had acquired all that knowledge.
9
I Freeze, Gaping at Her
I froze, gaping at her. My school bag fell from under my arm. Mama was sitting on a small stool in front of our room, her right palm cuddling her cheek, her eyes staring blankly. She was emaciated and yellow-eyed. She smiled at me and looked away. I could not utter a word. Is this my Mama: that courageous woman whose voice rang out so confidently against our delinquencies and Baba’s misbehaviour? Is this my Mama, averting her eyes, subdued, like a famished beggar?
Her voice was low and sad. ‘I’ve grown sickly, haven’t I? And you’re so shocked you can’t even tell me welcome. I meant well for everyone.’
My head grew heavy and my stomach tightened. I blinked and felt drops of tears on my cheeks. I was dumbstruck.
Mama ignored my tears. ‘Enter the room, your wife has been waiting to see you.’
I wiped my tears, picked up my bag and entered the room, wondering who she could be referring to. There was Grandmama, all bony, veins conspicuous, staring at me with her beady eyes. She was really old and I wondered why she had bothered to make such a journey.
‘Is this my husband grown so big?’
‘That’s your husband,’ Mama answered, stepping into the room.
‘Eeeeeh!’ she shouted, standing up and grabbing me in embrace. I felt the bones of her body as she held me tight. Crushed by sadness, I merely opened my arms in order not to embarrass her. Then she moved her body away, squinting at me, her hands on my shoulders. ‘My husband, you’re becoming a man, a handsome man. Can you fight now?’
I essayed a smile and managed to say, ‘And you’re becoming a beautiful girl. I’ll fight for you.’ Grandmama broke into a song, dancing in an amusing way.
Gun ne gun ne
My own, my own
Ingi loba de
When I will marry,
I lai gini de
Where will I marry from?
I lai g’Usha lo
I will many from Usha.
Oji w’ohi guwa
What makes them great?
Ijebe n’onu
They are great wrestlers
Anu ga byun g’ebe g’uwa
That is what takes me to them.
Gun ne gun ne.
My own, my own.
She laughed, revealing her toothless gums. ‘I am happy that you are still alive for me.’
Mama was also laughing. I grinned as best I could. Grandmama returned to her seat.
Ajara and Anyaosu curtsied before me.
‘Welcome, Murtala,’ Ajara greeted me.
‘Thank you. How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Welcome, brother Murtala.’
‘Anyaosu, how are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘And you, Yakubu?’
‘I’m fine. Welcome, brother Murtala.’
Though they were not looking so healthy, they were not as emaciated as Mama. Ajara still had her slender build, but had grown hollow-eyed. Anyaosu had lost some weight and looked sad. Yakubu had sores at both ends of his mouth. Oyigwu and Emayabo were on the bed, asleep. I wobbled into the inner room, undressed and ate my lunch silently. It was jollof rice with smoked fish. The way it tasted, I was sure Mama had prepared it.
Baba returned from work an hour later. As soon as he entered, he halted, surprised. Oyigwu shouted ‘Baba!’ and rushed to him. Baba lifted him up. Emayabo clasped her arms around Baba’s right leg. In awhile, she disengaged herself from Baba and came and sat on my lap. Her eyes glittering, she asked, ‘Brother Murtala, where is brother Ukpo?’
I did not expect her question. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘I want to know. Tell me now.’
‘I’ll tell you later. Just stay calm.’
‘You promise?’
I nodded.
Ajara, Anyaosu and Yakubu greeted Baba quietly. He responded by uttering their names. Baba and Mama did not exchange greetings.
Baba greeted Grandmama who replied by saying, ‘I have come to confirm that you are still alive and normal!’
Baba did not say anything. His mood was that of pained humility. He pouted his thick lips in a sullen silence. He withdrew to the inner room, still carrying Oyigwu. I prayed that no quarrel would erupt. But Mama looked too weak to quarrel and Baba was too depressed to bother.
We were all indoors except Imatum who had recently developed a habit of spending her days out. ‘I can’t continue to sit in this oven you call a room,’ she had told me one day.
‘Where will you go then?’ I had asked.
‘Into the world. I can’t remain in the heat of an oven when there is air out there.’
Baba had told her to wait until he received that month’s salary before she returned to school. There was no alternative.
‘Kpan kpan here. Madam, welcome o.’ It was Mama Umoru, one of the wives of the limping man from the mid-west of the country.
‘Tank you, Madam,’ Mama answered her.
‘How road?’
‘We tank God o.’
Still standing in the doorway, she turned her face to Grandmama and spoke louder, ‘Old Mama, welcome o.’
Grandmama’s attention was on the TV. I told her that the woman was greeting her. She turned to her and said, in our language, ‘Thank you, my daughter.’ She quickly turned her eyes back to the TV. It had occupied her attention ever since I had put it on.
Mama Umoru laughed and left. Mama Tindele came next. Mama Eddy also came; she entered the room but, like Mama Umoru, did not sit down. ‘We tan’ God for safe jorni for una,’ Mama Eddy said.
‘Tank you, Madam,’ Mama replied.
Baba came out of the inner room, wearing his favourite safari suit, the one he always wore to Sabon Gari. Oyigwu bounced happily behind him and together they went out. After some minutes, Oyigwu returned with a packet of biscuits. Baba did not.
I saw shock in Imatum’s eyes when she sneaked into the room. It was already dark outside.
She had taken to using make-up in an excessive manner. She was becoming healthy, in fact, well fed. Tall and beautiful. She did not eat food at home even if she cooked. She had complained that her hair was lice-infested from the village and had had it cut. She used a perfumed moisturizing cream, not the Vaseline we used.
Mama’s reply to Imatum’s greeting was, ‘Since we came in the afternoon, I’m just seeing you. Where have you been? Is this the freedom you ran away from the village for?’
‘I’ve been with my friends.’
Imatum sat down beside Grandmama. ‘Ene, welcome.’
‘My daughter, I have been asking after you,’ Grandmama said without removing her eyes from the TV.
‘That’s not an excuse, Imatum,’ Mama continued, her voice low, almost tender. ‘A woman who tells lies is totally irresponsible.’
‘I saw her with a man in a corner yesterday,’ I intruded.
She retorted, ‘It’s a lie!’ She turned to me, stamped her foot and shouted, ‘Don’t blackmail me, Murtala.’ She sucked her teeth at me.
‘What blackmail? I saw you with Omodiale yesterday.’ I pointed towards his room.
‘I was only greeting him. Is he not our neighbour?’
