ON MY WALL…. I was typing mercilessly on the keyboard when I heard the voices from behind my room. A new poster team had come again. I needed to finish typing 3000 words before I quit; deadline was yesterday for me. Typing 3000 words was a heck of a job even in a serene environment. But here I was sitting behind the computer and racking my brains for words to write for a story, words with which to deceive people, to amuse them or to enrage them while teams of poster posters kept on disturbing me. AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH... I stopped typing and folded my arms. I frowned. The moody expression on my face could bring about a rainstorm. I was so furious but there was nothing I could do. Right behind my room on my own wall, teams of poster posters kept disturbing me. But who was I to interrupt the process? Poster posting! It was midweek, Wednesday. Friday was going to be the market day. Suppliers knew the market was going to be choked with identical goods; perfect competition in the market. So wisely, each of them had to advertise their product. Since the suppliers were engaged somewhere, they had to court the services of the poster posting boys in town. At just a small cost, the whole town could be littered with the poster of Mr. So So and So or Mrs. This and That. It was interesting. Poster Team 1 did not draw so much attention. They had posted a poster of the funeral and burial service of Mr. Gamor. He was 108 years old. He had 3 wives, 10 children and 48 grandchildren. Gone for good. Even the poster posters knew it was not a very attractive commodity; the funeral was not going to be hot cake. 108 years was like too much for one person. He could have loaned a few years to my aunt who died at 36. What kind of selfishness was that? You keep all the years to yourself? Poster Team 2 pulled the crowd. WHAT A SHOCK? She died while in labour. The news had spread through the town like wild fire a few weeks ago. And now, it was time to PARTY for the corpse and with the bereaved family. Even before the glue could be smeared on the back of the poster, old ladies and inquisitive children came running out to assemble behind my wall. Old Lady 1: “Is this not Mame Nukpoe’s daughter who died in labour?” Who was she asking? The news was there on the poster, read it for yourself. Inquisitive Child 1: “dYes, Grandma!” Old Lady 2: “How old did they say she was?” Inquisitive Child 2: “They say she is 23 years.” The exclamations and sighs of sorrow I heard from behind my wall could have resurrected the deceased person. Oooooooooooooh… AAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaah…. OOOOOOOOOOOOO Death…… OAAOAOAOAOAOAO God, Save us oooooooooooooooo….. Old Lady 2: “But you people too should sometimes record the true age of the dead person…. How can you say Justine is 23 years? I gave birth to my son just one week before Justine was born. And my son is now 28 years old.” She was referring to the boys posting the poster. Poster Boy 1: “Grandma, I’m not the one who did the poster. I’m just a poster poster! Maybe, she was growing younger every year!” Foolish boy. Old Lady 2: “Everybody knows that death is painful but we should not be lying about people’s ages just because we want people to sympathize with us.” Wait till the supplier of this market commodity grabs you! Go away with your KRIFE thing! And before Team 2 left, I knew the venue, the band and the sort of people I could expect to attend that occasion which used to be known as FUNERAL BUT NOW BETTER KNOWN AS JOYFUL SORROW PARTY. Mind you, I had not read anything myself yet. Team 3 pulled the crowd in even greater measure. Even the poster posters were blowing a siren at every area where they posted a poster. Apostates! It was like a fanfare behind my wall. It was the wife of one of the richest men from the town. The corpse was going to be flown in from South Africa where the woman had died while attending to some family business. Corpse in mid-heaven! The funeral was going to be at the grand durbar park. The poster was a hell of a poster!. Parking space and sitting arrangement had all been put into the poster. Saloon cars were allotted parking space at 500 metres away from the funeral ground. Land rovers and other posh cars were supposed to park at the park of the goal post towards the east, Bentleys, Chryslers, Jaguars, Hammers, and Classic Mustangs were to park at the West…. What is going on? The poster did not say this but I believe it was oversight: DO NOT COME CLOSE TO 1000 METRES IF YOU DON’T HAVE A FASHIONABLE CAR. What kind of materialism and showing off is that? Mtcheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeww! The woman was 50, according to what the poster readers had read out aloud from behind my wall. The after party was going to be at the hotel. Sounded good to me! The band playing on the day were going to come from Nigeria. IGBODOMINOKOREDA BAND. Expect funeral amusement group and funeral criers. That’s what the poster said, according to what the poster readers had read from behind my wall. Dress Code was strictly the funeral cloth. Team 4, 5, 6……….. And this is only Wednesday. Come on! I gasped and sat straight in my chair. I unfolded my arms. An idea was occurring to me. I was struggling with 3000 words. But at the back of my wall, the words I could hear were more than 10000 words, all in reaction to funeral posters. Be smart, bro! Pick up the story! And pick up the story I did. Here is a piece of it. I can count over 12000 words from behind my wall. Words I hear from people. 3000 words will be no problem for me. I only needed to open my window ajar and listen from behind my unplastered wall! Come pass by behind my wall, leave a comment in the air. And believe me, when the window is opened, I may sure be waiting with my fingers ready to type them.
Posted on: Fri, 21 Mar 2014 12:28:51 +0000
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