Why were Christians and Muslims fighting when the Imam of the Central Mosque, Jos, was in our house? Why were Christians and Muslims fighting when we all very well knew that Father always had a crush on Aunty Hajiya? The Imams skull was bleeding. Spews of black currant sprinkling from his neatly shaven head like a punctured hose. Father helped drag him from the Toyota Corolla. Mr Sunday, please, come and help me! Aunty Hajiya begged. Ah ah ah ah ah ah, Father exclaimed like he usually did. He hurried to the frontage to help pull the Imam from the car. The Imam was dangling like a seesaw. His arms in fathers hands, and his legs in Aunty Hajiyas hands. He was suspended in the air like an elastic rubber-band. His eyes were white. His cornea had faced inside his head. Kelvin, open the door quickly quickly! Father ordered. We evacuated our room, dressed the beds neatly, and took out our shoes so that the room wouldnt reek of 90 day old stockings. Our Imam was sleeping, and Aunty Shebi Shebi was preparing Pounded yam and Eguisi soup for him. Father wasnt one to take likely the presence of clergy men. He held them dear to his heart; just as God would expect of him. Aunty Hajiya wanted to head back to town. She wanted to leave the police barracks. Father said it wasnt safe, that she should remain with us in the barracks until things settled. Aunty Hajiya left either way. She said she needed to go be with her children; even if it meant in death. The Fulani herdsmen were fleeing the township area and penetrating through the fenced rocks of the cantoment for safety. They were bringing their fat cows and mulls into the barracks, and flogged them whenever they would go out of line. In three months all of the grasses in the barracks had been levelled down due to the cows and their constant grazing. We no longer had need for lawn mowers. Who would have thought that our Imam had a penchant, a knack for Bollywood movies? But we engaged him nonetheless within the span of this crisis, this war. It was a war, because there was blood everywhere-- on the streets there was blood, in the mosques there was blood, in the churches there was blood. We were living inside Ribena. It was a war, because every second our city would go boom! Boom in the car parks, boom in the ministries, and boom in the traffic. Cars were going boom like bombastic. Names of films, names of films, names of films, names of films-- Sunita, we said. Kuchi Kuchi Hota he, Our Imam said. Nagina, we said. No no no, said our Imam. I have never heard of Nagina before... Sir, there is Nagina now. Havent you watched the one where the girl turned into a snake on a poll and was chasing this guy like this? She was just coiling round this poll and wanted to go and bite this guy like this, We said. Hmnnnn, youre sure the name of the film is Nagina? Our Imam said. Yes! We Are Sure, We chorused. We barely could spend time with our Imam, because everyday he had visitors. Bishops from the catholic church, mostly, would come to check on his health to make sure he was safely recuperating. They would bring gifts, and get well soon cards, and they would say: Assallamu Alaikum before going into our room. Meanwhile, in town, we heard an entire family had been murdered leaving only the wife to witness the brutality. We heard her husband and her two sons had their heads chopped off by an axe while she was made to kneel and watch. Kiosks were burnt to the ground, people were burnt to ashes in their vehicles on the main road and they froze like Paris statues. Jos now looked like burnt egg, crusty and flaked with crisp blackness. We wondered what had triggered the war. There were many rumours. Some said a little christian girl was walking pass a mosque and she flicked over a muslim mans prayer mat in the front of the church with reckless abandon, and the war began. Some said a christian man was telling a muslim man not to touch his Bible, and when the muslim man touched his Bible and tossed it over, the war began. Like I said, they were rumours. Over the course of three months, the news on the radio told a different story. In this coming elections dont allow these politicians to use you, the radio presenters warned. Its all tribe related. Some want the new Governor to come from Miango, while others are saying NO, that they want the incoming Governor to come from Abattoir. They are just staring up trouble, because it is evident from the polls that the next Governor is likely to come from Abattoir, they said. During this time, Father said he felt it necessary to teach us the Basic Rules Of Etiquette. Never discuss religion when youre at a public function. People have diverse views, and it is best to keep your belief to yourself, Father said. Its a free country. Its a free country. Father would hammer. Dont force your ideology down peoples throat, he would say. As the war subsided, and many people fled from Jos, Jos became too quiet. It felt like we were now leaving inside an empty pot of stew. When we screamed our voices came back to us. Plateau State become Echo State. After the war had subsided, our Imam said itd be unfair if we didnt trade a thing or two about the things that we believed in. We were scared, because Father had warned us never to discuss religion. Our Imam said: Teach me the Lords prayer. Ehn!! We chorused. Sir, are you sure? We asked. Yes I am certain. Try me, he said. Our Father, Our Father, Our Imam said. Who art in heaven, Who art in heaven..... Our Imam said. You know that loud call to prayer you hear every fridays from the speakers in the mosque? He asked Yes sir. The Allahu Akbar prayer, we replied. Its called A Call To Prayer, he said. Oooo oooo, teach us sir, we begged. It goes like this: Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar God is the greatest, God is the greatest, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar God is the greatest, God is the greatest, we said. Ashadu an la ilaha ill Allah I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship but God.... Ashadu an la ilaha ill Allah I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship but God, That day, we learnt The Call To Prayer. Aunty Hajiya came and took our Imam back to town, the Central Mosque. We said bye bye, and he said bye bye too. He frizzled our afros and told us to be good boys. We would miss our Imam. And we would buy a copy of Nagina for him; to prove to him that Nagina is actually a real Indian film, an Indian love story. Michael Ogah.
Posted on: Sun, 23 Nov 2014 19:33:04 +0000
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