I was six years old and in Elementary 2. I
did pretty well in school, especially in
reading
and writing, but not so well in Math which
I just didn't like. Reflecting on my poor
performance in Math as a kid, I find it hard
to decipher why I struggled so much with
Math through my High School. Could it be
because as a 6 year old, I was kept up till 9:
00 PM everyday to read and memorize my
multiplication table, or was it a mental
submission by me in concordance with my
dad's conclusions that I did not know
Math, which he happened to be famous
about in his school days? Math was to later
become my easiest course in my College
years. My problem with mathematics was
one of my earliest recorded struggle in life.
I was a kid who loved the outdoors. Break
times were highly welcome by my young
free
mind. So you could imagine my excitement
when on a Thursday morning, with
double period of Math as the next class,
my class teacher announced just after the
first lesson that everyone should go outside
and stay outside for the rest of the day. I
sang "hurray" and
dashed out, as the senior prefect's time-
keeping bell chimed. Many other
enthusiastic kids
were already out. My young heart didn't
care to know why we were out. It was
good
enough to be outside the four dusty walls
of the classroom.
There was a buzz of activities outside. The
boys and girls in the higher classes were all
busy. Some slashed twigs with cutlasses
and positioned them in the field,
while some took buckets and every other
available container to a gully site created by
flood
erosion. They made several rounds,
bringing back white sand, which in my
child's mind was so white, it will make the
best beach in the world turn green with
envy.
They lined the white sand along parallel and
amazing straight lines. I never asked
questions,
partly because I was then a shy, stuttering
bundle of nerves. But my main reason for
not
finding out why all hands were on deck
was probably just because it didn't matter.
I was
having a swell time tossing, rolling skipping
and wrestling with my buddy.
I do think at one point, I was lined up with
several other kids to do a run. I did my
best to
stay within the tracks made out of the
white sand. My cousin in the senior class
teased me
later at home of running sideways, more
like a crab, that he thought I was going to
collide
with a palm tree by the field. It hurt but I
was well acquainted with older cousins'
taunts.
What did it matter how I ran the race? To
me it was chivalrous that the busiest
person in
the field that morning had time for me.
She's the teacher who dished out
instructions and made everyone get down
to business. During P.E.s, two times in the
morning every week, when the
female pupils wore their blue trunks, baggy
and sown to hold firm to the laps, allowing
no
rooms for mishaps and the boys wore
shorts, with the letters P.E. for physical
education,
sown on the back pockets, Miss Nene,
was totally in charge.
Miss Nene sprung when she walked and
habitually wore long pants to school.
Those were
days when, as part of British Colonial
legacy, female teachers wore only frocks.
Traditional attires were not allowed.
Trousers were unthinkable.
"Can't you see she's a man trapped in a
woman's skin?" a big boy was telling his
friend.
"But she has a daughter" the other boy
reasoned.
“Urh!,” he scoffed, “how do you know if
that's really her daughter. Afterall she's not
married.”
Again those were days when kids outside
marriage was rare, almost a taboo in my
part of the African continent. Women who
had the misfortune left the kids with their
parents for good and the child grew up
calling his own mom, "sister."
I never gave a hoot about remarks on Miss
Nene's masculinity. All I knew was her
touch
was gentle and motherly as she took me to
write down my name after that impromptu
race. Furthermore her daughter, who must
be my age, always made my heart beat a
little
faster. Maybe I should hold her hand some
day and say "hi" Oh, how I wished I
wasn't a
stammerer. How I just wished I could
speak to her without stamping my feet,
repeating
my sounds and making a fool of myself.
Next day, I got dressed for school, as
always unassisted. I can't remember when
anybody
assisted me with my activities of daily
living. As a kid, I simply hated depending
on people.
Plus, I'd always thought my privacy was
my business. Well, I thought so, until I got
to
school that day. That day, the field was
looking resplendent. The pupils in the senior
classes had continued working on the
playground after the junior classes had
dismissed.
Sheds were made of fresh palm fronds
while banners and bounties abound
welcoming
families and guests.It was the school's
Inter-house Sports Competition the very
first I was to witness. Morning assembly
was precise and we were all soon gathered
in the field, only that this time non school
members joined us from all paths leading to
the school. We all filed up in front of our
Houses in school. I belonged to the Amobi
House. Amobi is the
name of the monarchy in this great town
that is the Headquarters of my local
government,
more like the County in the US
administration. His Royal Majesty, “Igwe
Amobi of Ogidi”, the King himself was
there in his complete royal splendor.
Need I say that the ceremony and the field
events were soon under way? Most of the
students had gone into the locker room and
appeared in their P.E. uniforms. I watched
and cheeredfrom the flanks with the rest of
us.
Then came the moment. A senior student
prancedtowards me and grabbed my arm
rather roughly.
“Hey buddy, didn't you hear the announcer
yell your name in the loud speaker?”, he
asked
impatiently.
"Nope," I thought to myself, " I heard no
yelling, not until you just started out."
“No”, I managed to say taken aback.
“Well young man, you're representing
Amobi House in the next race.
I ran to the start point for the track events
feeling important. Miss Nene approached
us kids lined up and I felt even better and
determined to do my best if only to get
really noticed by Miss Nene's daughter.
Then came the shocker. We were all asked
to dash to the finish point and undress right
after the finish line and then walk back to
do the race. The kernel of the race was
that we should take-off at the blast of the
whistle, run to our bundle of shorts and
shirts, get dressed and run back to start
point. I had a serious problem here.
I raised my hand.
“Yes Victor”
“Wow, she even knows my name” I
thought. But this was no time for sweet
feelings.
“Mi..mi..mi..” I started.
“Yes Victor” she bent over me with a smile
on her face. I was popular as a stutterer I
guess. I was struggling to tell her that I
was not wearing underpants.
When I couldn't say the words out, I
found myself pointing at my groin and
spreading my arms out to demonstrate lack.
“Oh, I see. C'mon little Vic. That's no
problem. You're only a kid. No-one would
notice.”
There she goes. As a kid growing up in
Africa, I always wondered why no-one
saw anything indecent in me being naked.
When will this society grow up, I thought.
My senior sister, brother and I had the
same problem in the yard where we lived.
Every adult thought we were too young to
'tie down the bathroom' when we wanted
to shower. The other day I stepped on a
long rusty nail when the three of us took
our bucket of bath water into the bushes,
because adults in the compound would not
let us use the bathing room. And the other
day the owner of a cassava farm pursued
me and my brother with a cutlass, because
we were bathing in his farm just to avoid
the embarrassment of bathing in the full
glare of other kids in the yard.
“Let's get going little Vic” Miss Nene said
as they shoved us to go strip for the race.
She emphasized 'little' as if I just left my
mom's womb.
“I'm sure you're not the only one without
underpants.”
I prayed it was so. But to my
disappointment, the only guy without
underpants was Mike, the boy with lips like
a snout. What does it matter to him? He's
the whipping boy of the big bullies
anyway. They always sang and danced
around him because of his saucer mouth.
Oh why me? I'm gonna have a fight with
my senior sister. Why didn't she let me
know I was doing a strip race?
Soon we were walking back and I was
stark naked! I hoped it was only a dream. I
felt utterly humiliated. Even Nene's
daughter and the whole visitor were all
watching this spectacle.
“On your marks!”
“No not me,” I thought, “to bend over?
Noway. I already put up enough show to
be naked before the world.”
As the race took off, while my opponents
ran to win, I ran to go get dressed. As the
crowd cheered, I thought they were all
laughing at me. In those days, we wore
knickers which had strap ups instead of
belts. Proper dressing for a six year old
was a big deal. However
dressing up, tucking in my shirt and
aligning it with the shorts was my second
nature. So I took my time if only to prove
to the world that this ugly display was a
mistake indeed. I might have been the
fourth boy to get to the finish line but I
won the second position for Amobi House
because I got back to the touch line,
perfectly dressed up.
did pretty well in school, especially in
reading
and writing, but not so well in Math which
I just didn't like. Reflecting on my poor
performance in Math as a kid, I find it hard
to decipher why I struggled so much with
Math through my High School. Could it be
because as a 6 year old, I was kept up till 9:
00 PM everyday to read and memorize my
multiplication table, or was it a mental
submission by me in concordance with my
dad's conclusions that I did not know
Math, which he happened to be famous
about in his school days? Math was to later
become my easiest course in my College
years. My problem with mathematics was
one of my earliest recorded struggle in life.
I was a kid who loved the outdoors. Break
times were highly welcome by my young
free
mind. So you could imagine my excitement
when on a Thursday morning, with
double period of Math as the next class,
my class teacher announced just after the
first lesson that everyone should go outside
and stay outside for the rest of the day. I
sang "hurray" and
dashed out, as the senior prefect's time-
keeping bell chimed. Many other
enthusiastic kids
were already out. My young heart didn't
care to know why we were out. It was
good
enough to be outside the four dusty walls
of the classroom.
There was a buzz of activities outside. The
boys and girls in the higher classes were all
busy. Some slashed twigs with cutlasses
and positioned them in the field,
while some took buckets and every other
available container to a gully site created by
flood
erosion. They made several rounds,
bringing back white sand, which in my
child's mind was so white, it will make the
best beach in the world turn green with
envy.
They lined the white sand along parallel and
amazing straight lines. I never asked
questions,
partly because I was then a shy, stuttering
bundle of nerves. But my main reason for
not
finding out why all hands were on deck
was probably just because it didn't matter.
I was
having a swell time tossing, rolling skipping
and wrestling with my buddy.
I do think at one point, I was lined up with
several other kids to do a run. I did my
best to
stay within the tracks made out of the
white sand. My cousin in the senior class
teased me
later at home of running sideways, more
like a crab, that he thought I was going to
collide
with a palm tree by the field. It hurt but I
was well acquainted with older cousins'
taunts.
What did it matter how I ran the race? To
me it was chivalrous that the busiest
person in
the field that morning had time for me.
She's the teacher who dished out
instructions and made everyone get down
to business. During P.E.s, two times in the
morning every week, when the
female pupils wore their blue trunks, baggy
and sown to hold firm to the laps, allowing
no
rooms for mishaps and the boys wore
shorts, with the letters P.E. for physical
education,
sown on the back pockets, Miss Nene,
was totally in charge.
Miss Nene sprung when she walked and
habitually wore long pants to school.
Those were
days when, as part of British Colonial
legacy, female teachers wore only frocks.
Traditional attires were not allowed.
Trousers were unthinkable.
"Can't you see she's a man trapped in a
woman's skin?" a big boy was telling his
friend.
"But she has a daughter" the other boy
reasoned.
“Urh!,” he scoffed, “how do you know if
that's really her daughter. Afterall she's not
married.”
Again those were days when kids outside
marriage was rare, almost a taboo in my
part of the African continent. Women who
had the misfortune left the kids with their
parents for good and the child grew up
calling his own mom, "sister."
I never gave a hoot about remarks on Miss
Nene's masculinity. All I knew was her
touch
was gentle and motherly as she took me to
write down my name after that impromptu
race. Furthermore her daughter, who must
be my age, always made my heart beat a
little
faster. Maybe I should hold her hand some
day and say "hi" Oh, how I wished I
wasn't a
stammerer. How I just wished I could
speak to her without stamping my feet,
repeating
my sounds and making a fool of myself.
Next day, I got dressed for school, as
always unassisted. I can't remember when
anybody
assisted me with my activities of daily
living. As a kid, I simply hated depending
on people.
Plus, I'd always thought my privacy was
my business. Well, I thought so, until I got
to
school that day. That day, the field was
looking resplendent. The pupils in the senior
classes had continued working on the
playground after the junior classes had
dismissed.
Sheds were made of fresh palm fronds
while banners and bounties abound
welcoming
families and guests.It was the school's
Inter-house Sports Competition the very
first I was to witness. Morning assembly
was precise and we were all soon gathered
in the field, only that this time non school
members joined us from all paths leading to
the school. We all filed up in front of our
Houses in school. I belonged to the Amobi
House. Amobi is the
name of the monarchy in this great town
that is the Headquarters of my local
government,
more like the County in the US
administration. His Royal Majesty, “Igwe
Amobi of Ogidi”, the King himself was
there in his complete royal splendor.
Need I say that the ceremony and the field
events were soon under way? Most of the
students had gone into the locker room and
appeared in their P.E. uniforms. I watched
and cheeredfrom the flanks with the rest of
us.
Then came the moment. A senior student
prancedtowards me and grabbed my arm
rather roughly.
“Hey buddy, didn't you hear the announcer
yell your name in the loud speaker?”, he
asked
impatiently.
"Nope," I thought to myself, " I heard no
yelling, not until you just started out."
“No”, I managed to say taken aback.
“Well young man, you're representing
Amobi House in the next race.
I ran to the start point for the track events
feeling important. Miss Nene approached
us kids lined up and I felt even better and
determined to do my best if only to get
really noticed by Miss Nene's daughter.
Then came the shocker. We were all asked
to dash to the finish point and undress right
after the finish line and then walk back to
do the race. The kernel of the race was
that we should take-off at the blast of the
whistle, run to our bundle of shorts and
shirts, get dressed and run back to start
point. I had a serious problem here.
I raised my hand.
“Yes Victor”
“Wow, she even knows my name” I
thought. But this was no time for sweet
feelings.
“Mi..mi..mi..” I started.
“Yes Victor” she bent over me with a smile
on her face. I was popular as a stutterer I
guess. I was struggling to tell her that I
was not wearing underpants.
When I couldn't say the words out, I
found myself pointing at my groin and
spreading my arms out to demonstrate lack.
“Oh, I see. C'mon little Vic. That's no
problem. You're only a kid. No-one would
notice.”
There she goes. As a kid growing up in
Africa, I always wondered why no-one
saw anything indecent in me being naked.
When will this society grow up, I thought.
My senior sister, brother and I had the
same problem in the yard where we lived.
Every adult thought we were too young to
'tie down the bathroom' when we wanted
to shower. The other day I stepped on a
long rusty nail when the three of us took
our bucket of bath water into the bushes,
because adults in the compound would not
let us use the bathing room. And the other
day the owner of a cassava farm pursued
me and my brother with a cutlass, because
we were bathing in his farm just to avoid
the embarrassment of bathing in the full
glare of other kids in the yard.
“Let's get going little Vic” Miss Nene said
as they shoved us to go strip for the race.
She emphasized 'little' as if I just left my
mom's womb.
“I'm sure you're not the only one without
underpants.”
I prayed it was so. But to my
disappointment, the only guy without
underpants was Mike, the boy with lips like
a snout. What does it matter to him? He's
the whipping boy of the big bullies
anyway. They always sang and danced
around him because of his saucer mouth.
Oh why me? I'm gonna have a fight with
my senior sister. Why didn't she let me
know I was doing a strip race?
Soon we were walking back and I was
stark naked! I hoped it was only a dream. I
felt utterly humiliated. Even Nene's
daughter and the whole visitor were all
watching this spectacle.
“On your marks!”
“No not me,” I thought, “to bend over?
Noway. I already put up enough show to
be naked before the world.”
As the race took off, while my opponents
ran to win, I ran to go get dressed. As the
crowd cheered, I thought they were all
laughing at me. In those days, we wore
knickers which had strap ups instead of
belts. Proper dressing for a six year old
was a big deal. However
dressing up, tucking in my shirt and
aligning it with the shorts was my second
nature. So I took my time if only to prove
to the world that this ugly display was a
mistake indeed. I might have been the
fourth boy to get to the finish line but I
won the second position for Amobi House
because I got back to the touch line,
perfectly dressed up.
It was the 31st day of December. The year
was 1983.
I opened my eyes and turned on my pillow
to see what time it was and reached for my
Radio cassette deck to
punch in the radio. As the veil of slumber
fell off my eyes, I
literally leaped out of bed. It was six
o'clock! I was scheduled to read the 7 AM
National Network News.
Getting to the Broadcasting House, in time
for the news was no problem. I and the
other three permanent
Newscasters lived only about 2 miles to the
Broadcasting House. But I needed at least
one hour to go through
the bulletin prepared the night before,
update some stories, and eliminate errors.
Lethargy and fatigue by the
PM Newsroom team was not uncommon at
this time of the year. It was year end and
there was celebration in
and out of town. Yet the job's got to be
done. You could imagine how stupid it
sounds to hear a newsreader say
the President took the kick-off in the soccer
match today..., on the 7 AM news.
I made a dash for the bathroom but stopped
frozen on my track. There was something
awry about the music I
heard over the radio. In the first place, 6.00
AM was time for the 5 minute News at
Dawn. So what's this sharp
military-style music? And then came the
confirmation of my worst fear.
“Fellow Nigerians, I, Brigadier Joshua
Dogonyaro, on behalf of men and women of
the Armed Forces of the Federal Republic
of Nigeria...”
A military take-over of government! I still
remained transfixed to a spot. The
announcement said the
democratically elected government of Alhaji
Shehu Shagari had ceased to exist.
Everyone should remain at
home for further directives.
However those on essential duties should
head for their places of work. Essential duty
workers? What was I?
A Newscaster with a Federal Government
owned Radio Network. That was an
essential job wasn't it? Then I
unfroze and dashed from room to room in
the guest-house were the Newscasters lived
then to inform my
colleagues about the putsch. They all
thought I shouldn't head for the
Broadcasting House just yet. The BH as
we called the Radio House, was always the
first port of call of coup executors, called
coupists for short in
Nigeria. The group of "military boys", as
Nigerians refer to the military, on behalf of
the emerging junta
storms the Radio House and broadcasts a
hurriedly scripted announcement and then
amidst the panic and confusion hunts down
the government
officials and the military top brass, either
not privy, or disloyal to their unilateral
usurpation of power. In one
of such coup announcements, curfew was
declared from "6.00AM to 6.00PM."
I did not consider my colleagues' advice. I
was young, barely 23 years old, and
overflowing with patriotic zeal.
“Ours is an essential duty” I reminded them
as I slid into my pants “You don't want me
to be picked up for
sabotage. It's my duty to let Nigerians and
the world know what's going on.”
Off I went. It was almost empty on 2nd
Avenue, Ikoyi, Lagos, where I lived, not
only because of the coup
announcement, but also because it was
New Year's Eve and most Lagos inhabitants
had traveled to their home
states to celebrate the New Year with family
and friends. I was set to run down the
Broadcasting House on foot
when I picked a taxi almost one-third of the
way down. The taxi-driver said he wasn't
stopping in front of the
Radio Station but changed his mind when I
made an offer ten times above the normal
fare, Naira5 for a
50Kobo ride.
The moment of reckoning. I soon got off
the taxi and headed for the 500 yard stretch
between the road and
the heavily fortified gate of the Radio
House. I was holding up my official Identity
Card. Just then there was a
burst of gun-fire at the army barracks
across the road, a few yards behind me.
Then the familiar crackle
sound, as the soldiers guarding the gate of
the Radio House in case of a possible
countering of the ongoing
coup detat jumped up cocking their riffles.
“I'm only coming to work. I'm a staff!” I
yelled even as they waved me in a way that
seemed to say, “buddy,
you're the least of our problems now”.
As soon as I got into the deserted
compound that was a ghost of the ever
bubbling Radio House, it dawned on
me that I might have just gambled my life
away. The stories I heard several times of
past coups and the
Broadcasting House came
reverberating in my brain. I remembered the
chilling report that during the failed Dimka-
led coup of
February, 1976, which took the life of the
then military ruler, Murtala Muhammed, a
top military icon had
actually asked another, lower
in command to bomb the Broadcasting
House to a rubble. The countering question
was “we have a lot of
resources here. How do we...?”
Answer : We'll build another Radio House.
Question: But, it's a working day. What
about the workers?
Answer: Just do it.
Strange, but thank God, the order was not
carried out. However the Broadcasting
House that day was
bombarded with a barrage of gunfire. The
bullet-ridden studio walls were still there
when I joined about 4
years later to prove tales of how my senior
colleagues ducked under the studio consoles
to dodge the bullets.
As I walked along the corridors to the
studio this fateful New Year's eve, I thought
about my heartthrob, my
fiance who traveled home to the east of the
country for the New Year celebration, and
who's thinking about
me then, especially if she's heard about the
coup, who I may never live to see her
smiles again. I thought
about my parents, brothers and sisters,
friends and I wondered if I was a indeed a
hero or an outright idiot.
I was soon at the security, bullet-proof door
that led to the Continuity Studio, the main
broadcast studio of a
Radio House. A few months back the studio
doors and cubicles were all fitted with
cameras and bullet-proof
doors and glasses to forestall unauthorized
entry into broadcast studios and protect
workers from hail of
bullets in the event of a studio bombardment
by military elements. The question on my
mind as I heard the
click that signaled me into the studio this
New Year's eve morning was, “what
protection do bullet-proof doors
and cubicles offer when a desperate ruler or
coup plotter launches an air assault on the
Radio House?”
As I stepped into the studio, the Army
Officer in charge of the securing the Radio
for the coup, a lieutenant
(he was known as BD) was same guy
heading the platoon camped at the BH to
forestall military intervention.
A popular adage in Nigeria's broken English
would say “who sabi man, na'im de kill
am.” That's to say your
worst enemy is from within. BD was
apprehensive when he saw me. The other
two announcers in the studio,
Jim-Lawson Maduike, then a Continuity
Announcer and Vicky Madukife, Assistant
Chief Announcer had
been there before the Coupists arrived; Jim-
Lawson, to start-off the day's broadcast,
and Vicky as the Station
Supervisor for the shift. The officer halted
me and made me declare myself with
military precision:
Question: What are you doing here?
Answer: I'm the Newscaster on duty
Question: Did you know there's been a
coup?
Answer: Yes
Question: Then why are you here?
Answer: To read the news
Question: (Agitated) What news?
Just then Auntie Vicky (that's how we
called her) stepped in.
“No, Nwora there's no news. The only
news now is the announcement we play
every half-hour. Now Nwora,
let's go down to the library for more martial
music.”
As we stepped out of the studio Vicky
explained to me that the young officer had
been terribly beset by the
thought of a possible counter to the coup as
he was yet to get a confirmation from the
powerful northern
caucus of the Nigerian Defense Department
in Kaduna that the coup had been
internalized in the north. We
rummaged through the hardly accessed
portions of the gramophone library where
the rarely used dust-coated
records were stacked and soon returned to
the studio to sustain the airplay of martial
music, interjected every
half-hour with the “Fellow Nigerians...
Dongonyaro announcement of a coup”
Indeed the Army lieutenant in his very early
twenties was distraught and kept saying that
he was headed for a
public execution if the coup flopped. Joining
to reassure him strengthened me in my
foreboding. Time went by
and we played one martial music after
another, rolling the coup announcement at
the half hour and on top of
the hour and dashing to the gramophone
library. BD paced the studio stepping out
every now and then as he
sought positive signals from Kaduna.
Meanwhile we assured him and I guess
ourselves too, that the coup
won't be countered. We lived in a country
where the innate short memory of the
citizenry seemed to have
erased the trauma of thirteen years of
military misadventure prior the emergence
of a second Republic. The
return of the military was therefore widely
solicited after four years of political
thuggery and brigandage
produced nationwide litigation and
disaffection after the elections which
pronounced Shehu Shagari re-elected
for another four year term. Anyone who
therefore said the military intervention was
widely welcomed was
right.
Well, all the assurances and Vicky's
entertaining stories didn't make BD eat his
breakfast of corn and beans
meal with a bottle of beer when it came
from the barracks just across the road. I
joined Jim-Lawson my burly
colleague to eat the
food, while he downed the beer. Who
knows, we might need the strength if the
dreaded counter coup came.
But that was not to be, as the Lieutenant
dashed back from another of his numerous
phone-calls from the
cubicle leaping and giving us hi-fives in
turn. I think Auntie Vicky got an embrace.
Kaduna had settled for the
coup and the civilianGovernors had all been
placed under house-arrest!
Then BD had time to wonder why the very
senior officers of the Radio Station were
not in the office and
before long, Patrick Obazele, Officer-in-
charge of News was brought to the BH in a
military jeep. He seemed
to be lost as to what to do next. After he
made two blank visits to the studios I told
my colleagues in the studio
that we needed to make a proper broadcast
to update Nigerians and the world about the
true situation in the
country. Patrick consulted with the military
guys who gave a go ahead for a news
bulletin. As far as our
professional judgment under a military
dispensation could go and as far as the
military was concerned, all
there was to report then was the coup, as
announced by Dogonyaro. I worked with
Patrick and made as many
minutes bulletin as we could, partly typed
and partly hand-written.
On the top of the hour, many Nigerians I
spoke to later told me of how they either
leaped out of their seat or
sank into one in relief when after the
Network News Station Call Sign, they
heard, “The time is 2 O'clock...
and the News, read by Nwora Aghadi...”
instead of “Fellow Nigerians, I Brigadier
Joshua Dogonyaro...” which
they had heard every half-hour since the
change of government was announced at
dawn. And for many years
when I introduced myself, the reaction was
“Oh, you're Nwora Aghadi, the Coup Day
Newscaster!”
As the military jeep that took me home after
the newscast pulled into the driveway
of #10 Second Avenue, Ikoyi Lagos, the
home of the Newscasters, my other three
colleagues hanging out on the balcony fled
into the house. When I got in they told me
that after six hours of
not hearing from me, they thought the
worst had happened to me. They didn't
even hear the news broadcast
as they were out brainstorming on their line
of action.
Almost twenty three years after the act of
brave patriotism (or was it blatant
stupidity?) as I reminisce on the
incident, I wonder what would have been
reported of me if I had been caught in cross-
fire or the Radio Station
was bombarded and I lost my life. If the
coup still went ahead to succeed as it did,
the emerging military
dictatorship would have dismissed me a a
crazy zealot who tried to thwart the "overall
wish of the people" by
trying to sabotage efforts of the coupists. If
on the other hand I died or lived and the
coup failed, the rattled
civilian rulers would have declared me a
collaborator. Such face death by firing
squad according to Nigerian
laws.
was 1983.
I opened my eyes and turned on my pillow
to see what time it was and reached for my
Radio cassette deck to
punch in the radio. As the veil of slumber
fell off my eyes, I
literally leaped out of bed. It was six
o'clock! I was scheduled to read the 7 AM
National Network News.
Getting to the Broadcasting House, in time
for the news was no problem. I and the
other three permanent
Newscasters lived only about 2 miles to the
Broadcasting House. But I needed at least
one hour to go through
the bulletin prepared the night before,
update some stories, and eliminate errors.
Lethargy and fatigue by the
PM Newsroom team was not uncommon at
this time of the year. It was year end and
there was celebration in
and out of town. Yet the job's got to be
done. You could imagine how stupid it
sounds to hear a newsreader say
the President took the kick-off in the soccer
match today..., on the 7 AM news.
I made a dash for the bathroom but stopped
frozen on my track. There was something
awry about the music I
heard over the radio. In the first place, 6.00
AM was time for the 5 minute News at
Dawn. So what's this sharp
military-style music? And then came the
confirmation of my worst fear.
“Fellow Nigerians, I, Brigadier Joshua
Dogonyaro, on behalf of men and women of
the Armed Forces of the Federal Republic
of Nigeria...”
A military take-over of government! I still
remained transfixed to a spot. The
announcement said the
democratically elected government of Alhaji
Shehu Shagari had ceased to exist.
Everyone should remain at
home for further directives.
However those on essential duties should
head for their places of work. Essential duty
workers? What was I?
A Newscaster with a Federal Government
owned Radio Network. That was an
essential job wasn't it? Then I
unfroze and dashed from room to room in
the guest-house were the Newscasters lived
then to inform my
colleagues about the putsch. They all
thought I shouldn't head for the
Broadcasting House just yet. The BH as
we called the Radio House, was always the
first port of call of coup executors, called
coupists for short in
Nigeria. The group of "military boys", as
Nigerians refer to the military, on behalf of
the emerging junta
storms the Radio House and broadcasts a
hurriedly scripted announcement and then
amidst the panic and confusion hunts down
the government
officials and the military top brass, either
not privy, or disloyal to their unilateral
usurpation of power. In one
of such coup announcements, curfew was
declared from "6.00AM to 6.00PM."
I did not consider my colleagues' advice. I
was young, barely 23 years old, and
overflowing with patriotic zeal.
“Ours is an essential duty” I reminded them
as I slid into my pants “You don't want me
to be picked up for
sabotage. It's my duty to let Nigerians and
the world know what's going on.”
Off I went. It was almost empty on 2nd
Avenue, Ikoyi, Lagos, where I lived, not
only because of the coup
announcement, but also because it was
New Year's Eve and most Lagos inhabitants
had traveled to their home
states to celebrate the New Year with family
and friends. I was set to run down the
Broadcasting House on foot
when I picked a taxi almost one-third of the
way down. The taxi-driver said he wasn't
stopping in front of the
Radio Station but changed his mind when I
made an offer ten times above the normal
fare, Naira5 for a
50Kobo ride.
The moment of reckoning. I soon got off
the taxi and headed for the 500 yard stretch
between the road and
the heavily fortified gate of the Radio
House. I was holding up my official Identity
Card. Just then there was a
burst of gun-fire at the army barracks
across the road, a few yards behind me.
Then the familiar crackle
sound, as the soldiers guarding the gate of
the Radio House in case of a possible
countering of the ongoing
coup detat jumped up cocking their riffles.
“I'm only coming to work. I'm a staff!” I
yelled even as they waved me in a way that
seemed to say, “buddy,
you're the least of our problems now”.
As soon as I got into the deserted
compound that was a ghost of the ever
bubbling Radio House, it dawned on
me that I might have just gambled my life
away. The stories I heard several times of
past coups and the
Broadcasting House came
reverberating in my brain. I remembered the
chilling report that during the failed Dimka-
led coup of
February, 1976, which took the life of the
then military ruler, Murtala Muhammed, a
top military icon had
actually asked another, lower
in command to bomb the Broadcasting
House to a rubble. The countering question
was “we have a lot of
resources here. How do we...?”
Answer : We'll build another Radio House.
Question: But, it's a working day. What
about the workers?
Answer: Just do it.
Strange, but thank God, the order was not
carried out. However the Broadcasting
House that day was
bombarded with a barrage of gunfire. The
bullet-ridden studio walls were still there
when I joined about 4
years later to prove tales of how my senior
colleagues ducked under the studio consoles
to dodge the bullets.
As I walked along the corridors to the
studio this fateful New Year's eve, I thought
about my heartthrob, my
fiance who traveled home to the east of the
country for the New Year celebration, and
who's thinking about
me then, especially if she's heard about the
coup, who I may never live to see her
smiles again. I thought
about my parents, brothers and sisters,
friends and I wondered if I was a indeed a
hero or an outright idiot.
I was soon at the security, bullet-proof door
that led to the Continuity Studio, the main
broadcast studio of a
Radio House. A few months back the studio
doors and cubicles were all fitted with
cameras and bullet-proof
doors and glasses to forestall unauthorized
entry into broadcast studios and protect
workers from hail of
bullets in the event of a studio bombardment
by military elements. The question on my
mind as I heard the
click that signaled me into the studio this
New Year's eve morning was, “what
protection do bullet-proof doors
and cubicles offer when a desperate ruler or
coup plotter launches an air assault on the
Radio House?”
As I stepped into the studio, the Army
Officer in charge of the securing the Radio
for the coup, a lieutenant
(he was known as BD) was same guy
heading the platoon camped at the BH to
forestall military intervention.
A popular adage in Nigeria's broken English
would say “who sabi man, na'im de kill
am.” That's to say your
worst enemy is from within. BD was
apprehensive when he saw me. The other
two announcers in the studio,
Jim-Lawson Maduike, then a Continuity
Announcer and Vicky Madukife, Assistant
Chief Announcer had
been there before the Coupists arrived; Jim-
Lawson, to start-off the day's broadcast,
and Vicky as the Station
Supervisor for the shift. The officer halted
me and made me declare myself with
military precision:
Question: What are you doing here?
Answer: I'm the Newscaster on duty
Question: Did you know there's been a
coup?
Answer: Yes
Question: Then why are you here?
Answer: To read the news
Question: (Agitated) What news?
Just then Auntie Vicky (that's how we
called her) stepped in.
“No, Nwora there's no news. The only
news now is the announcement we play
every half-hour. Now Nwora,
let's go down to the library for more martial
music.”
As we stepped out of the studio Vicky
explained to me that the young officer had
been terribly beset by the
thought of a possible counter to the coup as
he was yet to get a confirmation from the
powerful northern
caucus of the Nigerian Defense Department
in Kaduna that the coup had been
internalized in the north. We
rummaged through the hardly accessed
portions of the gramophone library where
the rarely used dust-coated
records were stacked and soon returned to
the studio to sustain the airplay of martial
music, interjected every
half-hour with the “Fellow Nigerians...
Dongonyaro announcement of a coup”
Indeed the Army lieutenant in his very early
twenties was distraught and kept saying that
he was headed for a
public execution if the coup flopped. Joining
to reassure him strengthened me in my
foreboding. Time went by
and we played one martial music after
another, rolling the coup announcement at
the half hour and on top of
the hour and dashing to the gramophone
library. BD paced the studio stepping out
every now and then as he
sought positive signals from Kaduna.
Meanwhile we assured him and I guess
ourselves too, that the coup
won't be countered. We lived in a country
where the innate short memory of the
citizenry seemed to have
erased the trauma of thirteen years of
military misadventure prior the emergence
of a second Republic. The
return of the military was therefore widely
solicited after four years of political
thuggery and brigandage
produced nationwide litigation and
disaffection after the elections which
pronounced Shehu Shagari re-elected
for another four year term. Anyone who
therefore said the military intervention was
widely welcomed was
right.
Well, all the assurances and Vicky's
entertaining stories didn't make BD eat his
breakfast of corn and beans
meal with a bottle of beer when it came
from the barracks just across the road. I
joined Jim-Lawson my burly
colleague to eat the
food, while he downed the beer. Who
knows, we might need the strength if the
dreaded counter coup came.
But that was not to be, as the Lieutenant
dashed back from another of his numerous
phone-calls from the
cubicle leaping and giving us hi-fives in
turn. I think Auntie Vicky got an embrace.
Kaduna had settled for the
coup and the civilianGovernors had all been
placed under house-arrest!
Then BD had time to wonder why the very
senior officers of the Radio Station were
not in the office and
before long, Patrick Obazele, Officer-in-
charge of News was brought to the BH in a
military jeep. He seemed
to be lost as to what to do next. After he
made two blank visits to the studios I told
my colleagues in the studio
that we needed to make a proper broadcast
to update Nigerians and the world about the
true situation in the
country. Patrick consulted with the military
guys who gave a go ahead for a news
bulletin. As far as our
professional judgment under a military
dispensation could go and as far as the
military was concerned, all
there was to report then was the coup, as
announced by Dogonyaro. I worked with
Patrick and made as many
minutes bulletin as we could, partly typed
and partly hand-written.
On the top of the hour, many Nigerians I
spoke to later told me of how they either
leaped out of their seat or
sank into one in relief when after the
Network News Station Call Sign, they
heard, “The time is 2 O'clock...
and the News, read by Nwora Aghadi...”
instead of “Fellow Nigerians, I Brigadier
Joshua Dogonyaro...” which
they had heard every half-hour since the
change of government was announced at
dawn. And for many years
when I introduced myself, the reaction was
“Oh, you're Nwora Aghadi, the Coup Day
Newscaster!”
As the military jeep that took me home after
the newscast pulled into the driveway
of #10 Second Avenue, Ikoyi Lagos, the
home of the Newscasters, my other three
colleagues hanging out on the balcony fled
into the house. When I got in they told me
that after six hours of
not hearing from me, they thought the
worst had happened to me. They didn't
even hear the news broadcast
as they were out brainstorming on their line
of action.
Almost twenty three years after the act of
brave patriotism (or was it blatant
stupidity?) as I reminisce on the
incident, I wonder what would have been
reported of me if I had been caught in cross-
fire or the Radio Station
was bombarded and I lost my life. If the
coup still went ahead to succeed as it did,
the emerging military
dictatorship would have dismissed me a a
crazy zealot who tried to thwart the "overall
wish of the people" by
trying to sabotage efforts of the coupists. If
on the other hand I died or lived and the
coup failed, the rattled
civilian rulers would have declared me a
collaborator. Such face death by firing
squad according to Nigerian
laws.
On a trip to my country home, I was
on a stroll to my favorite hide-out, the
stream, with its nostalgic
fresh-scenting rivulet and
overwhelmingly refreshing vegetation.
I was literally lost in the monotone of
water flow, broken now and then by
excited fishes taking short flights out
of water, and creating ripples that
dissolve at the banks, tickling the jelly
algae which creates a formidable
anchor and food for the wriggly
tadpoles. It was mating season for the
toads. The males' clamorous croak for
female attention combined with the
chips of insects and the melancholic
songs of the birds to produce an
endless ensemble.
I was looking for the best spot to slip
out of my shots and tank shirt for my
hours of fellowship with the aquatic
wonders when I heard this loud racket
above the riverine environment
sounds. I walked towards the scene of
the argument to see an older man and
a much younger man, probably in his
early twenties pulling at an ax in a tug
of war.
"You're a thief!" the older man yelled.
"No I'm not! You don't own a dead
raffia palm tree."
"Yes I do. The land is mine. So is the
resource in it!"
"Hey, what's the matter?" I asked
being careful not to get into harms
way with the forceful struggle for
possession of an ax going on.
"Young man..." the older man was
addressing me," This boy is stealing
my..."
"No I'm not stealing. Let go of my ax"
countered the younger man.
"Shut up you brat. You have no home
training. I'm your father's age. So you
must let me talk OK?"
"Hey, buddy" I ventured" Let him
speak first. We'll get to the bottom of
this issue."
"Thank you. You see, I was the one
who exploited the wine from this raffia
palm." resumed the older man, hitting
the still standing grotesque carcass of
the raffia palm tree in its first stage of
decay with palm of his hands.
The raffia palm is one of this
community's staple economic tree -
one of those shrubs in this rain forest
abode that provide for virtually every
basic need of the people, even when
they have been felled and till they rot
into the earth, if ever. Second only to
the oil palm tree in all round economic
value, the raffia palms flourish along
the banks of streams. Before it
reaches maturity, the village palm wine
tapper carves a rectangular vertical
hole of about two by six close to the
fronds and fixes a funnel (often of the
hollow-bamboo stick) through which,
the tree's white sap , an amazingly
sweet, juicy and yeast-rich, low
alcohol wine drips into a catchment
container, usually a gourd. The village
wine tapper makes two rounds in a
day to take the filled calabash gourds
and fix empty ones until the poor tree
runs itself to death.
It is common in the community to advise
overzealous folks to “run like the oil palm
and not the raffia palm.” That's to say ,
don't burn yourself out. Unlike the raffia,
the oil palm wine drips slowly and shuts
off after a couple of weeks. Thus an oil
palm tree can be exploited for wine
scores of time in its lifespan with at least
one year interval between each tapping,
to allow for re-growth since the juice
tapping is done as close to the young soft
upper end as possible. The raffia palm
wine is the delight of women and "soft
brain" men who can't stand the sharp,
sour taste of the significantly alcoholic oil
palm wine. Nursing mothers, especially
crave it as it improves their lactation.
By now you may be wondering the ado
about a dead trunk in a swampy river
shore. Answer is that the death of the
raffia palm tree only sets the scene for
the last set of goodies from this wonder
shrub. As soon as the raffia palm tree
gives up its greenness, the juicy alcoholic
trunk goes through fermentation as
decadence sets in, emitting a fresh aroma
which delights the stick-mouth beetle.
This particular specie of beetle, scarcely
bigger than an infant's thumb, may be
described as the giant specie of a rice
weevil. In a matter of days it populates
the trunk with a swamp of over fed,
barrel-shaped cream-colored lava. Call
them tree-worms if you never tasted
them. In the Oil-rich city of Warri in
Nigeria's Niger Delta, expatriate Western
oil workers would revile at the site of the
delicacy being hawked by the roadside of
the municipal.
"Hey, buddy what's that slimy worm?"
"Ha-ha! That is delicious friend," his
indigenous co-worker quipped as he
stuffed his mouth full.
"Is that edible?" the Westerner gasped.
"Yeah , it is edible."
There! the hawker who's not educated in
the Western English scampered off in
excitement armed with the magic word
he'll use to make his food presentable to
the Western visitors, and out-smart his
competitors on the road run. So as soon
as the next car with oil-workers pulled
up
he rushed forward with his display
yelling from the bottom of his lungs,
"Edibo! Edibo!!" And the name
stuck.
Back to the swamp of the village stream.
As the older man rambled on about
owning the insects in the dead wood, the
young contender took a hard squint-eyed
look at me.
"Bros I respect you," with emphasis on
'you' he gulped and continued, "Bros,
you
live in the whiteman's country. But you
sure know our customs and traditions
more than this mother goat that eats the
bark of a tree."
The older man shot out his fist in
reaction to the latest harsh words from
the young man. I preempted it by taking
the blow on may palm.
"Now, my people, we can't achieve
anything but possible injuries if we go on
like this."
I could now fathom who both characters
were. The young man sure recognized
me.
But the older man didn't. I
remembered many years back when
he lived in town, a businessman who
traded in raw tobacco, then big
business. It is common place to see
once successful entrepreneurs in
Africa suffer irreparable business
failures, due to poor macro and micro
economic planning; sometimes due to
catastrophic mishaps like fire, flood,
riot, or burglary. Most businesses are
not insured; so the loss is total and
overwhelming.
"Can we negotiate folks!" I yelled on
top of my voice, above the rancor of
the two men. "Put the ax down." I
added my grip to the ax, midway the
handle. I faced the older man. "You
have established that you tap wine
from this part of the stream. And he
owns the ax. So let's hack up this
trunk and share the content among
you two."
Instantly my compromise proposal
was thrown into the stream.
"No way!" The young man
demonstrated the finality of his refusal
by swinging his head sideways. This
adamant position made the older man
even more cantankerous.
This is getting knotty. I was
determined to push further.
"Bros (our way of addressing older
mail relatives, friends and
acquaintances we consider not old
enough to be our parents) can I confer
with you privately?"
I needed to let this man realize his
foolhardy.
He hesitated and took a long look at
the tree as if contemplating taking it
along with him.
"OK" he said in acquiescence as he
stepped aside with me watching the
young man from the corners of his
eyes.
"I have a question for you," I
whispered, "if a villager goes on a
stray yam search and finds some
sizable yam tubers in your harvested
farm, do you lay claim to the
produce?"
He bit his lips as he considers his
response. This man in his greed must
have lost sight of the traditional
provisions of our community that after
the primary harvest by the farmer in a
single-crop farm, any other goodies in
the harvested farm belongs to whoever
sees it.
"Put another way" I continued, "if a
villager sees a giant mushroom,
genetically linked to your harvested
yam, will you stop him or her from
taking it?"
"No. That is a different issue
altogether."
"You're right by answering 'no', but
this is by no means a different
scenario.
"No, no! This is a conspiracy!" he
protested giving me a suspicious look.
The young man who's been waiting
anxiously for the outcome of the
negotiation must have sensed from his
opponent's outburst that he was
having an upper hand in the argument.
He resumed hacking at the tree trunk.
The other man moved swiftly and
grabbed the ax.
Both of them must have swung the
same position because the three of
us followed the flying ax as it flew
up above the raffia palm fronds and
then the unmistakable "taumbaum"
sound on impact with water.
Everything seemed quiet. The
young man clasped the crown of
his head with both palms as if
determined to press himself into the
muddy swamp. The older contender
wore a defiant look, grinding his
teeth.
The young man spoke first. "Bros,
he's got to get my ax."
Swearing and cursing under his
breath the other claimant started
beating a retreat.
"Bros he's going. Hey bros
he...he..." the young man stuttered
in confusion.
"Let him go" I said in measured
tone. I had spotted the position of
the ax; a deep but calm part of the
pond. Meanwhile, I pondered in my
mind why this guy didn't make a
move to retrieve his ax, knowing
for sure he could swim. I was to
find out later that a young man had
drowned in exact portion of the
stream a couple of weeks before.
He was from a distant town in
another State, but together with
many other men lived in my town
and did highly essential odd jobs,
like climbing the tall palm trees to
harvest the fruits. Our young men
have either left for town, are in
college, or charge a lot more for
such jobs. As soon as the older man
in my story was gone, I slipped out
of my shorts and shirt and walked
into the water, being careful to
avoid contact with hidden twigs and
thorny mat-plants. This portion of
the stream was fairly deep, almost
half over my height. I therefore
swum out and took a calculated
drive instead. My first search in the
water-bed produced no result. The
water is getting muddy by my
activities making it unfruitful to
open my eyes in water. But each
time I surfaced and saw the young
man's concerned looks, I knew I
had to find the ax and eureka!, I
did.
He leaped in joyful relief as I
surfaced and thrust the ax in the air.
"My uncle would have killed me."
he said as he prostrated to me to
take the ax.
Fired by the older man's
recalcitrance and this young man's
appreciative gestures, I lent a
helping hand to cut up the trunk and
pick out the rich harvest of "edibo."
Seeing the greed in his eyes I was
sure the man would be back with
his ax. So I
asked the young man to take an
alternative bush path back home,
while I went walking through the
bushes overlooking the route to the
stream. There he was, trotting as
fast as his ageing feet could, back
to the stream with his ax. I thought
to myself, this man sure got quite a
busy week ahead of him, not in
harvesting "edibo," but in facing the
Village Elders Council for his
inappropriate behavior and also in
shopping for another ax to replace
the one he 'lost'.
on a stroll to my favorite hide-out, the
stream, with its nostalgic
fresh-scenting rivulet and
overwhelmingly refreshing vegetation.
I was literally lost in the monotone of
water flow, broken now and then by
excited fishes taking short flights out
of water, and creating ripples that
dissolve at the banks, tickling the jelly
algae which creates a formidable
anchor and food for the wriggly
tadpoles. It was mating season for the
toads. The males' clamorous croak for
female attention combined with the
chips of insects and the melancholic
songs of the birds to produce an
endless ensemble.
I was looking for the best spot to slip
out of my shots and tank shirt for my
hours of fellowship with the aquatic
wonders when I heard this loud racket
above the riverine environment
sounds. I walked towards the scene of
the argument to see an older man and
a much younger man, probably in his
early twenties pulling at an ax in a tug
of war.
"You're a thief!" the older man yelled.
"No I'm not! You don't own a dead
raffia palm tree."
"Yes I do. The land is mine. So is the
resource in it!"
"Hey, what's the matter?" I asked
being careful not to get into harms
way with the forceful struggle for
possession of an ax going on.
"Young man..." the older man was
addressing me," This boy is stealing
my..."
"No I'm not stealing. Let go of my ax"
countered the younger man.
"Shut up you brat. You have no home
training. I'm your father's age. So you
must let me talk OK?"
"Hey, buddy" I ventured" Let him
speak first. We'll get to the bottom of
this issue."
"Thank you. You see, I was the one
who exploited the wine from this raffia
palm." resumed the older man, hitting
the still standing grotesque carcass of
the raffia palm tree in its first stage of
decay with palm of his hands.
The raffia palm is one of this
community's staple economic tree -
one of those shrubs in this rain forest
abode that provide for virtually every
basic need of the people, even when
they have been felled and till they rot
into the earth, if ever. Second only to
the oil palm tree in all round economic
value, the raffia palms flourish along
the banks of streams. Before it
reaches maturity, the village palm wine
tapper carves a rectangular vertical
hole of about two by six close to the
fronds and fixes a funnel (often of the
hollow-bamboo stick) through which,
the tree's white sap , an amazingly
sweet, juicy and yeast-rich, low
alcohol wine drips into a catchment
container, usually a gourd. The village
wine tapper makes two rounds in a
day to take the filled calabash gourds
and fix empty ones until the poor tree
runs itself to death.
It is common in the community to advise
overzealous folks to “run like the oil palm
and not the raffia palm.” That's to say ,
don't burn yourself out. Unlike the raffia,
the oil palm wine drips slowly and shuts
off after a couple of weeks. Thus an oil
palm tree can be exploited for wine
scores of time in its lifespan with at least
one year interval between each tapping,
to allow for re-growth since the juice
tapping is done as close to the young soft
upper end as possible. The raffia palm
wine is the delight of women and "soft
brain" men who can't stand the sharp,
sour taste of the significantly alcoholic oil
palm wine. Nursing mothers, especially
crave it as it improves their lactation.
By now you may be wondering the ado
about a dead trunk in a swampy river
shore. Answer is that the death of the
raffia palm tree only sets the scene for
the last set of goodies from this wonder
shrub. As soon as the raffia palm tree
gives up its greenness, the juicy alcoholic
trunk goes through fermentation as
decadence sets in, emitting a fresh aroma
which delights the stick-mouth beetle.
This particular specie of beetle, scarcely
bigger than an infant's thumb, may be
described as the giant specie of a rice
weevil. In a matter of days it populates
the trunk with a swamp of over fed,
barrel-shaped cream-colored lava. Call
them tree-worms if you never tasted
them. In the Oil-rich city of Warri in
Nigeria's Niger Delta, expatriate Western
oil workers would revile at the site of the
delicacy being hawked by the roadside of
the municipal.
"Hey, buddy what's that slimy worm?"
"Ha-ha! That is delicious friend," his
indigenous co-worker quipped as he
stuffed his mouth full.
"Is that edible?" the Westerner gasped.
"Yeah , it is edible."
There! the hawker who's not educated in
the Western English scampered off in
excitement armed with the magic word
he'll use to make his food presentable to
the Western visitors, and out-smart his
competitors on the road run. So as soon
as the next car with oil-workers pulled
up
he rushed forward with his display
yelling from the bottom of his lungs,
"Edibo! Edibo!!" And the name
stuck.
Back to the swamp of the village stream.
As the older man rambled on about
owning the insects in the dead wood, the
young contender took a hard squint-eyed
look at me.
"Bros I respect you," with emphasis on
'you' he gulped and continued, "Bros,
you
live in the whiteman's country. But you
sure know our customs and traditions
more than this mother goat that eats the
bark of a tree."
The older man shot out his fist in
reaction to the latest harsh words from
the young man. I preempted it by taking
the blow on may palm.
"Now, my people, we can't achieve
anything but possible injuries if we go on
like this."
I could now fathom who both characters
were. The young man sure recognized
me.
But the older man didn't. I
remembered many years back when
he lived in town, a businessman who
traded in raw tobacco, then big
business. It is common place to see
once successful entrepreneurs in
Africa suffer irreparable business
failures, due to poor macro and micro
economic planning; sometimes due to
catastrophic mishaps like fire, flood,
riot, or burglary. Most businesses are
not insured; so the loss is total and
overwhelming.
"Can we negotiate folks!" I yelled on
top of my voice, above the rancor of
the two men. "Put the ax down." I
added my grip to the ax, midway the
handle. I faced the older man. "You
have established that you tap wine
from this part of the stream. And he
owns the ax. So let's hack up this
trunk and share the content among
you two."
Instantly my compromise proposal
was thrown into the stream.
"No way!" The young man
demonstrated the finality of his refusal
by swinging his head sideways. This
adamant position made the older man
even more cantankerous.
This is getting knotty. I was
determined to push further.
"Bros (our way of addressing older
mail relatives, friends and
acquaintances we consider not old
enough to be our parents) can I confer
with you privately?"
I needed to let this man realize his
foolhardy.
He hesitated and took a long look at
the tree as if contemplating taking it
along with him.
"OK" he said in acquiescence as he
stepped aside with me watching the
young man from the corners of his
eyes.
"I have a question for you," I
whispered, "if a villager goes on a
stray yam search and finds some
sizable yam tubers in your harvested
farm, do you lay claim to the
produce?"
He bit his lips as he considers his
response. This man in his greed must
have lost sight of the traditional
provisions of our community that after
the primary harvest by the farmer in a
single-crop farm, any other goodies in
the harvested farm belongs to whoever
sees it.
"Put another way" I continued, "if a
villager sees a giant mushroom,
genetically linked to your harvested
yam, will you stop him or her from
taking it?"
"No. That is a different issue
altogether."
"You're right by answering 'no', but
this is by no means a different
scenario.
"No, no! This is a conspiracy!" he
protested giving me a suspicious look.
The young man who's been waiting
anxiously for the outcome of the
negotiation must have sensed from his
opponent's outburst that he was
having an upper hand in the argument.
He resumed hacking at the tree trunk.
The other man moved swiftly and
grabbed the ax.
Both of them must have swung the
same position because the three of
us followed the flying ax as it flew
up above the raffia palm fronds and
then the unmistakable "taumbaum"
sound on impact with water.
Everything seemed quiet. The
young man clasped the crown of
his head with both palms as if
determined to press himself into the
muddy swamp. The older contender
wore a defiant look, grinding his
teeth.
The young man spoke first. "Bros,
he's got to get my ax."
Swearing and cursing under his
breath the other claimant started
beating a retreat.
"Bros he's going. Hey bros
he...he..." the young man stuttered
in confusion.
"Let him go" I said in measured
tone. I had spotted the position of
the ax; a deep but calm part of the
pond. Meanwhile, I pondered in my
mind why this guy didn't make a
move to retrieve his ax, knowing
for sure he could swim. I was to
find out later that a young man had
drowned in exact portion of the
stream a couple of weeks before.
He was from a distant town in
another State, but together with
many other men lived in my town
and did highly essential odd jobs,
like climbing the tall palm trees to
harvest the fruits. Our young men
have either left for town, are in
college, or charge a lot more for
such jobs. As soon as the older man
in my story was gone, I slipped out
of my shorts and shirt and walked
into the water, being careful to
avoid contact with hidden twigs and
thorny mat-plants. This portion of
the stream was fairly deep, almost
half over my height. I therefore
swum out and took a calculated
drive instead. My first search in the
water-bed produced no result. The
water is getting muddy by my
activities making it unfruitful to
open my eyes in water. But each
time I surfaced and saw the young
man's concerned looks, I knew I
had to find the ax and eureka!, I
did.
He leaped in joyful relief as I
surfaced and thrust the ax in the air.
"My uncle would have killed me."
he said as he prostrated to me to
take the ax.
Fired by the older man's
recalcitrance and this young man's
appreciative gestures, I lent a
helping hand to cut up the trunk and
pick out the rich harvest of "edibo."
Seeing the greed in his eyes I was
sure the man would be back with
his ax. So I
asked the young man to take an
alternative bush path back home,
while I went walking through the
bushes overlooking the route to the
stream. There he was, trotting as
fast as his ageing feet could, back
to the stream with his ax. I thought
to myself, this man sure got quite a
busy week ahead of him, not in
harvesting "edibo," but in facing the
Village Elders Council for his
inappropriate behavior and also in
shopping for another ax to replace
the one he 'lost'.
The Little Strip Race
The Coup Day Experience
Much Ado About 'Edibo"
| Shortstories of actual experiences while growing up in Africa Pictures Left to Right: Vic (1972) As a Newscaster; Radio Nigeria Network News Studio (1982) and fresh raffia palm tree "worms" larvae of the weevel beetle, the oily, succulent, mouth watering Edibo. |
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