PRACTICE - NINE

Arguably the sweetest day of my life… the day of the trip with her… To nurse your darling, to watch her fall asleep in your arms, to pick thread strands and dirt from her hair, to be there for her… life has only a few more pleasures than this. Albert Einstein all over again: I almost prayed for the trip not to end. Ordinarily, Nsukka was far, but today we got there before we knew it. At the bus terminal we hailed a cab to my village… still an hour ahead – give or take.

Late September evening… As expected, the village was deserted somewhat. Two months… three… and the outlook would change. Nowhere on earth is the Christmas season taken more seriously than in Igbo land. Men lived for this… The efforts of the entire year were for this…Who would come home with the biggest, flashiest car… who would host a housewarming ceremony for the grandest mansion… and so on. Businesses were left to apprentices in the cities… the bosses carted their families to the village early in December. They didn’t care much what the apprentices did. But when they went broke in January, they instinctively developed uncanny eyes for detecting fraud, and Master/Apprentice relationships began to suffer.

                Here was my father’s compound. Grandpa and Ma lived here. This year it would witness a Christmas homecoming. It didn’t every year. We were never neck deep in the whole fuss. Often, when Dad and Mom set out, they found none of us interested in the trip, so they either went on alone, or shelved their plans. That I was here now, for sure, meant I wasn’t going to be here at Christmas… except if the scheme at hand required it.

                Grandma’s race to embrace me was a catwalk. Or, maybe not cat, dog. Or, say… goat. Grandma had awkward steps… made all the more pronounced by age. It was like a dance. And if she was coming to hug you, she’d have raised her hands from a mile away. I quickened my pace, and hugged the mother of my father.

                “And who’s the beautiful damsel?” She spoke in our dialect. I hadn’t heard more than three words of English in one stretch from her since I knew her. I said her name, and Grandma started battling to get her mouth around it. I helped her out… Laide… L-A-I-D-E! I invited Laide close, and Grandma hugged and welcomed her. Laide kept smiling, though she didn’t understand what Grandma kept saying. She seemed to know, however, that they were profuse pleasantries.

I brought Grandma up to speed… where Grandpa and I left off the last time. She knew.

                Grandpa wasn’t home… must have been at the village hall or so. I wasn’t sure we had a king with a palace. What I was sure of was, we had the eldest men in different clans, and then the eldest in the entire town… those were the ones to whom tributes were paid. The eldest in our clan had died; Grandpa now was. It meant he’d be busy a lot… until his last breath. Politics here threaded on merit… and it was all in a bid to be distracted while awaiting the inevitable end.

                Our coming was unannounced. There was a phone in the house, but these old folks never used it. I went in search of it, and I found it off. The battery was dead… probably died months ago. We didn’t have central electricity yet; we depended on a generator. It hadn’t been put on since someone from Abuja was last here. The house was untidy. The yam barn was scanty… These old folks needed help.

                Grandma made dinner just before Grandpa returned. He was past being surprised at anything. He was worn out, so I didn’t bother him too much. I only introduced Laide, and he welcomed her. We held up a boring, lamplight chat in his Obi until he started to snore. I wasn’t embarrassed; all the old men I’d ever watched sleep snored. I took Laide to her room and talked and sang her lullabies. When she fell asleep, I went to the living room to sleep… dust dwelt in all the other rooms. Tomorrow we’d do some cleaning… reduce the work for those coming in December.

JOB OPENINGS

Cool TV & Wazobia TV sister companies of Cool FM, Wazobia FM and Nigeria Info FM are recruiting for their long awaited family format television in the
following categories:
•Creative and innovative Nigerian graduates in the Diaspora
•Home grown talented Nigerian graduates and professionals who will be trained with assistance of Bill Tush the pioneer broadcaster of CNN Atlanta.
•Shortlisted candidates shall be trained by www.aimgroup.us and eventually would be trained by Bill Tush the pioneer broadcaster of CNN Atlanta.

Group A
•Talk Show Host or Co-Host
•Ventriloquists
•Newscasters
•News Producers
•Mimickers
•Weather Presenters
•Choreographers
•Sports Presenters
•Public Relation/Communication

Specialist
•Comedy Talk Show Host or Co-Host
Requirements.
•Applicants should be between ages 24 – 40 and also between body sizes 6 to 18, a degree holder, smart and good looking.

Group B
•Coordinating Manager
•Head of Programs
•Retired Magistrate (i.e Above 55 years)
•Lighting Operator (Control Room)
•Head, Engineering Services
•Disable Talent (in any field & Age group)
•Audio – Visual Editor
•Tricaster Operators
•Studio Integrated Engineer (Multifaceted)
•Doctors (who can act)
•Reporters/Correspondents
•Events Experts
•IT Engineers
•Public Relation / Communication Officer
•Articulate Tailors
•Teleprompter Operator (Control Room)
•Head, Master Control Room
•Program Producers
•Script Writers
•Jingle Machine Operator (Control Room)
•Head, Control Room (Production Studio)
•News Editors
•Audio Operator (Control Room)
•Deputy Coordinating Manager
•Economist
•International Political Analyst
•Video Operator (Control Room)
•Head of Stations
•Economic Analyst
•Local Political Analyst
•Politics/Science (Analyst)
•Graphic Designer
•Head, Control Room (News Studio)
•Lawyers (who can act)
•Cameramen

Requirements
•Applicants should be between ages 30 – 65

Group C
•Articulate Models

Requirements
•Applicants should be between ages 20 – 30

Group D
•Wardrobe Designers
•Stylist (Cloth/Hair)
•Make-Up Artist

Requirements
•Applicants should be within any age group

Group E
•Any Company interested in Barter
Location: Lagos

How to Apply
Interested and qualified candidates should send their CVs to: jobs@cool-tv.tv or jobs@wazobia-tv.tvspecifying the position of interest.

Application Deadline: 10th October, 2013

PRACTICE - EIGHT

In the morning, after drifting for about two hours and taking pictures, we finally got ready to step out. We went to my eldest brother’s office for a courtesy visit. Face value, he liked what he saw. The intrinsic beauty was even more breathtaking, I assured him.

Afterwards we went to my parents’. I told her in advance not to feel any pressure. Mom was enamored by Laide. All of a sudden, I could talk and be listened to. It felt like I’d sold out… had compromised…. Because it involved me now I wanted to shift grounds… bend the rules. I wanted to say to Mom: ‘Let’s try and feel comfortable around any language that helps us communicate’. The thing was, Mom was always on Dad’s neck every time he admonished us. Because Dad often spoke as if he was addressing students in a classroom… metallic English… high sounding words. Mom always demanded that he spoke to us in our own language… that he wasn’t talking to strangers but his own family. She found it unbearable for couples to speak in a public language; meant they couldn’t keep any secrets once they were out of their bedroom. She had a point; one I’d shared with her for many years. But now it didn’t matter… to me, and, as things appeared, to her too. Laide was gifted in languages: her native Bini, and then Yoruba and Ibibio… but not a word in Ibo. Mom had to get a hang of this English thing in filial discourses. It used to be a luxury Dad could afford, now it was a necessity we needed.

Just the way Laide stole my heart, she unnerved my parents. I now felt a little relaxed about the imminent visit to Grandpa.

                Before we set out for my parents’ I’d told her to be herself. I didn’t want to have to advise… when it came to cooking… whether she should join Mom in the kitchen or not; when it came to dining, whether she should conceal her voracious appetite or not… Putting the plates away after meals was in order, though.

                She and I stayed with Dad in the living room while Mom made breakfast and set the table. As we ate amidst light talks, Laide winked at me from across the table. In the wink of an eye she had devoured everything on her plate – bread, eggs, sausages, everything… drank up her tea. She made a face… There was no opportunity for her to show my folks just how dangerous she could be in the dining. After the meal she cleared the table. That was my girl!

                She helped out with lunch.

                In the late afternoon my kid sister returned from school. I was pleased to introduce them. I told my sister ‘take care of my girl. She’s older, but you have to take care of her for me… every chance you get. Make our home comfortable for her… so she’d want to stay. Because if she stays, I’m a happy man. And when I’m a happy man, you know you’re good.’

She smiled.

First time I’d confide in her like this. She’d only come of age. SS3 first term; university in a year… that’s ripe!

                In the evening my eldest brother and Karen, my sister, came by with their families. It was one helluva large house. Yet sister number one and brothers number two and three weren’t home. We had a lively evening before the sub families departed. And then arrangements were made for retirement. After night prayers Laide retired to my kid sister’s room, and I to mine. I let my folks know… we were going to Grandpa tomorrow.

PRACTICE - SEVEN

On a Sunday evening in mid-September, I was at a joint having a beer and watching the English Premier League when Laide called. It wasn’t very unusual, but Blackberry messaging was the chief means through which we communicated. I had to get away from the noise to hear her clearly. She’d been talking, but when I could finally hear her clearly, she’d grown impatient.

                “Where are you?”

                “I ah… I’m at a joint… watching…”

                “You’re not boozing, are you?”

                “Just… just… just a bot…”

                “Know what… Foggerrit!”

                “Hello? Hellooo?”

I knew that mood. Calling back would be futile. I had to let her burn out, so I went back to my seat. But she had to learn… that hurtful words can’t be taken back; time once lost can never be regained… when you drive a nail into the trunk of a tree, you can decide to pull it out, but the tree will never be the same. Peace is peace, but once there’s been a war, it’s called calm. Peace is natural, but calm is enforced.

                I was hoping to check up on her the next morning but, just before I slept off that night, a ping dispersed the particles of sleep that were building up gradually around my eyes, attacking my consciousness. It was 11:31pm.

                “You couldn’t even call back.” .

                “Thought I’d let you be…”

Nothing for a few minutes.

                “Have you finished boozing?”

                “Yes.”

                “How many?”

                “One.”

                “You sure?”

                “Yep!”

Nothing.

                “How do I get to Abuja?”

                “Wha?!”

                “Tell me.”

                “Wow!

“You’re coming? When?”

                “When should I come?

“But know your week starts counting from tomorrow.”

                “Wow!”

                “Could you stop wowing!”

                “Sorry bout that.

“Okay… Take God Is Good Motors, along Uniben road. Their park here is at Utako. I’ll pick you from there.”

I said wow out loud… didn’t type it, or all these would end prematurely. She could be that impulsive.

                “Ok.”

                “And, sweetheart, you need to set out early so you can get here before dark, okay?”

                “Ok. That means I have to sleep now.”

                “You have to, baby.”

                “Goodnight.”

                “Good night.”

I sent her the kiss and hug smiley and she sent back.

I became all bright-eyed after the chat. I started to create an excuse for the office… a sudden request for leave. I decided I’d draft a leave application letter in the morning. Boss was out of town; I’d e-mail it. By the time he’d be reading it I’d already be using the leave. If he saw it a day late, I’d already be on my way to my Grandpa… bringing my prize.

I went to work in the morning. Benin was far. If I stayed home waiting for her, anxiety would kill me. When I got to the office one of the new consultants who were conducting an appraisal of us found my lateness intolerable. That was his business. Our boss, yet again, was taking us for granted… hiring new guys to whip us into line. He’d hired and fired several… nothing had really worked; still he hadn’t learned… to get our opinion or something. These new guys would fail most woefully than all the others before them… We were fed up; only the lack of alternatives kept us showing up. Everyone probably had their plan: The girls were going to get married; the young men were making investments… things were pretty tough, though. As for me, my maiden book – which fetched me the scholarship – had been doing well in the market… So we weren’t exactly going to die if we got fired.

                It was a boring day. My work was unpredictable. I’d spent the better part of the day relatively idle, staying in touch with Laide when network allowed. But at about 4pm I found myself immersed in the process of creating a presentation. An external meeting had been fixed for Tuesday. The least I could do was prepare the presentation, since it was very likely I wasn’t going to be in the meeting to deliver it. This was my role.

                Laide called from Utako. I begged Onyeka, the driver, to help me pick her up. I gave him some money; he was to take her to the restaurant in the basement of the office building so she could eat. No foodstuffs, no cooking at my place…

                It was way past 7pm when I poked my head in the door of Chicken Capitol – the Basement restaurant. Laide looked worn out. She hadn’t seen me… partial lighting… so I took some time to admire her from a distance.

She was the best thing my eyes had ever seen. She was sitting so calmly and patiently, looking so ripe and exhausted. This was her, from an all new perspective. I fell in love with her afresh. What I felt then was stronger than whatever I felt before, or thought I could ever feel. The moment of clarity seemed like eternity. I was musing…

Here she was, the girl of my dreams; she had traversed an arduous patch of geography in search of me. And it filled my heart with delight knowing that of the millions of people between Benin and Abuja, this… this… last work of God was traveling in search of me. She just sat there… like an endangered species. I wondered how many girls of her mix of beauty, intelligence and tenderness existed. Just like Will Smith would say, she was a sight for sore eyes. The curves of her breasts effortlessly flawed Da Vinci’s artistic ingenuity. This was the masterpiece of a higher artist – God himself!

Her hair – simple braids…packed backwards in a simple style... Braids had never looked cuter on anyone. She had no make-ups on. She made my mouth water. The appropriate treat to give such a lady at such a moment was to take her to the coziest spot on earth and fulfil her every desire. I never felt so poor! I previewed this spectacle against the poor light for a while longer, and then went straight to embrace my favorite dream.

      She was happy to see me as I was to see her. She was a lovely flower in full bloom. Most importantly, the remarkable and smashing outer beauty only concealed an even more enchanting interior. She had a beautiful soul. I had gained insight into that too. She was perfect. God, I thought, was playing pranks on me by swinging such beauty my way. It was such a blessing that no man on earth had done enough to deserve.

All the ‘silence therapy’ and indifference from my parents… I was going to break through it. Mom was the weak link in the chain. She’d be unhinged by the sheer beauty of the woman I was about to show her. She mightn’t say it, I knew, but she’d be proud of me. My eldest brother had a really fine son… Mom was usually concerned about the precedents that result in pretty progenies… as far as was humanly influenceable, that was. I remember some years ago when we attended Mass at a Parish other than ours… she was thrilled when two pretty sisters besieged me to say hello. She was impressed, that in such high society, I knew such fine people who would rush to hug me. Now this… Laide was going to be my wife… Mom was going to be ecstatic. Whatever mountains… whatever valleys… occasioned by ethnicity, religion, and what have you… Laide’s aesthetic qualities were one giant leap that takes us to the summit. Whatever push was left, Grandpa’s tutelage might help.

                In the car as we drove home, I called her Dad… Told him she arrived safely… thanked him profusely… and assured him she’d be back to him in a week – no more.

After our conversation his sign-off was pleasurable:

                “I respect you, Duke; respect me… Keep your words!”

                “Certainly sir!”

                When we got to my one room apartment I asked her if she’d like tea. She said she was fine. So I just ran her warm water to bathe. When she was done we stayed up and talked a little. It wasn’t lively… she was falling asleep. So I invited her to her knees and we said our night prayer… Thanked the Lord for everything; prayed for his favor upon our plans and wishes and dreams; prayed for the week to go well; prayed for our families… and prayed for a restful night.

I tucked her into bed and kissed her temple. Then I killed the light and descended down to the rug and just lay there. I was ready to sleep, but my mind simply refused to hibernate.

THE GREATEST DILEMMA OF OUR TIME

The greatest dilemma of our time:

Is it Terrorism, and what we might do, to stop men killing one another?

Or is it Corruption, and how we can get leaders to truly and honestly lead?

Is it Religion… how to achieve one universal one?

Or is it Immorality and pervasion?

If you ask me, not all these.

The greatest dilemma of our time…

Is what to do for the child, with the child, and by the child.

It’s a Monday morning:

In hurtling to fix the problems of the world, our country, our states, our families,

Do we do so like Manchester United yesterday, who all advanced up-field in pursuit of victory, only to have their David De Gea at the mercy of Negredo and Aguero?

In other words, do we quickly hand-off our kids to ‘so-called’ teachers, and run off in pursuit of millions?

This week, let us be like Liverpool:

Let us aim for victory, but be defensive.

So that even though the world is a mess today, we can be hopeful that the children we raise will clean it all up tomorrow.

So did I dwell on the Fifth Joyful Mystery this morning.

The right tenets for raising a child could be elusive…

Therefore, let us pray for the disposition of Mary and Joseph, when they found a truant Jesus after three days of searching. The excuse He gave didn’t even make any sense at the time, but His parents kept calm. And after the way they handled the situation, we never heard that Jesus ran off again. He stayed in His father’s shop, diligently learning the art of carpentry. I guess.

Take care of your children, for they are the elements of the future earth.

An empty world will have no trouble.

A world filled with bad people and poorly raised children will be in turmoil.

But a world with good men and women in it… that world will be alright.

I tell you!

Good morning.

PRACTICE - FIVE

I knew Abuja’s corporate life. And, maybe, Lagos’. But nothing of Benin’s. Abuja young men looked dashing in their corporate attires. On good days, I did too. And today was a good day. It was a Tuesday; I hadn’t exhausted my wardrobe for the week. So, in my white shirt and black suit, I looked reasonably impressive. Red tie. I greeted the men – four of them – and they kept staring at me. Censure could have been on their minds, because government could appear in any form. But this was no censure. While the other men gazed on in confusion, Laide’s Dad spoke up with some… relaxed… cheer.

                “Duke how are you?”

I was pleased to hear him call my name. Extremely pleased.

                “I’m very fine, sir. Thank you. And how are you sir?”

                “We’re fine…” he replied.

                “Laide told me you were a little ill over the weekend… How are you now?”

                “It was nothing… serious… We old men fall ill sometimes,” he joked.

“These are my colleagues,” he said and, turning to the men he said “this is Duke…” And then he faced me and said, “Duke, what are you to me?” He was smiling mischievously and I felt cornered.

                “I am… I am… your… I’m a friend of the family, sir.”

That was the best I could come up with. He laughed; and I did too.

                The mood in the room improved. The other men took the cue…

                “I targeted coming at lunch time so I wouldn’t really be… getting in the way of work…

“I could go and wait somewhere for a better time…”

One of the men on his way out quipped, “Every time is lunch time here oo!”

He was the roundest of them all.

They laughed as they exited the room.

Now that I had my ‘father-in-law’s’ attention, he asked me when I came into town…

                “I understand you don’t live in Benin…”

                “I just came in, sir,” I replied.

                “From Abuja?” he sounded surprised… perhaps not at the speed, but at taking a full-fledged working day for a gamble trip.

                “Yes sir. I had to skip work… I flew.”

                “Okaaay… I was wondering.

“So… have you seen Laide?”

                “I didn’t come to see her, sir; I came to see you…”

“Me?!”

“Yes sir! To continue to seek your favorable consideration of me. I know I’m a stranger, but in a matter of time you’ll get to know me… and probably trust me…”

He thought awhile.

                “You know Laide’s in school… and nothing will happen; nothing will even be considered until she’s through!”

                “I know sir…”

                “But the… the intensity of your… your… request suggests otherwise,” he protested.

                “Sir, I’m… kind of… asking your permission to date her…”

                “To date her?”

                “Kind of… Sir.”

                “Aren’t you already dating her?”

                “I… I don’t live in Benin, sir.”

                “Yes! But you two know how you have been doing it!”

                “Sir… I… I want to… I want to…” I was staring at the desk now, not the man… “I want to… start the process of asking your permission to… let her travel for a week.”

                “Travel to where?”

                “To Abuja… and we can take a vacation together…”

I didn’t know where I got the audacity to voice my request from. But then, I thought, what was the big deal? The worst I could get was a no.

His eyes grew round.

                “Are you… are you insane?! You’re asking me… to allow my daughter… you’re asking me to let my daughter loose? Where are you from?! Is that how you operate in your place?!”

                “Sir, I know it sounds stupid…”

                “It sounds more than stupid… it sounds disrespectful!” he yelled.

                “Sir, I know it sounds stupid, but I have the audacity to ask because I know that I would never ever hurt Laide in anyway whatsoever. I give you my word… I will not even touch her… We wouldn’t even lie on the same bed… Not just because you won’t want it so, but also because I won’t…”

                “Then what do you want her to visit you for?”

                “Sir… oh… so we can be together… share our company; dream together, plan, grow… put our challenges into perspective… I bring to the fore the unfavorable conditions here and the ones at my place, we analyze them… determine our chances…

“Because, sir,” I looked squarely at him, “if you foreclose abruptly this opportunity we’ve found… to spend our lives together… you might be doing an eternal damage to both our hearts…

“Sir, let us see reasons, if any, why we can’t be together – especially in our own way; let’s not just be systematically kept away from each other…”

                “Hmm!” he heaved.

                “Yes sir,” I continued. “It will be like a convention for her and me… to either buoy our determination, or kill it; whichever, in the end we’ll know… If love, and commitment, and honor, and trust are not a sufficient foundation upon which we can build a home… a marriage… we’ll not need anyone to tell us to stay apart.

“If there are other things we must have that we don’t already have, then we’ll understand. We’ll know if distance and tribal or religious differences are strong enough to crush the unification of two souls occasioned by deep love and affection… and respect…”

                “Young man… young man,” he intervened. “I will not lie that your speech is not touching, no. As a matter of fact, it is impressive… But don’t forget that I was once a young man, and I know how love intoxicates… Believe me, it can turn a stammerer into an orator. I’m not saying… don’t get me wrong…I am not… downplaying your gentlemanly qualities. As a matter of fact, I extol them. I am only saying that love is mostly a momentary thing… a phase thing… it soon blows over, and when it does, the reality it leaves behind is different. Our people say the drunk should go and sleep, when they wake, then they can attend to the real business of life with clear eyes. It’s the reason why alcohol is served only after serious matters have been addressed in a meeting.” He laughed. I chuckled.

“Time and experience have taught our people not to bank on love alone when marrying because, in following the lead of love alone, serious issues are not taken into consideration. And, while the two people in question love each other, what about their families? Marriage is not just about the man and the woman, you know… it extends to their families, their backgrounds, their histories… This is the real world, young man, not your fantasy ‘Abuja marriage’ world. I’ve heard a lot of stories about that your Abuja. We’re not like that here. Here we’re very circumspect.” He finished.

                “I’ve heard all you said, sir.” I cleared my throat. His long, conquering speech had subdued me some.

“The depth of your wisdom is intriguing. I expected nothing less, anyway. Your daughter herself has the body of a twenty-two year old girl, but her mind is that of a forty-year old woman. A real chip off the old block!

“I do agree with you, sir, that love wanes… that the drunk have nothing meaningful to accomplish other than sleep… I agree sir. As much as I do not believe that my love for Laide will ever fade, I do not want to leave anything to chance… or fate. That is why I want to consummate my love for her sooner than later… to invest this… this… huge… deposit… of affection I have for her. I do not want to leave it there and have it fester and grow cold and become indifferent… I don’t want it killed by the dispositions of our families. That is why I am taking this road… that’s why I seek to invest it… so that in the future, even if I don’t have any interest on it, at least I’ll have my capital – whole and entire – and that’s a whole lot.”

He smiled.

                “She did mention that you’re an accountant.”

                “I read accounting, sir.”

                “That makes you an accountant, doesn’t it?”

                “Well, I don’t work as an accountant, sir.”

                “What do you work as?”

                “I’m more into the initiation and development of projects…”

                “I see…” His gesture suggested he needed some explanation.

                “Well, my accounting background is often quite detrimental to project initiation and development work…”

                “Detrimental you say?”

                “Yes sir.”

                “That’s a negative word, isn’t it?”

                “It is sir. By that I mean… a project developer is supposed to just keep initiating and developing projects. It is the job of the financial departments to consider the viability of such projects and decide if the organization should embark on them… and they suggest the best approaches the organization might use. So, in my case, in the processes of initiation and development, I worry a lot about costs; and the implication is that it reduces my speed and drive. It is good to consider costs when making any plans, but the financial departments have the full apparatuses to extensively analyze costs against expected short and long term benefits. So… if I’m there at my desk, getting discouraged at every turn because of “high costs”, the financial guys wouldn’t have much developed projects to analyze; and so less work is done. On the other hand, if I could get myself to ignore the costs, the financial guys could see a lot of sense and viability in a project I might consider too expensive to embark on… So… that’s that sir.”

                “Interesting!”

                “Thank you sir.”

                “Erm… what do I offer you?”

                “Oh, nothing sir. Your attention is a lot already.”

                “Really?”

                “Yes sir; really.”

                “Well, your coming here has really helped your cause, I must admit. We’ll see how things go.”

                “Thank you sir. Just a week… no harm whatsoever.”

                “Oh… that… Well, we’ll see.”

                “Thanks a lot sir.”

                “Are you going by the house?”

                “Oh no sir. Seeing you was my sole purpose for coming.”

                “So… you’re going back to Abuja?”

                “Yes sir.”

                “Right now?”

                “Yes sir. But if I can’t make it I’ll just pass the night in a hotel somewhere and leave in the morning. It’s either a flight now, or a hotel and a bus trip in the morning.”

                “We can shelter you for the night… if that worries you so much…”

                “Oh, don’t bother sir; I’ll be fine.”

                “Sure?”

                “Yes sir. Thanks for the offer. I’m really grateful.”

                “You’re welcome.

“You say you don’t want anything?”

                “I’m fine sir. I have to go.”

                “Okay Duke…”

                Blur.

Straight to Abuja that same day, and I showed up at work full of excuses and apologies. If I continued like this my days were numbered.

PRACTICE - SIX

At the weekend I went to my parents’ house. Everything was normal. No one asked me questions. Not even Dad… He didn’t ask me how things went with Grandpa or what I’d been up to. Lately, he and Mom had become quite distant and hard to reach. It made me think they were unhappy with me or something.

                Usually, if married couples take a vacation – or whatever exercise prescribed to rejuvenate their love – the first signs of success are usually spotted in the ways they attend to their children. It becomes often shabby. They take the love and attention meant for the children and shower on themselves. All of it! The children’s affairs take back stage: The crying baby would have to make do with the attention of the nanny; all the children would have to cope with long stretches of hunger; the maid would have much more work to do... all the while, Mom and Dad would be in their bedroom looking into each other’s eyes and laughing at their unfunny jokes. Having retired and moved to a quiet part of town, it was as though Mom and Dad were newlyweds now. What they had now was an everlasting vacation. Every time we came around, it was clear where their priorities lay – in each other. It was difficult to connect with them.

                Beyond that matrimonial preoccupation, however, it was possible that my Dad wasn’t happy with me. A friend of his had fed him a million fascinating stories about chattered accountants, and he wouldn’t have me be anything else. It always seemed I was going to get involved in the race there… in a matter of time. But now that my immediate academic future lay in purely artistic fields in the US, he must have felt I would never become a chartered accountant after all. I was going to study classical literature… and I nursed a personal ambition of merging it with modern to create a writing style of my own. I didn’t seek to get into it in Nigeria because I didn’t want to always come home to his disappointed and disapproving countenance. Moreover, how could a venture like that put food on my table in this country? Now I was switching careers. As if that was not enough, I was talking about getting married… and marriage pigeonholes a man’s path, leaving little or no room for risky career adventures. Simply put, if I didn’t become a chartered accountant before I got married, I would never become.

                I imagined Dad’s inhaler would be running out, so I bought him a new one. I bought him a new tin of coffee too. As he always did when I bought things for him, he refunded the money I expended… against my wish… said he didn’t want to bother me. That wasn’t how I saw it.

The rains began to increase in frequency, but decrease in intensity. A few good rains lay ahead, though. September. The ‘Ember’ months were here. The franticness was setting in. Time was running out. I knew I couldn’t take Laide away from her family at Christmas season. The time was now. All the joy they knew in that family probably revolved around her. Even if I could, I didn’t want to be in the village with her at a time when Dad and Mom would probably be there. It might lousy up Grandpa’s schemes. Plus, I could face Grandpa’s tortures – if at all… couldn’t say the same for my Dad’s.

I put in two full weeks at work, calling Laide’s Dad ever so frequently.

THE GRAPH

We called Nabem Mister Eyes, because we said he had the largest eyes on earth. He often went livid whenever we did. We were always alert for when he’d hit out, and we darted away. We were coming up with funny degrees of the joke, so much that Nabem couldn't often help laughing, until it didn't really upset him any more.  We laughed when he wore glasses… we said thirty percent of his eyes remained uncovered underneath the rim of the glasses, and another thirty percent above the rim.

When he stared at the beginning pages of a book, we said it only seemed he was reading from those pages, that the actuality was… he was reading the end pages… That his gaze needed cushioning, so that to read from page two hundred, he needed to be looking at page one.

We said because of his eyes, that Nabem could see the future; and so we asked him to give us clues on what lay in our exam question papers… Exams that were months away. Of course it was all a joke. But when Nabem got an A in Geography in our Senior School Certificate Exam, I thought we might have been right all along.

                It was the view from the window of the room that would be mom's that brought all this…’Nabemic’… thoughts upon me. I was resting from all the work I’d done. Dad’s repeated coughs from the kitchen invaded my reverie. Him coughing wasn't new, but it was growing in intensity these days. What retirement opens you up to…

                   That anything took shape that Sunday afternoon was really because of Chaz and I, not really Dad. The three of us had come to clean up our new home and make it ready for the arrival of the family. A fine, humane apartment in the quieter parts of the city… still green, and still with distant views unhindered by high rise buildings, electric poles, billboards, masts, and all whatnots. Mom and my elder brothers had insisted on the idea of moving here, discouraging Dad from retiring to the village… where old men distractedly anticipated death. We were moving for the first time in twenty years. Back then, we operated at Dad’s pace; and that meant having to jog behind him at times, and getting run over when we stood morosely in his way. Dad was fast, business-minded, and energetic. Twenty years changes everyone… moves everyone along the graph of life. It had set us well along the path to the tip, but Dad had made the bend. Law of diminishing whatever!

                Chaz and I rushed to the kitchen. He wouldn't admit he needed help. Typical! But we tried to see what we could do anyway. Now I wondered afresh if this was nothing but senility… because of what the issue was. I hadn't quite come to know what he suffered from, but he took drugs all the time. His breathing had been laborious for weeks. I noticed every time I stood close to him, but I never knew the right question to ask.

                Twenty years ago it’d be us worrying to call it a day and go home. Today it was Dad said we’d covered reasonable grounds, we should go. We didn't leave the old place until eight days, so he said we could still make some comebacks before D-day.

                In the car as I drove us home, my mind ran around the spectre of what was to come….

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I'm just discovering that Obinna smokes, but I'm not surprised. To be frank, it discomforted me only a little, given that Chaz, my younger brother, was there. My buddy smoking would definitely paint me in bad light. He tried to be reasonable, though. As if he knew how I felt, he dropped behind to light up. The three of us were walking to the house. It was night already. It easily was here. Electricity hadn't made a full entrance so, once the clock hit eight, a black sky blanketed the world completely. My people say, “It is God that drives away flees from the body of a tailless cow.” And also, “If God would let a rash afflict you, He will give you the fingers with which to scratch”… Here now, the moon was always at its best. Or… maybe not always. But we never saw the moon in the city. If ever we did, we never appreciated it like this. Here we were closer to nature. The sounds from chirping insects were amplified by the green solitude of my native land. Children skittered here and there, playing under the moonlight.

Chaz and I were talking as we strolled… about Pa Onunze and his constant naggings. Funny was the way he gesticulated when he talked. He narrated even trivial stories with the kind of seriousness one would attach to weighty matters such as death. He cast his gaze into the distance, raised his hands and pointed into the air… The pitch of his voice rose unexpectedly. He could be speaking in a very low tone for a time, then, all of a sudden… “AND I STOOD UP AND COLLECTED THE HOE FROM HIM!!!” If you were meeting him for the first time, such burst of adrenaline could scare the crap outta you. Those of us who knew him well, battled with control over rising mirth the whole time. The funniest thing was that, he never seemed to notice that he was being funny. Even when we laughed, he never seemed to know… he simply continued his story, snuff in hand – usually. After visiting with him, we finally gave vent to all our suppressed laughs while discussing the time with him. He was one of our uncles… that was all we knew. How he came to be, we knew not. Nor did we know how Pa Ogbonna was our uncle either. But we were really close to him… enough for me of all people to be pulled to the village to attend his funeral. I had jokingly invited Obinna to accompany me, and he appeared all too willing to do just that.

                From the corner of my eye I could see the red glow of his cigarette, and the scattered smoke he puffed. I wished Chaz wouldn’t see him, but I might have been wishing in vain.

                Amongst the people who have been friends with me over the years, I have found hardly anyone who shares even a tenth of my idiosyncrasies. Not that I know precisely what they are; but I believe I’ll know the moment I spot someone who looks anything like me. Here was Obinna, my friend… he was nothing like me. Now he was disgracing me by smoking in public as if his life depended on it – and in the presence of my “good boy” younger brother. I felt it’d be pretentious of me if I rebuked him now, so I let things lie. After all, I thought, in two days the funeral would be done and over with and we would all be out of here.

The shrill chirps of insects in the glowing night were all over the place. I liken it to something I've heard before: …the stillness of a spinning top; this was the silence of constant noise. What we call silent night isn't really silent. No minute; no second of this life can ever be completely silent. There’s always noise – no matter how faint. But the village was a quiet place… in ways that the city wasn't. Here’s the real pace of man – the ideal pace. Slow. People run up and down in the city; and when they run out of life, this is where they bring them to – the village. Some return before it’s over, to die on their own terms – at their own pace. That was it for Pa Ogbonna. I've never imagined he lived anywhere else but this village. These were the ones who, though the war was lost, never accepted that lopsided reconciliation. They say, ‘he who conforms against his will, is of his opinion still’. We’d arrived the earth to meet him an already ageing man. Wrinkled face with dark blotches… made us think he was angry always. Moreso, when we were up to our little pranks and he yelled, we fled as if we were being chased by an evil spirit. When the whole talk about witches and wizards arose, he was my model of a wizard. He didn't talk much, just sat in his easy chair in his front yard with his hand fan. Never did I see him on a shirt or a trouser; it was always yards of cloth thrown around the body… and his red cap. When he walked he always had his staff, and his hand fan… his chewing stick in his mouth. His movement was slow, his figure bent… and then I thought he was going for a meeting of the witches and wizards.

All this was about fifteen years ago. Now, my own dad has aged, and I've realized that men wrinkle as they age. So Pa Ogbonna was in order… and he was probably not a wizard nor an evil man at all. His son did a stint with us in the city… but things weren't looking up, so he changed base. He was still changing bases when his father died. And when we all converged for the funeral, his father’s house looked neglected. It was his responsibility to fix it, but he hadn't the means to do so.

I took a cursory look at my home town the whole time. In the city we drove cars, saw movies, hung out with pretty ladies, spoke fine English, went to the gym, had contemporary music, met with celebrities, married, had children, travelled the world… All these, I thought, aren't they enticing to these guys? Why would there be life at all in the village! How could anyone want to stay here! These people were not expecting NEPA – even if in days – NEPA had never been here. Little generators were huge luxuries, and only the ‘elites’ owned them. The rest of the people didn't envy, they didn't really want a small machine that pollutes the entire neighbourhood just because it emits light… light that their local lamps could give without any noise at all.

                People woke up in the mornings according to the promise the day at the farm held. If there was enormous work, then rising was early – to be almost through before the sun made a full assent in the sky. If the day held nothing but weeding and light works, people took their time. But farming was a daily program – there was always something to do there. When families came back, the men had their easy chairs set for them, and their wives who had just returned from the farms too served their food. After that, they picked up gourds and went to the stream for water. And they did all this with a sense of joy and responsibility. Nowhere on earth are women more dutiful than in my hometown. When a man came to marry you, his wealth was measured by what cash crops his family owned. It didn't mean you refused if they had none, it meant you were blessed if they had any. But this blessing was sort of a curse in disguise. All the fruits from the trees would be processed by you, taken to the market by you, sold for a pittance, and you remitted the money to your husband – all with a sense of joy. Then you were applauded as a dutiful wife, and that increased the good reputation of your maiden family. Your sisters would get husbands too… your daughters, their daughters…

                I imagined modern girls in the city succumbing to this kind of arrangement. I often found myself laughing. I thought about how hard and how inhuman some cultures are… and how they have given rise to laziness and a misplacement of values in excuse. Yes, the world has turned its back on such arrangements now but, I thought, aren't we better off with this than with what we have now? Now that all most women care about is how to paint their nails and fix weave-ons that touch their hips? My friend Obinna was another good case in point… he had no values. When we arrived my village everything sucked. I kept nagging; and because I nagged, he did too. I thought it was wrong for him to. Even if I spited my town, I felt he needn't do it with me. I even felt he had to placate me… ask me to take it easy, that it was how villages were worldwide. But no, he nagged along… making me feel guilty for bringing him. Now I was changing and he had no idea. He still came and complained to me about how the women slaved for the men. Did he know I now saw that as duty? He still complained we were so backward we had no electricity. Did he know we didn't give a damn about the whole fuss? He still complained about there being no network. Did he know this was now my cherished retreat?

On the morning we were to leave for the city, Obinna’s hushed up readiness wasn't in tandem with the way I calmly put my things together. In the car his gaze was on the road, and how long it would take to get to Abuja.

My gaze was behind, and I was slowly closing the chapter: if the chaos of the city doesn't take my life, I shall return here upon retirement… to sit in my front yard whenever I feel like, with yards of cloth to cover my body. I shall have packs and packs of chewing sticks. I shall have a staff and a fan. I may or may not be a chief – doesn't really matter. I shall make haste slowly. If children come around me, I shall try to smile, so they don’t get scared… But I am silently aware of the further grotesqueness a smiling wrinkled face would assume. So I realize I may not really be able to keep them from running; so I guess that’s it. When I retire I’ll be back here… to enjoy the calm, the peace, the proximity to nature, and die at my own pace.

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When we got home that Sunday evening, Mom heard of how our day went, and what had led to the intense bouts of coughing. From that grey tale, she stringed a robust joke that relaxed my evening a great deal. I guess the best jokes are the ones conjured from very tense and annoying moments and stories. Perhaps that’s why comedians always cut their teeth on political satires.

When Mom turned a matter for which she ought to have been sympathetic into one for which she was amused, Dad didn't find it funny. But the serious look on his face buoyed Mom and, before long, we were all reeling in bouts of preposterous mirth, and she fanned the fire of our mirth with gasps of more and more gibberish. Nor could Dad help it.

                Mom was truly the lubricant of the family as, amidst the gloom posed by Dad’s retirement, our having to pull up stakes, Dad’s health, and the future, she could still make us laugh and love and live.

The jovial ambience lingered through dinner. Next up was the family’s night prayers. After that, we said our goodnights and shared hugs. And then in sleep we awaited the future with the same cheerful disposition that has brought us thus far.

We believe in God.

Copyright (c) 2013.

The First Round: Ef. Nnamdi, George Uzoma, Jude Nnadozie