Buhari Vs Saraki, Perfect Entertainment for Easily Thrilled Nigerians

Some quietude, 
Akin to that after a premature ejaculation. 
Facebook was full of cum yesterday 
Out of a shallow hysteria all too common with Nigerians these days. 

I did tell you about the uncontainable excitement at the place we sat to watch Nigeria Vs Croatia;
One kick from Mikel, the crowd went gaga;
One shimmer from Moses, the roof went off. 
We weren't fifteen minutes in.

Though the rains stopped the signal, it didn’t stop the fanatics who, by faith, were expecting Mikel to triumph over Modric.
When faint signals flickered close to half-time, we felt the icy rain at last and froze.
By the second half, any faint hopes of a turnaround were extinguished by Modric.

Nevertheless, in the next outing, we resurged, and that made us hurl Musa into the political fray as a reliable replacement for Buhari.

What did we not say thereafter! We were going to make mincemeat of Messi and his faltering army and go on to do big things in Russia. The day came... Sampaoli whose job had been up in the air all along used his victory over us to hang on.

But I digress.

That is us, anyway.

The proliferation of performance enhancing drugs has shown that we peak too soon. Female Genital Mutilation remains, because if all Nigerian women are fire, the menfolk aren’t water enough. Sad. We see all those skits on Social Media. And it is the men who won't let women rest that disappoint them the most.

So, again, in a movie that has scarcely begun, we’ve distributed credits already. Some already opined: ‘Saraki outwitted his own father; is it now a certificateless man that will stand in his way?!’
I tend to ask: which way exactly?

The Assembly goes on recess till September, a fitting interlude for behind-the-scene shenanigans. Perhaps we should hold our horses. Could be money, could be blackmail, could be talking-to, could even be outright silencing that does it... but this statusquo may change when the curtains go up again in September. Hold your horses!

Football should have taught us nah, say no be who first score goal dey always win match. Camm daaaaann!!!

In any case, watch a football match long enough, you’ll pick a side. Doesn’t matter if the side you pick is coming for your ass too!

Dear God, Why?

I joined the U.S. Navy and was stationed all over the world. I also met a young lady who later became my wife. We were blessed with two wonderful sons, Reme and Jason. They were my pride and joy and reason for living. I was on top of the world, and I wanted the best for them, so I took all I had and started a successful business around my talents as a martial artist. I had status, a career, and family. The little religion I had was just a show. God was just a word.

Arrest, and Jail. Then one day, as I was taking a family member to the hospital, I was surrounded by police. I had no idea what was happening. Here I was, an American serviceman, a patriot, and I was being arrested. Dear God, why? I had never been in any trouble and my record was as clean as my uniform.

I found out I was being set up by former associates of mine. They wanted to frame me so that some scheme of theirs could go undetected. My attorney persuaded me that everything was fine. “You’re innocent,” he said. “Don’t worry. This will never stick.”

Then the trial came. There was no evidence, just my word against my accusers’. Somehow, the jury found me guilty, and I was sentenced to life in jail. Dear God, why? What did I do to deserve this? Why are you letting this happen?

I was angry and bitter. I had traded the crisp white uniform of the U.S. Navy for that of the state prison. My faith was shattered. I couldn’t believe that God existed. If he did, why would he let something like this happen to me?

As time passed, I became colder and angrier. Because of my martial arts background, I was accepted and respected within the prison community.

But then the ultimate happened. My oldest son, Reme, was involved in a fatal car accident. I was lost, I hated everyone and everything. Even God was my enemy.

Stirrings of Peace, and a Crisis. Around this time, I met an inmate named Todd. He walked around the prison with a peace that simply glowed. I don’t know why, but we became the best of friends. We even became cell mates. I grew to trust him and found myself sharing my feelings with him. I found out that he was a Catholic, and he kept telling me that he was so peaceful because he knew God. “Fat chance,” was my response.

Then Todd convinced me to go to chapel with him one day. I sat in the back pew and didn’t want anyone to see me. I wasn’t willing to accept God, but I found the quiet, non-threatening atmosphere to be peaceful. I began going to chapel more frequently and following Todd around like a puppy. I wanted the peace that he had, but I just couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from.

Once again, tragedy struck. My youngest son, Jason, was riding with a friend and was struck by a drunk driver and was in a coma. Every day for about a month, I was allowed to call the hospital and speak to him, even though he couldn’t talk back. Then I was asked to make the hardest decision of my life. The doctors wanted me to take Jason off life support. I struggled with the decision, but Todd was there to support me. Finally, I consented, and at 10:00 a.m., just two days after my own birthday, Jason’s life support was discontinued. At noon, he was gone. I felt completely empty.

Meeting Jesus in Prison. As time passed, Todd invited me on a retreat. This was a one-time deal called a Cursillo. My immediate response was, “No way, not me.” I didn’t want to have anything to do with God. But Todd kept hinting, and I felt like I was letting him down. He had done so much for me. I finally gave in. I didn’t expect anything. I thought I’d just go and listen.

Wow! I was floored. I met Jesus on that retreat—a laughing, smiling, crying, joking, caring, loving Jesus. I felt like the prodigal son. I found answers to many of my questions. I forgave my accusers. I forgave the people who caused my sons’ deaths. I forgave everyone who had ever harmed me or my family.

I found the peace that was in knowing Jesus, and I wanted more. I became the prison chaplain’s choirmaster and the chaplain’s clerk. I worked to bring more Cursillos into the prison. Most of all, I began to study the word of God.

Confined,but Set Free. But then my life took another unexpected turn. About a year after my conversion, I was diagnosed with incurable multiple sclerosis. Prison was hard enough for a healthy man, and here I was losing control of my bladder and bowel functions. And the pain kept getting worse. I was eventually confined to a wheelchair.

Then one day, as I was in the chapel in my wheelchair, a young man named Eric approached and offered to help. He seemed to come out of the blue, but I believe the Holy Spirit was at work. I was getting depressed, and the good Lord sent an angel in my time of need. Eric attended to all my needs. He cleaned me when I soiled myself. He cooked my meals. He spent hours playing board games and studying Scripture with me. He was a reflection of Christ to me.

My illness finally landed me in the prison infirmary, where I remain to this day. I now have all the time and quiet I want to study Scripture, and countless opportunities to help others who are infirm.

Recently, I received a scholarship to a Catholic distance university, and my studies have become more intense. This opportunity has allowed me to bring my heart together with my head. I am knowing Jesus as well as feeling him.

Someday, if it’s God’s will for my innocence to be proven, I will be thankful. But in the meantime I know that he has plans for me right here. I’m no longer angry or bitter. It took my coming to prison to see Jesus in the eyes of those who believe in him and to experience his love.

I know my life has changed for the better and I am now being sought out and respected for my faith rather than my ability to fight. I have been blessed with the opportunity to learn about Jesus, and I hope to pass it on. I now hope that the Holy Spirit will make me an instrument of the same peace I once sought and found.

Dear God, thank you!

Dissonant Biafras and the Burden of Memory

In a very profound sense, it is us who still live – especially all here on the internet – that bear the brunt of the Nigerian Civil War. Thomas Carlyle said, “The crash of the whole solar and stellar systems could only kill you once”. The many dead of Biafra, be they stabbed, or shot, their skulls smashed, or their bodies mangled, have died once, and now enjoy the impregnable convalescence of the afterlife. But for us who live, it might be a more gradual death as, every now and then, a grotesque black and white picture of a kwashikored child surfaces online (it could be from any Black nation on earth but Nigeria), it deals us fresh Biafra blows and breaks our hearts all over again. As we recover from it, we know not when another is coming. In this bafflingly insensitive world, another is always coming.

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This sentiment is expressed more vividly in Raoul Peck’s Sometimes in April when Idris Elba’s character tried to soothe an old man’s despair after the war in Rwanda. The man seemed to imply, ‘Oh c’mon! Don’t feel sorry for me. You have longer to live with it.’ That’s damn right. Thomas Mann observed and I agree, that “a man’s dying is more the survivor’s affair than his own”. On this score, grief is ours, and until we decide otherwise, it always will be. Kurt Vonnegut’s densely sorrowful account (Biafra: A People Betrayed) of the last months of the war might help us decide sooner. After the tears the piece might evoke, some quietude could follow, then some musings, and then some genuine sense of pride. Then maybe a smile… at the marvelous thought of the quality of human beings that lived and fought and died in and for Biafra. With the crudest of arms against the bombardment of a Nigerian government spuriously backed by the weaponry of Britain and Russia, the Biafrans, in Martin Luther King Jr.’s terms, were never pulled down enough by the enemy to hate them.

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When thus you smile, know it that you would have switched fortunes with some aged man somewhere who has lived seventy or eighty years with the stench of his wickedness. Whenever the old actually start making excuses, then they really have none. They look back on their lives and say it was worth it, that they kept the country together, and that it is still together. Together doing what?! And at what cost? Together crawling; a 57 year old baby with Down’s syndrome, still pandering to vested western interests.

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To a very great extent, it was war, so both sides were justified in their quest for victory; never mind genocide. In one of Vonnegut’s exchanges on Biafra he writes, "It's hard to prove genocide," said Hall. "If some Biafrans survive, then genocide hasn't been committed. If no Biafrans survive, who will complain?" Elechi Amadi, in his Sunset in Biafra, acknowledged it was but a war. When he quit the Nigerian Army and showed his concern for the sufferings of non-combatant Biafrans, a lot of them found their voices. A gaggle of women besieged him, complaining about serial molestations, starvation, and rape. He was sympathetic, but urged them none the less to remember that a war was afoot. People who are killing your men and starving your children would almost certainly also rape you. Tragic as it may be, it won’t be the most significant dark spots of the struggle. But it was only as far as killing and getting killed went that the war was honorable. The Nigerian government eventually lost the inborn dignity of men, and thought it an allowable part of the strategies of warfare to starve women and children to death. It was a shameful affront on humanity. That was Nigeria’s second goof. The first was resisting the secession in the first place trying to protect a political territory they neither created nor ran well; trying to hold together a marriage in which the parties’ interests are so perennially divergent. A marriage they didn’t preside over, from a courtship they were never in.

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But of all goofs, the most pervasive has been the silence thence. Nigeria’s Gettysburg, for forty-seven years, has had no one show up on it to read an address. Save for a National Anthem that many have never sung nor know how to sing, this country called Nigeria has no rallying cry, no beacon to mark where our journey began, no compass to point where it leads. What we call constitution has been serially abused by military incursions and ethnic and religious precedence. These realities point to a purposeless war on the part of the Nigerian government who seem content with blaming the deaths of over 2 million supposed Nigerian citizens on one man’s (Ojukwu) ill decision. In place of one address, one acknowledgment, one motion for redress, what we have are mischievous pick-aways at our history by many who are intent on distorting the narrative for heinous reasons.

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Like an amoeba, circumstances between then and now have continued to assume many shapes. These circumstances have given vent to many differing emotions and sentiments. Nowhere is it more evident than in the multiple Biafra movements we’ve been seeing, some even calling out and damning others. MASSOB, IPOB, BLC, BIM, BZM, ADM, etc… somewhere in this crowd, the golden idea may be lost. It paints an all too familiar picture, of when the heaven was said to touch earth, and from the radius where that contact was made distinct religions that are eternally at loggerheads with each other were born. In our case, opportunistic tendencies have been threatening to alter the genes of people whose forebears stood and fell for something noble, activated by the Ahiara Declaration. Somewhere between Ojukwu and Kanu, the plot may have been twisted, but it cannot disappear. Water may lure blood to a doomed race, but the latter being thicker would be saved by its tardiness.

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The ideal Biafran is not vulgar, insolent, or of trivial character. He will not cajole, coerce, or blackmail anyone into sharing his 30^th May sentiments – especially not from the Nigerian divide – just as Arsenal fans cannot now subject Chelsea fans to an English FA Cup celebration. That the FA Cup trophy is one proves that whoever wants it is ready to undo his neighbor to clinch it. Hence, nothing Chelsea does to Arsenal can amount to a desecration, instead, only Arsenal can ridicule themselves. Desecration is the abuse of something revered; people who do not revere a thing therefore do not have the capacity to desecrate it. If anybody needs to carefully gauge their Biafra rhetoric it is the Biafrans themselves.

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Anyone who receives a new insight on a path the Biafra struggle should take could do well to find another nomenclature for it. Biafra is exclusively a product of the Ahiara Declaration, a sublime 48 page document that mentions the word Igbo only once – and in a demurrable context: “…From this derives our deep conviction that the Biafran Revolution is NOT just a movement of Igbo, Ibibio, Ijaw and Ogoja. It is a movement of true and PATRIOTIC AFRICANS. It is African nationalism conscious of itself and fully aware of the powers with which it is contending. From this derives our belief that history and humanity are on our side, and that the Biafran Revolution is INDESTRUCTIBLE and ETERNAL.”

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Are the Igbos having an unfair deal in Nigeria? Yes. Should they do something about it? Absolutely! But whatever the Igbos do for themselves to gain politico-economic relevance is no more a Biafran cause than Lionel Messi is Spanish. The right to self-determination is also theirs; they can ask to secede. But if it ain’t Biafra, it ain’t. The real Biafra is 50 today; in another 50 years, nothing would have distorted and discolored history more than if we put layers and layers of embarrassing epochs between the innocence of our children to come and the nobility of our fathers gone.

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All the foregoing depend on known circumstances, chiefly, that the struggle for the actualization of a sovereign state of Biafra is the Biafrans’ to win or lose. But there is the remote possibility that, the Nigerian state, out of mischief or rare humaneness, would either grant Biafra leave or wholesomely restructure Nigeria to comfortably accommodate all. If the former results, well, when the Wembley showpiece was done and dusted and Arsenal won the trophy, they cared less about the brash tackles from Chelsea while the game was on; those were written in as part of the costs of a sweet victory as everyone departed for their various destinations. In the case of the latter, a question of forgiveness would be thrown up. It will then bring us face to face with Wole Soyinka’s dilemma in The Burden of Memory, The Muse of Forgiveness as dissected by Kirkus Reviews. One question begs for a non-existent answer:

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How do we tuck away the bitter memories of our bloodied past? Forgiveness, a salve on the wounds to promote healing, would seem to be the morally superior option. But is excusing morally outrageous behavior moral or simply foolish? Perhaps healing requires revenge, an excising of the cancer. Are we to imagine, for example, a repentant Pol Pot walking the streets like any other man, freed by the forgiveness of those whom he did not manage to kill? Soyinka identifies forgiveness as “a value far more humanly exacting than vengeance” yet cannot swallow the proposition that it will, by itself, suffice. Something is missing from a process which absolves the perpetrators of tyranny so completely that they assume the same moral or civil status as those whose conduct is crime-free. Soyinka’s answer is reparations, a paying back from victimizer to victim, but even this sits somewhat uneasily. Alas, it is part of the cost of despicable acts: once committed, there are no longer answers with which we can be completely comfortable.

#WifeNotCook

More and more, feminism is becoming a popular theme; but some ones are taking it too far me thinks. You don’t preach feminism by constantly berating men. As a matter of fact, the reverse ought to be the case. Feminism has to be an education… of the men folk.

But if you insist the current world order is skewed, and you want to single-handedly reposition the planet, then, here is a ring, go ahead and propose. Then prepare to go and see his people… and let them determine what his groom price will be.

What can be more constructive is education… a gradual, gentle reorientation, not harassment and verbosity. For we do, all of us, need each other. So start by disabusing his mind from seeking to acquire a woman by paying dowry for her… Then proceed by extricating too much kith and kin influence from nuclear families.

Is woman today coy? The feminist has to be coyer, for certain hunting circumstances make the lioness lie down for the deer… She stoops to conquer. If someone can disagree with simple reasoning, how much more verbose, arrogant arguments?

The teacher comes to school with new knowledge, and painstakingly transfers it to his students. School is an approach to learning that has been found to be effective. There are other methods, and each is gradual, gentle, and methodical. From what we know, therefore, we can conclude that the #WifeNotCook campaign will not help this cause.

Every now and then there are conferences, workshops, seminars. The convener sometimes has new knowledge to share, at other times is aware of the existence of new knowledge and wants to acquire it. Then ensue the gentle, structured, methodical approach of seminars et al.

#NoBeShout

TERMS OF REFERENCE

Fifteen eyes or so on me as I walked in. Derrick’s are so small the two could pass for one normal one. I’d come in to larger broods before, but there was something about this one. White people can be queer.

I proceed to my desk, dropped my books, and thought about piercing the awkwardness of the moment.

            “What?” I asked the eyes that were watching me. But it seemed no one had been nominated to speak, so my question remained unanswered for a little moment.

            “You’re from Biafra aren’t you, Jude?”

            “Biafra?”

            “Yeah,” Lancelot’s large eyes fixated on me. He would be the spokesman for any group.

            “Is that the name of a place?”

            “A country actually!” Kathie quips.

I roll my eyes, and then from one face to another, I searched for where this was headed.

            “What’s your take on the vibes coming out of Nigeria?” Derrick was the oldest, but his reserved nature meant his age mates had left him behind, and everyone else in this group caught up.

            “Wait!” I search for any sense in the situation… of coming into class and finding myself in the middle of a rather tense topic of discussion.

“Is this interview academically inclined?”

            “It doesn’t have to be, mate,” Callaghan, the defacto leader, said as he rose from his chair and walked towards me. Then, placing his right hand on my left shoulder he said, “We know you love books, Jude; we know you love learning and academic milestones; but we’re all concerned about your country, and we think you should be too.”

            “You guys think I’m not?”

            “Well, if you are, feel free to discuss it,” Jane says. “Are you for Nigeria or Biafra?”

I didn’t answer, only gazed from face to face, wondering if I’d missed any news from back home. Here in the UK I was supposed to be safe from the incessant disturbances and unrests of Nigeria, but not today – it seemed.

            “If you guys must know, it’s hard to pick a side: one is a path to unnecessary bloodshed that will not achieve anything, and the other is a vote for second class citizenship and subtle marginalization. So…” I heaved and sounded like one cornered.

            “But what if bloodshed were ruled out?”

            “Wha?” I was a bit dazed there were still pursuing.

            “What if the split could occur without bloodshed? Would you be for it, or against it?”

            “I don’t know if that is possible.”

            “I’m saying… supposing it is?” Lancelot wasn’t even a Law student, but damn!

            “Well… it needs to be critically looked at. Whoever is routing for a Biafra has to be sure all constituent states can be on the same page and remain there. I mean… there are various things to look at…”

They all pulled up chairs and surrounded me.

            “Why don’t you look at them, Jude?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “You’re a research student… figure out how we mean!”

            “TO GAUGE THE PULSE OF A NATION,” Jamie worded; “May be a fitting title!” Then he shrugged.

I conceptualized what was possible, but of course presented the financial challenge. Schooling in the UK was hard enough. This bunch of guys said they’d put together a five thousand pound fund to support my ‘looking at’ what was supposed to be looked at prior to supporting or not supporting a secession.

I asked them for Terms of Reference, they said to generate one and present for comments. Fine.

I have two weeks to make necessary phone calls, and to send and receive necessary emails as I prepare the Ts of R. After I submit, it won’t take too long to reflect their comments and suggestions in the final paper. Then I’ll be ready to embark on the journey. I catch the Liverpool vs Chelsea Game at Anfield on the 26^th of December, and celebrate my birthday on transit to Nigeria the next day. With the new year will begin my ‘looking at’ the things that brought me home.

HERE ARE MY TERMS OF REFERENCE AS THEY ARE COMING TOGETHER

1.      Have there always been agitations for a Sovereign Biafra?

2.      If yes, from what quarters?

3.      Is this new agitation coming from the same source?

4.      How many states originally made up Biafra?

5.      Are elements from all states involved in this new agitation?

6.      What are the voiced and unvoiced reasons for wanting to secede?

1.      What is the current socio-economic plight of the Biafra states?

2.      What is their combined IGR?

3.      What is the size of their land mass?

4.      How much of their plight (good and bad) is caused by the Federal Government?

5.      How much by the State?

6.      Is any current governor of the states Biafra President material?

1.      Is the new Biafra agitation a reply to the Boko Haram-marred administration of a Southern President?

2.      Would this agitation exist if an Igbo man was president?

3.      How do the agitators conceptualize a return to Igboland of all Igbos?

4.      Will negotiations for property owners to retain ownership across the two countries should they separate succeed?

5.      Will an assurance of retention of ownership of property make secession easier and choicier for the rich Igbos?

6.      Are there Igbos who have been forced out of the North due to violence?

7.      Do they still retain ownership of whatever property they owned?

8.      If no, is it possible that their angst is part of the inspiration for a louder agitation?

9.      How would returnees fare at the hands of current feudal lords of the Igboland?

10.  How long before goods and services get to be determined by normal economic forces rather than by circumstance?

A LEGACY FROM MR. DITTO by Doris Cheney Whitehouse

I stood by Mr. Ditto’s bedside at the hour of his death. He looked like a small black doll against the whiteness of the pillow, his old head almost buried in its deep folds. His pulse was hardly perceptible, and I felt a strange awareness of a transformation taking place, as though by watching very closely I might be able to see his spirit soar like a newly hatched moth out of the withered husk that lay before me.

      At last I heard the faint beginning of his final breath. He did not struggle even in death, so that when it came it was gentle and easy, touched with contentment like a sigh.

      The Reverend William Howard, a Negro chaplain, sat by the bed, an open Bible resting lightly in the palm of one great hand. He closed it quietly. Then he bowed his head and whispered, “Into Thy hands, O Merciful Savior, we commend the soul of Thy servant.”

      After a moment he touched my shoulder gently as though he understood the heaviness in my heart. “Rejoice and be exceeding glad,” he said. Then he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

      When he was done I did the things a nurse must do for a patient after death. I opened the drawer of the bedside table and began to gather together all Mr. Ditto’s belongings – a pair of ancient spectacles, hopelessly twisted; a razor with a rusted blade; a Bible worn from years of handling. And there I found the nickel that I knew had brought him so much joy. It was the total treasure of his life, and I held it in my hand for a long time, remembering . . .

      Mr. Ditto had been one of the first patients assigned to me that winter of 1947 when I took up my duties as a young nurse on the TB ward of the Veterans Administration Hospital in Louisville, Kentucky. Mr. Ditto was his real name; he was never known by any other. An American Negro born of slave parents in New Orleans at the time of the Civil War, he had been orphaned at an early age and, with the emancipation, had been cast out into the world. Except for service in the Spanish-American War, he had lived his life from day to day, doing odd jobs for anyone who would hire him, living alone in a shack provided by his former owners. Some years ago he had come to Louisville. He had been ill for a long time, and when he was admitted to the hospital he was suffering from advanced pelvic tuberculosis. A great abscess had ruptured, leaving a draining sinus.

      The dreadful stench of it rose to meet me as I entered his room that first day. I wanted to turn and run away, and perhaps I might have done so had not something in Mr. Ditto’s eyes reached out and held me. “Good morning, Mr. Ditto,” I said. “Are you ready for the morning’s activities?”

      “Ah don’ know what they is, ma’am,” he said. “But if you think Ah need ‘em, Ah’s ready.”

      I began with a bath and the changing of the sheets. The tiny body was so emaciated that it seemed almost weightless as I gently turned him on his side. His eyes bulged with pain, but he made no sound.

      I remember how my nausea rose when I removed the dressing, but a small voice saved me. “Ah don’ know how you stand it, ma’am! Ah can’t hardly stand it myself!” And he wrinkled up his face in such a comic grimace that I laughed out loud. When he heard my laughter, he laughed, too. We looked at each other helplessly, caught on a wave of preposterous mirth, and suddenly the air seemed fresher and the wound less offensive. The sight of it never bothered me again.

      When I finally drew up the clean white sheet and folded it across his chest, he said. “Ah’s feelin’ a whole heap better, and that’s the truth.” Then he reached out one bony hand, weak and trembling, and fumbled in the drawer of his bedside table. From it he extracted a shiny nickel and held it out to me.

      “It ain’t very much for all yo’ goodness,” he said. “But it’s a powerful cold day, an’ Ah just thought some good hot coffee might give you pleasure.”

      The drawer was open, and I could see a number of nickels, perhaps twenty, scattered among his personal effects. This was all the money he had in the world. I should have accepted his offering at once. Instead, I reacted in haste. “Oh no, Mr. Ditto,” I said. “I couldn’t take that! You save it for a rainy day.”

      I saw the light go out of his eyes and all the shining, as a dark shadow fell across his face. “Ain’t never gonna rain no harder’n now,” he said.

      Hearing the dull despair in his voice, I knew instantly what I had done. I had reduced him to an old, old man with nothing left to give, with nothing left to accomplish except dying. Quickly I said, “You know, Mr. Ditto, I think you’re right. I can’t think of anything better than a cup of good hot coffee.” I took the nickel out of his hand and watched the light come back into his face.

      In the days that followed, Mr. Ditto grew steadily weaker. Every morning when I put him through the same exhausting routine he submitted patiently. Somehow we always managed a little conversation, a little fun and gentle laughter, so that I looked forward to the hour spent with him. And every morning before I left the room his old hand would grope for another nickel and he would say, “It ain’t very much for all yo’ goodness.”

      I watched the little pile of nickels slowly diminishing and prayed that Mr. Ditto would not outlive his treasure. His strength was now almost gone, but he never once forgot his gift to me, even when he could no longer lift his hand without my help.

      One day I saw that he was reaching for the very last nickel in the drawer. I guided his hand to it, fighting back the tears that had sprung to my eyes. I searched his face for any sign of realization that there were no other nickels, but he was unaware of it. He held the coin out to me, smiling the same sweet smile, mumbling the same familiar words of gratitude. Then I knew he was wrapped in that gentle half-awareness which enfolds the dying. He was conscious only of the joy of giving, and I knew with sudden gladness that he was past all keeping of accounts. Silently I put the nickel back in the corner of the drawer.

      He lived for two weeks after that. Every day when I had finished his morning care and he was lying clean and comfortable in fresh white sheets, he would murmur over and over again, “You an angel, ma’am, you just a sure ‘nough angel.” Then I would know that it was time to take his hand in mine and guide it to the corner of the drawer. Every day he gave me the nickel. And every day I put it back again.

      That last day I sent for Mr. Howard, the chaplain. He came and read softly as one might read to a child who was falling asleep, his voice moving smoothly over the lovely verses . . . “And seeing the multitudes, He went up into a mountain; and when He was set, His disciples came unto Him: And He opened His mouth, and taught them, saying, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.’”

      I thought: Mr. Ditto had been, indeed, the poorest and meekest of men; he had accepted fearful suffering without complaint. But now, in the final hour of his life, he could not hear again the promise of eternal joy. Suddenly rebellion rose in my heart. Mr. Ditto. How perfectly his name described him, as though, God, having made a world of men, had paused and then said “Ditto” – and there he was. What purpose had there been in his creation? What possible meaning to his patient, futile life?

      After the chaplain had gone, I stood for a long time with the last treasured nickel in my hand. Finally I put it with the rest of Mr. Ditto’s things, tied them all together into a sad little bundle and marked them with his name. Then I took them to the office and suggested that they be turned over to Mr. Howard.

      Later that afternoon, just before it was time for me to go off duty, Mr. Howard appeared in the ward. He looked at me and smiled. “It seems that MR. Ditto left a small estate,” he said “I think he would want you to have it.” He took the nickel out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand.

      This time I accepted it instantly. For, remembering the light in Mr. Ditto’s eyes, I suddenly knew the meaning of his gift. Over and over I had received it in grief, thinking it a mark of his poverty. Now for the first time I saw it as it really was: a shining symbol of some boundless wealth which I had never dreamed existed. In that one bright moment all sorrow was dispelled, all pity vanished. My poor little Mr. Ditto had been rich beyond belief. In his vast estate were all the patience, faith, and love a human heart can hold.

      I went to the hospital canteen and bought a cup of coffee. There was a vacant table by the window, and I sat down. It was almost dark. A tiny evening star twinkled prematurely in the sky. I lifted the steaming coffee to my lips and proposed a silent toast: “To Mr. Ditto, who shall inherit the earth.” Then I drank deeply of the cup.

LABYRINTHS - TWENTY

                After dinner later that night, I announced that I was tired and wanted to retire. Abbey appeared to have no problems with that. I said good night to her and went to my room. A few minutes later I heard a knock and... how many were we in this house... of course it was her. She came in and made herself comfortable on my bed and I got the impression that she wasn’t leaving soon.

                “I want to ask you...” she started, “Would you really blame me if I didn’t tell you my medical condition?”

                “Yes... because by so doing you endangered us both.”

                “I hate to compare you to the others, but you’re toeing the exact same line they did.”

                “Obviously. Anyone would toe the same line, because toeing a different one might be disastrous.”

                “Is that why you have been avoiding me since I told you?”

                “Hello? Avoiding you? Who ran off to work this morning in spite of my attempts to prevail on her to stay home and rest? Who just... wandered off with Isabelle now to go and gallivant about town...? Don’t speak to me about avoidance!”

                “You’re sounding like you’re jealous... But I left because I’d rather be miles away from you than to be in the same house with you and have to tolerate the... chasm you’ve created between us.”

                “I don’t get you... How can you say I created a chasm between us?”

                “You didn’t offer me soothing words to help me with the tough battle I’m facing. You don’t hold me anymore... you don’t cuddle me. You’ve not kissed me since I got back from the hospital... why? You’re treating me as if it’s AIDS I’ve got...”

                “I’m avoiding those because doing so might be injurious to your health.”

                “C’mon Iroko, don’t tell me your view on the relations of man and woman is this... limited.”

                “How do you mean?”

                “Your... philosophy... only seems to recognize relations based on... animal desire... but there’s a wide field of strong attachment where desire plays, at least, only a secondary part... There are several ways to share a good time... not just through sex!”

                “Well, much as I can’t say I understand what you mean, I’m acting the way I’m doing based on my knowledge of myself, and what I think I know of you. People who shouldn’t have sex shouldn’t kiss. And what’s more... then when I kissed you I was your shrink, but now, according to you – and a wise decision that is too – you don’t want my shrink services anymore...”

                “Look into my eyes Iroko,” she looked serious, “and tell me that all we had was just... just... work.”

I paused awhile. Then…

                “C’mon Abbey, I told you you’re special... and I wasn’t lying. Girl... I’m just scared and... confused... You know this is a new development... and a big one at that. I need time to assimilate all this. I came here with the intention of being your shrink and working with you, but right now I’m the one who’s being worked on. I need to breathe, Abbey, I need to. It is important that I do. I need to sort myself out. I need to check my feelings.”

                “Know what, I agree with you. And I got this for you.” She gave me an envelope.

I opened it and opened my mouth in shock; then I began to count the notes.

                “I don’t really know your... money... as in your currency here... but something tells me this is ten thousand Rands?”

                “That’s correct.”

                “What for?”

                “For you Iroko.”

                “For me? My money’s supposed to be just four grand... of which you’ve already given me one... so what... this is over a hundred percent excess. Don’t you know what you should do with money anymore?”

                “Trust me, I do. And one is fix my car for a start. But you would have gotten no more than four grand if all you did here was your shrink job.”

                “Did I do more... something I’m not aware of?”

                “Yes, you brought sunshine into our lives... Isabelle, Doctor Biola, Doctor Fina, Zuma... all have something beautiful to say about you. God! Even my secretary in the office says you’re nice.”

                “Okay... and it is your place, my dear girl, to reward people who are nice, huh?!”

                “Don’t see it as a reward, ‘cuz I could never reward you. See it as payment for your work. Perhaps you should begin to see yourself as more than a shrink... you sell sunshine... and I’ve bought some for all these people I just mentioned. For me, I want to keep the source – if I could. Believe me, you did much more than you can imagine in such a short time.”

                “Wow... that’s... that’s ennobling. But Abbey girl, you might want to reconsider this. When I’ll be gone it wouldn’t feel the same way... especially as there’s no guarantee that I shall return... And you’ll seem to find you fell prey to the antics of a con man who breezed by your life... Don’t do something you’ll regret later.”

                “I will never regret this past two weeks for as long as I breathe. Even if you’re the devil... I love you dearly, and I’m not ashamed to say it.”

                My rejecting the money was no pretence... my refusal was genuine, because... something like I didn’t want Abbey to commit me any further. Of course I needed the money... for Teresa, for my folks, for my sibs... for Kate; and to even hang on when I found I’d lost my job. I didn’t want to take more than I bargained for. But Abbey’s persistence was unbeatable, so I claimed the fat envelope from the bed.

I kissed her on the temple.

                “You’re magical Abbey... I’ve been asking myself a question since these days... ‘Hope these aren’t the last days of my life?’... ‘cuz if the best parts ... if being in the company of the epitome of sublime womanhood is served me this early on ... if I’ve seen what men eighty haven’t yet seen... I hope I’m still gonna live to eighty.”

                Abbey smiled. “You do have a way with words. You say the most beautiful things.”

                “If you go to a beautiful beach you know what it does to your senses, that you bless it unaware... if you chat with a captivating woman... you know what it does to your mind? It sets it aglow with gestures and words that attempt to sing her praise...”

                “Say no more, Iroko,” she said, “just hold me.”

I gathered her into my arms and held tight... Even I had missed this. I could feel her heartbeat, and it beat faster than mine. I hoped all was well now.

                The sensitivity of the situation endeared us further. It is true that... when love begins to set in, carnality begins to retreat to the rear. At that point when you can hug a woman and not really feel her breasts rubbing against you... and not imagine how close your crotches are and how close you are to penetration... and not run your hands all over her back down to the fleshy mounds above her legs... at that point you’ve transcended a realm; you’ve either come to really love that woman, or come to be indifferent about her femaleness.

In my case it couldn’t be indifference... the former was more likely to be the case. Abbey and I slept in my room, on my bed, till dawn. We slept in each other’s embrace... and woke up so.

This wasn’t enough, though, to be a foretaste of matrimony. It lacked the essentials of a connubial night – the talk and the sexual conjugation. The talk about the children – who had been born or who were to be; the quarrels; the fights; the coldness... Or the reconciliation; the kisses and the re-professions of love and commitment. The matrimonial bed is a drama-set infinitely more palpitating than most other aspects of life. What couples do there reverberate through history and constitute the tumultuous noise that emanates from the planet as it plots its course through space. Two people necking there in 1888 or ’89 in Braunau am Inn, Austria-Hungary, may have been fighting through it... to produce Hitler... who was involved, arguably, in the loudest war noises ever heard. And when the two who produced Bin Laden went in, someone should have told them to use a condom. Or maybe they should have just held each other and slept... the way Abbey and I did, for nobody ever really knows the full consequences of releasing semen into a woman’s vaginal track.

                I wanted to sneak out of bed without waking her, but how could I succeed when she lay atop my arm! She caught me and asked where I was going.

                “To say my prayers,” I said.

Then she didn’t say anything, she just got out of bed and knelt down... with sleepy eyes.

                “I didn’t want to wake you because you need this rest...” I said.

                “Let’s pray then I’ll go back to sleep.”

We did; after which I tucked her back in and went to wash up. In my mind I said those prayers I couldn’t say when we were two... as in, I spoke to God in a language only He and I understood.