Narrative THOUGHTS FROM MY HOLIDAY (DECEMBER 2013) (Written exactly 361 days after) Up until two days to the journey, my mind was not made up as to whether I should travel as far as Obgomoso, Oyo state from Yola for my friend’s wedding. I need not prepare much typical of a young carefree, unmarried man that I am. My suit in a bad and a pair of jean and polo shirt suffices. Opaque was the vision that I battle with the idea whether to go or not. Then there was a pop-up; an emerging idea that I could sponsor someone to go with me. I wish I was made up enough to go with my woman to be. I mean my wife to be… Blank, what? Yes; I discovered that I had none. Shit happens… but then I could woo one of those I had something likable with. Yes! I have and arrangements were on top gear, when I discovered again that I was day dreaming. Without mention, she won’t go with me, who am I after all. Then I tried another and she reminded me of how irresponsible my proposal was. “Don’t you know I stay with my parents?” but I said I will go and inform them myself. “and who will you say you are?” I thought for a while that I have been way too optimistic about this fantasy. It has left me to bug people about a problem they have no business in. Fear griped me firmly, my over confident mind has cost my reputation more than a stain. My soft speaking baby Rejoice Clarkson would have been a good candidate for the journey. But I thought I should allow her, since she is still basking in the euphoria of coming first in class after much encouragement from her mum. It will be a costly error to expose her to the frailty of my conscience about this odyssey. But then, I thought that, I stand guilty of obfuscating issues around this journey. December 25th, when I entered the ultra-magnificent architectural masterpiece we worship in, at St. Augustines Bekaji, I was quickly cut short from my usual routine of admiring the church by the sight of my Oracular friend,#Oundufa #Zege, so gentlemanly dressed, with such opulence that I had to blink my eye lashes several times as if clapping for him with them, just to confirm that this truly is my wisdom laden friend. He knew I was startled at his outfit, he shook my hand with an assuring grip. “it’s me Dede” he said I was dumbfounded, I searched meticulously for a word fitting for his outlook but couldn’t, “fantabulous” was the rather unenglish lexeme that came out of me. He giggled and calm my nerves with a hand shake and a tap on my left shoulder to settle me for the holy mass that is already going on. Kind`a come late most times to church. Think I have to work on it. Church was over, can’t count the handshakes I received, happy Christmas from folks around. ‘Same to you’ was the natural response, at times they return ‘shame on you’. We were still cut up in the euphoria of exchanging pleasantries when a young man from Radio Gotel picked Zege again for an interview on Christmas. I must confess, his dressing definitely influenced the decision of the young interviewer. Zege knows how to talk to the press, at least slightly better than me. It’s his field of study(mass communication). After all hands have been shaked, we proceeded with M Michael Nwanti and his brother https://facebook/nwantidavid David Nwanti accompanied by my just and eloquent friend Friday Vandu, of course the team was expectedly led by Zege and Officer https://facebook/dominic.daujir of the Nigerian Police force. Both gentlemen exhuming an opulent charm and enviable charisma, as we walked through the streets of Bekaji, Zege led us to his parent’s residence. Soon plates arrived, courtesy of his very vibrant and disciplined sisters. God knows I appreciate them. It was a day to remember, I prayed for those who didn’t have. With jokes from Michael Nwanti of Radio Gotel and his equally comic brother David Nwanti, Friday and I will laugh while we eat quickly as if being pursued. Haha!!! If it was an eating competition Michael Nwanti is the winner!!! The plate of pounded yam he has pounded to the very bottom, cleaned the underneath with his index finger while fulfilling the prophesy of his brother that he will pour water into the can-malt to ensure no part is left untouched. As custom demands of us, we all lined up led by Officer Daujir Dominic of the NPF. The mum was surrounded by her beautiful, yet disciplined daughters in the backyard, with cautious jokes we laughed feebly as we exchange pleasantries with the women behind the pots. I thought for a while that zege’s mother was rather a beautiful shy lady back in the days as she greeted us. Certainly my saintly observation could be right. We dashed at the gate as we talk sparingly about issues from the past. From indication, life as a security officer has made Daugil to be a man with few words, he preferred observing and smiling at our deliberate foolish expressions. Soon he left us, while Michael raised his head upward to empty the remaining content of his can-malt. “Dede, Dede” Said Zege, he likes repeating names at least twice, don’t know why. He asked “so where are we going?” I thought for a second,,, “accompany me to bank road.” I said. Soon we boarded Keke Napep for bank road. In Yola, that’s the favorite destination any girl will like her guy to take her. It makes them feel loved. ATM things. *winks* I collected just enough money and we proceeded to the young shall grow motor park and booked a seat to Lagos. Like a soliloquy, my thoughts went aloud- “I wish I could sponsor both of us for the journey.” That night I went to the peaceful and respected home of the Vakuru’s to meet https://facebook/raphael.anthonyvakuru Chille and Aunty Philo to get a portable travelling bag and a pocket digital camera for my Journey. At home that night, I became curious about Ogbomoso. I surfed (browsed) the internet through my favorite search engine google; first for a map to Ogbomoso from Yola and secondly for information about the people, the land, their artifacts and culture. One information that arrested my attention and interest is Alagba, the tortoise on Guinness book of records as the oldest, the tortoise has lived 327 years as at December 2013 in the Palace and still counting. I decided without mincing words that I will go and see it, once am in Ogbmoso. Still basking in my thoughts with my laptop still on I dosed off, but later woke up to shut it down. As early as 6am, Mummy sent my younger brother, energetic, active and vibrant https://facebook/zion.zeus.98 Zion Peter. I love the patience, resilience and the hard-work of this young man. I pray for his success every day. So schooled in domestic work that he acts like a woman at times. He announced that I will be late for the journey, but I reminded them that the journey is by 7:30am. In any case, not to take chances, I quickly took bath and was ready. Mum prayed for my safety as I left the house for the park. I got there rushing only to discover that the other passengers are still buying tickets for the journey, I waited for a while, took hot tea as I wait for the giant macapolo (luxurious bus) to get ready. Sincerely speaking this is going to be my first trip in a modern Macapolo. I had traveled in one long ago, I think 2003 or there about. So my expectations were quite high. I checked my ticket again, it was reading seat number (11) conductor side and it’s by the window. This I hope will accord me the chance to peep through the window as we go. Soon, we were called up to line up as the bus is about to take off. As I went through the queue, I marveled at the titanic stature of the bus, but then wondered how many tyres it could move on, I dabbled with the body of the vehicle to give me support as I count the tyres, I was disappointed to discover that there are only eight tyres, the last string has only two instead of four. I laid off my support from the car to check that of other cars, huh? All are the same. Almost absent minded I was: when a voice came “Are you not in the bus??? Hurry up abeg… Quickly I gave the huge unsmiling man my ticked, he wrote something on it and said “oya!” I took several steps upward before I was in the bus. It immediately it became clear to me, how my facebook friends intimidate me in the name of traveling by air, the interior certainly has the semblance of an airplane, the seats were planted as if in an orchestra, the ceiling curvature so professionally finished, with ample cabinets to house moderate size luggage of the passengers, each side of the seeming orchestra with two seats. The left seats slightly behind their neighbors on the right side. Both sides, as if in a long vendetta with the other, giving room to unhindered movement in between the seats, as I walk cautiously trying to locate my seat. I discovered that the seat numbers were not very obvious. I don’t know where to look for them. Shame on me… I observed vicariously how the passenger in front of me was able to find his seat number directly above his seat. Thank God there weren’t enough people on board to see me lift the hood of my seat in search of the number. Fortunately me eyes stumbled on a miniatured number, slightly above my head, revealing number 11/12, I quickly sat on seat 11, window side with a relief, then swiftly arranged myself to create the impression that I know what I was doing. I no be leaner now. *Winks* no seat belting I was sure, from observed observation. I was hoodwinked by self-illusion to peep and observe the other passengers as they line up. Sort of a test run of my well-articulated and calculated plan. Good view I told myself. Huh?!! Where on earth is the driver’s seat? I observe again that while seated, you are left in a kind of a cubicle with limited view, hardly can see the other passengers considering my height. Quiet disappointing. While I situate my traveling bag beneath my seat I discovered later that passengers with the same size of my luggage use the seeming cabinets above their seats. (I no cent…) right or wrong my luggage is under my seat. Soon I could hear the driver boozing the engine of the car. How uncomfortable. Holy smokes!!! Where on earth is the driver? A finely coated and finished material was used to cage the driver’s seat completely demarcated and detached from the passengers. All a passengers could see is a wall, not even a glimpse of the driver was within sight. As we rolled on, off the Young shall grow park, a short red eyed man, forced the wall between the driver and the passengers open, revealing a passable door through the wall. I quickly peeped in an attempt to see where the driver is located, not even an idea of the driver was within view. We drove through the lousy streets of Jimeta like a peaceful elephant walking tall in the mist of other animals high enough was my view that I could see the roof of every moving object on the road. Kind of like the feeling like a king. It was then my turn to give my ticket for inspection. As I made effort to collect my ticket back from the red eyed man. The passenger in the seat directly behind me, touched me as I turned, he stretched his hand for a hand shake and quizzed a question at me in Yoruba dialect. I quickly told him that I don’t understand the dialect. But he insisted in a broadcast voice that I am Yoruba. I protruded my head above the seat and said “I am not Yoruba” in a rather unannouncing voice. He vomited a short phrase, hardly a sentence in Yoruba to the passenger beside him and they laughed. Later I discovered that he said “I am the type of Yoruba boys who deny their mother tongue.” I wasn’t angry in any case nor was I embarrassed. I only realized in the bus that though the Yoruba nation claim to be the most educated species in Nigeria, they still have more than a dearth of schooling to do for their rural population. Though I was told that Ekiti state alone has more professors than all the states in northern Nigeria, I still stand on my assertion. As I quickly disconnected my thoughts from overgeneralizations and my recent discovery of the most educated ethnic nationality in Nigeria. I fixed my gaze at the view I could get from the window of my cubicle, my eyes cut up with some cattle matting intently along Ngurore bridge, a bridge that has been inundated by sand and I thought this debauchery and immorality of this animals must stop, but soon reminded myself that they are animals Dede, as I smile all to myself in my cubicled seat, the bus is only half filled. With assuring balance, the Mercedes Benz Macapolo sped through the air, commanding other vehicles on the highway with its intimidating size and violent horn. A soft breeze blew through the windows, leaving most of the passengers sleeping treacherously, quickly waking up with the slightest application of bake by the driver. I discovered that the much anticipated view I will get is a mirage. The more I tried to look out the more I felt dizzy and uncomfortable. A little sleep and we were in Numan, there she stood fearless and combatant. I turned to my backyard friend who insisted I was Yoruba and said “this is my hometown”, a proud Bachama man from Gyawana. He said “but you look Yoruba” I said “I know” Soon we got to the historic Numan Bridge, I heard a dad telling his son how the river Gongola and Benue meet but never mix. He pointed at how the rivers met with a clear demarcation announced by the colour of the two rivers to his son. Right ahead, the dreaded and uncompromising Numan checkpoint manned by men of the Nigerian army, patiently we followed the convoy of cars lined up, each waiting for their turn to be checked. A feeling of pride pervaded my inner peace as I saw young Bachama men and women utilizing the holdup to do business. I thought for once that my people are coming up gradually. Soon it was our turn to be checked. A voice came from beneath, “all passengers come down.” We were lined up as if during our assembly back in the days at https://facebook/groups/544809162301091/Kay Academy. An intelligence officer asked some passengers what I thought initially were useless questions, later it became clear that two passengers in the bus we picked as attachments could be Boko Haram suspects going by how the military were grilling them. One said he left Banky a bother community between Nigeria and Cameroon a year ago to do Okada business in Lagos, the other said he is following him to Lagos also for the same business. Two questions arose, as at the time he said he left Banky last year there was BH disturbances, it was possible he ran away from Banky because he was wanted. Two, Okada business has since stopped at the heart of Lagos, so one could see easily that this boys have some questions to answer. They were asked to go back into the bus to pick their luggage. They did and were dragged to the shanties that house the military formation there. After they were questioned and searched while we wait. An alienating passenger turned toward the east, freed his zip and decided to ease himself, when the other soldier yelled at him, he quickly tubed back and finished the urine in his trousers. I couldn’t laugh because of the proximity of a soldier to me, I clipped my lips forcefully together so I don’t burst out. While the drama unfolds, we were jittery when we saw the soldiers beating the two passengers from afar. Sure, they have discovered something on the two. They look like Michika boys certainly. The soldiers brought a laptop and inserted a (compact disc) CD plate they collected from the boys.. Soon after, the intelligence officer returned to address us, he said we should not be afraid, they are innocent poor boys, they were beaten because they discovered Cameroonian ID cards in their bags and the CD plate was a blue film. So the boys were asked to return to the bus. But I observed that the CD plate was seized by the soldiers for further investigation, you know. When the bus move away from the check point. The Igbo boy who deposited some urine in to his trouser stood up and said, “abeg, who get water? Make una no laf. Chai!!!” That was the entertainment in the bus as we continued, though no one dared ask the two boys what happen. When we got to Lafiya the last town in Adamawa before you enter Gombe state, I was marveled at how Almajiries welcomed the luxurious bus. They lined up on the highway and kept shouting “Gora! Gora! Gora!” Meaning passengers should throw used plastics bottles to them. Fascinating I must say… As we cross Lafiya trough the artificially carved road passage through the mountains, bordered by pieced rocks on both sides, the bus became calm and quiet as most passengers were already fast asleep after laughing and chatting over the drama at the check point. Soon we were in Gombe the state capital of Gombe state, a young state so finely dressed with good roads by selfless and patriotic leaders, traffic lights fully functional and working. We picked some passengers while I dropped for a plate of rice and stew with fresh fish. I learned the name of the driver was Sunny, from the touts who squat for money from the driver as we zoomed on. When we stopped in Bauchi, I quickly called a newspaper vendor so I could keep myself busy. Gracious God!!! The passenger number 12 next to me entered the bus, a young girl with such beauty that made me uncomfortable on my seat as I tossed through the pages of a copy of Daily Trust newspaper that I obtained, without seeing anything on the pages but her face. Sadly though up until we got to Jos, I could not say a word to her. I only fixed my gaze on the newspaper as the bus zoomed on. Another stop at Jos around 6pm, we were advised to eat because the bus might not stop any time soon again. I quickly swallowed a roll of semovita and egusi soup, not particularly delicious, I only took it as tablets to check hunger. When we took off, it was already getting dark and for the first time the girl spoke to me. I quickly folded the newspaper I was holding, besides its getting dark. She wanted to know where we are, I quickly peeped out of the window to check a signboard that will help me answer her correctly. “Akwanga” I said. She told me how her first experience of travelling to Lagos was and how she vomited in the car. I told her it is normal and tried to share the experience of others around me with her. And gave her some tips on how to control it. Hoping that nobody more schooled than me was hearing us. After that I ran out of what to say again. Not too good with women on a first time platform, sort of. She brought out her handset and decided to play the video of Skelewu and directed the screen at me, sure I watched for a while before she complained of her battery. Sincerely speaking I had lost any form of interest in the girl since the first call she received. It appeared she is in a relationship and the man involved is committed. Am not interested in causing any problems to anyone’s happiness. Besides am not interested in long distant relationship. When she realized that am not too keen in the jist, she opted to chat with another passenger on the left wing. After a while, everybody was asleep, it was around 12 midnight. I am usually scared of sleeping on transit cos I was afraid the driver might sleep off, funny enough I can’t even see him. I thought of many things through the night as we zoomed on. The company of Nese Jima couldn’t be dispelled easily from my mind. She doesn’t just advise me, she makes sure I achieve it. The camaraderie and jovial exchange in Jima family. We stopped to fuel the car, I tried to check and confirm the state of the driver. He seem okay but obviously tired. I was surprised that petrol stations in that part of the country work at that unholy hour of the night. 2am. As we embarked to continue with our journey, passengers again began to chat, they quibbled over many national issues, saying it the way it should be and comparing Nigeria and America. Typical of Nigerians. An initial trivial argument erupted at the back seat, a young girl from Jehovah witness church defending everything that was said with a quotation from the holy bible and an elderly man who spoke with such intellectual debt that I assume should be either a pastor or a lecturer. He was so blunt in telling her about the wrong approach of the Jehovah witness in acquiring knowledge of the bible and not using it, thinking that they would inherit the world. Initially I thought it was offensive but I marveled at the maturity of the young girl who impressed us all with her ability to quote different versions of the bible with unreserved authority. I peeped through the window and saw a signboard with an inscription Oyo state, sure I am in Ibadan. The largest city in sub-Saharan Africa. The capital city Oyo state. In Yoruba (ĺlú) Ȅbà-ódàn, meaning the city at the edge of the Savanna, a city with so rich a history, a people with so balanced a culture. At independence the population in Ibadan was only surpassed by Cairo and Johannesburg in Africa. Today this record has been broken by Kano and Lagos states in Nigeria. Barely a 128 kilometers from Lagos, Ibadan is a prominent transit point between the coastal region and the northern part of Nigeria. I marveled at the stretch of buildings spread far beyond sight, beautiful ancient architectural masterpieces, typically covered with sparsely red old roofs. The passenger right behind me tapped my shoulder and spoke to me again in Yoruba. I reminded him once again that I am not Yoruba as I pull out my luggage from beneath the my seat, forcing my way through the obstacles placed in-between the passage by passengers who paid as attachments. I even forgot to bid my beautiful seat mate farewell, doesn’t matter. When I placed my foot on the soil of Ibadan, I thanked God with a short prayer, it was around 5:00 am. My good friend https://facebook/jacob.samuel.940Jacob, the reason for my journey has been calling me to know where I was, he told me to get a bike to Ójor motor park and get a bus to Ogbomoso where the wedding will take place., I asked for direction from some persons who prefer to speak to me in Yoruba, I didn’t care about what they were saying, I just followed the direction they were pointing at. I decided to have a little walk on the streets of Ibadan. I noticed that while the town was ancient, the roads were good and new structures are popping up to replace the old ones. Lighted with street lights I walked with my miniatured bag fixed to my back. Stopping in-between to read signboards as if I had an exam to write. Fifteen minutes to six, yet there was no sun, though the hitherto deserted streets are gradually coming alive with vehicular movements growing by the minute. I stopped a bike or Okada as it is called, “ojo” said I. He reminded me in Yoruba that it is Ójor, after boarding the okada I discovered that he was dead drunk, I tactically told him fifty naira instead of the hundred Naira he said, just so that I can drop. Another Okada came and I can’t but imagine how much I had missed Achaba, the Adamawa version of okada. In any case, it is the best policy decision of the Nyakos administration out of the many wrongs. 6:25 I was at the park and a bus was already loading for Ogbomoso. Up until 7:00am the sun began to show forth. In contrast to the case in Yola where before 6:00am it’s already dawn. I thought then that we have extra productive hours in Yola that we do not utilize. The Bus took off, I announced to the conductor that I was dropping at Ogbomoso. I couldn’t cheat nature, I slept through out the two hour journey, throwing my head at the air several times and waking up only to pretend as if awake. Soon, they told me that this is Ogbomoso. I cleared my eyes and made effort to locate my handset in my pocket as I disembark from the bus. I called Jacob to alert him that I was in Ogbomoso, but then as soon as I dropped, I discovered that I needed to pee (urinate). An okada man asked me in Yoruba where I was going to, I told him in English that am waiting for someone. I enquired as a gentleman where I can pee? I was surprised that the okada man doesn’t understand English, I had to use my hand to describe what I meant. He quickly pointed at a wall not upto ten feet away from the tarred road. I looked at him again to confirm whether he was serious, sure he was. He was even surprised that I hesitated. Hmm… difference in culture me thinks. It is absolutely absurd and awkward for me to stand, for instance at police round about, to pee for any reason in Yola. This gesture left me addled whether or not to go ahead. While I hesitated, a gentleman more finely dressed than I am, freed his zip, spat graciously as he eased himself just meters away from me. When in Rome, do as Romans. Remember? So I queued myself to the left and joined the league by spatting away my shyness. Soon Jacob Samuel and Sheyi his brother surfaced on another Okada, he couldn’t believe that I travelled all the way to Ogbomoso for his wedding. We cracked some old jokes and soon boarded the same Okada rider I met who doesn’t understand English. I was surprised to hear the bargain with Jacob, I erroneously thought bankers are extravagant and ostentations, when he insisted N50 instead of N70, my assumptions were wrong. When we boarded the Okada, three-in-one, is more than an acceptable norm. The town was lavish, loud, noisy yet large. Typically, old structures spread out over the unlevelled landscape, dressed with seeming Chocolate roofs, arranged in steep fashion, a pronounced and conspicuous steeple overlooking the town from afar, that, I was told is the king’s palace. Whatever direction I could see from where I stood, was bigger than Jimeta, not even comparable. Ancient in outlook, one could see how history resonates at each spectacle of the many architectural showpiece of the ancient myth associated with this historic town. Untamed by the contemporary security hitches, one could see churches and mosques alike wide open without any form of security argumentation. A flare for native wear is prominent and a lush vegetation dresses the environment. Finally we dropped in a very welcoming home, the vicinity suggest that a big occasion beacons. Two cows, I could see already slaughtered and being worked on. The house in the neighborhood were orchestrated in similar pattern. Each with a front door that swallows you directly to a corridor, the rooms in the house are then arranged in a face me I face you fashion, with a corridor running through the rooms. I was told that is how tradition has established itself here, the first room for the father and the other adjourning rooms for his wife’s, then the other wing for the children. I was cajoled into a sitting room to drop my luggage. At the sight of electricity, immediately brought out my phone and digital camera for charging. Soon friends to the groom piled into the sitting room where I attempted to sleep. I have not met any of them before, so we exchange pleasantries and tried jokingly to introduce ourselves. Before long, there was more than enough to eat. I ate with impunity. Soon we were asked to go out to take some materials to our in-laws. A short drive through the neighborhood, I discovered how beautiful and short their specie of goats are. Short, balanced and meaty I was told by a friend that their meat is sweeter than that of the goats we have in the North. I can’t verify that fact. On entering our in-laws house I discovered that I have a lot of lying down to do, that’s the way they greet here. After a while we went back home and had to prepare for the traditional wedding and introduction. My experience in the bathroom wasn’t very pleasant, that I won’t share with my readers. Shortly, we gathered at our in-laws house for the occasion, my friend Jacob was surrounded by his family members. His mum was radiating such beauty that took me memory lane to imagine her ebullient stature as a young girl, Jacob’s father himself handsome and athletic, vibrant and youthful as he drove in, would have admired his wife with such imagery of their own days as a young couple. Me thinks he fell in love with her again. Sure Jacob was happy, indicated by his shiny countenance, his family around him. We lined up in front, as he flanks us from behind. He danced to the venue of the occasion with such dexterity as I have never imagined of him. Maintaining a glittering façade of smile and success. A sizeable number of people, friends and well-wishers have clustered around the house of our in-laws so finely decorated that I fell in love with the culture of the Yoruba people. There were series of programmes to do, including many instances where we as friends of the groom have to rostrate flat on the ground. I then discovered that the MC (master of ceremony) liked me so much, giving the number of times the woman will look at me as she talks. Alas! She pointed at me and invited me to join her from where I stood. I walked smiling like Obama, and almost raised my hands to wave the crowd. But when I observed that she was chanting and talking sparingly in Yoruba and point at my cloths, I became careful. Then I saw Jacob’s father protest that I am a Hausa man from the North, I don’t know the tradition. Then it dawned on me that my outfit almost alienated N5,000 from my pocket not for the timely intervention of my friends father. Though I was informed to appear in native, I insisted on wearing my favorite blue jean and polo shirt. It is a show of disrespect and irresponsibility to go to your in-laws house in such outfit in the Yoruba culture. That was when I realized how odd and alien I looked in that gathering. Virtually everybody was in native except me, worst is whenever we had to prostrate I was the only one that was caught unaware, yet I fumble to keep myself for the length of time we lay down. When Jacob’s wife showed forth, she was even more beautiful, radiating such shine that compete with the sun. Exhuming undiluted confidence and charm. With many Yoruba speeches and cultural exchange, dance and music, food and drinks, beautiful ladies and gorgeous looking gentlemen, it was then time we go home. But I had to do what I couldn’t do in the bathroom. I sneaked out of the venue unnoticed. Dashed brazenly through an unregular bush path, then an open field. Only God knows the relief after three straight days of abstinence. Before I return, the venue was void of people except for few. Then I caught up with Philip an unusual character with bow legs, shabby mustache, uncaring looks but loaded to the brim in the brain. After engaging him in a conversation as we stroll home I marvel at the content of his brain. Fluent and eloquent was his spoken word that I checked to confirm whether he is the bow legged guy I met initially. Soon a car from Jacob’s house came for me. I met Jacob’s parents that evening, they were so welcoming that I couldn’t think of Yola again. One thing I love about the Yoruba people is their love for prayers, “Olua” is appreciated with strong prayers after every activity, successful or not. The next morning, we left home early enough to buy a male goat in the market. I noticed people in small clusters having meetings of different kinds. My friend Philip told me that the different groups have regular meetings on different issues depending on the group they belong to, Okada riders, crayfish sellers, volcanizers, wood cutters, water vendors e.t.c to agree on price and other things affecting their members. After paying for the goat, some young men surfaced from nowhere that we have to pay for the land where the goat stood. I was so angry at the insensitivity of the boys, until Philip explain to me that that’s the tradition over here. We paid N500 for what didn’t appear reasonable to me. Before long I was dressed and ready for the white wedding. I thought to myself after looking at the mirror that at least I am handsome enough for a Yoruba born lady to admire. Yes! I was right, I caught their eyes severely munching my stature, imagining how a northern yaro boy could be this handsome and free of speech. Many open-teeth ladies will let loose a tempting smile that most often than not distracts my sense of purpose. I can’t but admire the dexterity of my friend Jacob in dancing to the Yoruba rhythm. I was particularly impressed by one lady in the church who would repeatedly read the Yoruba translation of the holy Bible with so much ease, fluency and dexterity. With startling speed she will open the passage and read with even greater speed that one of the old Yoruba men around had prayed that all their children were like her. Some pictures including my boss https://facebook/emmanuel.david.9634 Emma , then the reception. If there is anything the Yoruba man reveres, I think is ceremonies and occasions like this, like a sworn affidavit, a very big meat comes with every plate that arrives, at times the meat is even bigger than the meal. I ate with sheered impunity. No qualms, I know where to ease out. I insisted that I want to go see the town since my journey to Yola is likely the next day, though I had wanted to go with Jacob to Obudu cattle Ranch for the remainder of the holiday. But then I was running short of budget and time. We left the venue in suit, myself, Philip who has picked interest in a girl during the reception and Sheyi, Jacob’s brother. I was told that we could even go in and introduce ourselves to the King of the land, after visiting Alagba. I was also told not to refer to Alagba as a tortoise so we don’t stir the fury of the palace guards. The palace gate was wide open, you could walk through the palace and go out on the other gate without being confronted or question. Try that in Lamido’s palace in the North, the story will touch your foreskin. An old man was seating mindlessly at one corner, we approached and shared our dream of seeing Alagba. He stood with excitement, more than willing to serve as our curator. He showed us the old palace and told us that till date, it is the spiritual palace of the King. There are some rites that cannot be performed outside of the old palace. That wasn’t my reason for going there, Alagba is my reason. Yet I thought the ageless palace was a monument to marvel at. He then showed us the new edifice, almost a castle housing the king today. I then thought that this is interesting. So richly constructed and finely finished that Birmingham palace came to my mind. Less than hundred meters away, I could see people paying homage to Alagba the oldest living thing in the Kingdom and if I am not mistaken in Nigeria as a whole. (I can’t substantiate this claim). The tortoise was 327 years as at last year. I can’t but understand if he is worshiped and revered around this environment. There Alagba stood, veiled eyed and sober, some were tempted to prostrate as a mark of respect for his age. I stood lost in awe, I checked his eye as if in search of answers, he seemed interested in me, I thought of how many stories from the past Alagba has heard, how many kings have come and gone, I thought at what childhood was like for Alagba 300 years ago, then I imagine longevity and the declining life span of Nigeria. I saw Algba crunch a vegetable thrown at him, I wondered whether it taste exactly like the vegetables in the land 300 years ago. Is this your secret Alagba? The Vegetables? Huh? Then I saw Alagba’s eye brightened, I thought foolishly that he was going to talk back at me, he spin to the other direction to move away from the noise coming from my thoughts, but then I saw Alagba pick a leave and giggled, my subconscious perception at the specter Alagba’s posture present was interrupted by our curator who ask me to move closer and touch him, I hesitated, he said Alagba is peaceful and has no history of violence. A quick picture as I hold Alagba, to keep memories of my experience was taken as the curator lead us away from Alagba but my thoughts are still with Alagba, I will come visiting again by God’s grace. Walking out of the palace, it is common place to see old people in their 80’s and 90’s still alive and walking the streets with their wife’s. Alagba’s spirit seems to inject longevity in the people around. A short walk from the palace I got to the spot where the revered Queen Amina was defeated and the exact spot where the warrior who defeated her swiveled several times and vanished into the ground. A little building has been erected there to house him. I jumped out of excitement to stand by the building at the very heart of Ogbomoso for a snap shot, an old passerby shouted caution at me that it was dangerous, I shouldn’t go close. In any case I obliged and snapped a safe distance from the building. I was told that Evang. Rinehart Bonke prayed on that building and even burnt some relics and vestiges in it, according to him the traditional worship of the structure is withholding the prosperity of the people in the land. We walked through many of the ancient buildings in the town, architectural artwork and artifacts from the past, scarcely sighted modern structures, houses that have stood for over a hundred years are common place. We walked round Ogbomoso on foot until the dark suppressed the sun. Later in the evening Philip took us to his adorable girl, housed in the same compound with the bride. He then tried to connect me with a lady from Abuja. I told him, I have never done this stuff and don’t even know where to start from. He stood me in a corner and started coaching me on what to say and how to say it, even how to stand as I speak. He asked me to be serious because he has sent for the girl already. I was sweating down my pants, when his girl returned, she told him that my Abuja girl was already fast asleep. I couldn’t thank God better for I was more than relieved. As early as 4am, I woke up on my way to Ibadan where I hope to catch a luxury bus to Yola. When I got to Ibadan, it was rather late, the bus from Lagos has since left for Yola. It then dawned on me that I have to go to Lagos before I could get a bus. I entered Lagos around 11am and thought of how a disciplined government can transform a state in so little a time, “Oni gba je woo”. Fashola has dislocated my know of Lagos, hardly could recognize anything in Lagos without checking the signboard. My experience in Lagos was short but eventful. I saw how Agbero boys snatched a man and his luggage apart, they lifted him one dragging the right leg insisting he enter their bus another dragging the left leg. Was thinking to myself whether it is by force to do business, I thought a customer should be cajoled not mauled. As we sped off from the young shall grow office, I hoped for an experience on the third mainland bridge. Yes, there it was and immediately I wrote a poem eulogizing and pouring encomiums on the bridge. Seamless was my journey back to Yola that I saw a great year in 2014. Sure it was great until Boko Haram scuttled and squeezed the joy out of the monumental achievements of the year at its peak. Shouldn’t we be cajoled rather than mauled? Huh Shekau>>>
Posted on: Sat, 27 Dec 2014 08:59:36 +0000
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