FEATURE ARTICLE |
Babs Ajayi | Tuesday, March 8, 2005 |
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[email protected] Toronto, Ontario, Canada | ANNOUNCE THIS ARTICLE TO YOUR FRIENDS |
A STRANGE AND FASCINATING NATION:
MY EARLY YEARS IN NIGERIA (V)
any people may not remember the swimming pool at Onikan, Lagos. The swimming pool was just right behind the stadium. In its place now stood the Muson Centre. The swimming pool served my generation and several other generations very well.
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Aso ebi (group uniform) became a vogue, the uniform you must procure from the celebrant in order to be seen to belong. Many borrowed in order to be seen "belong". Only those who showed and exhibited their love and friendship with you and shared your dream take aso-ebi and they are the people who will be given gifts. The gifts will include plastic buckets, bowls, cups, note pads and among the rich exotic Pyrex plates and sets, all with the picture of the celebrant(s) and his/her name printed on it. But nothing is free in Lagos. The celebrant simply adds all the costs and much more to the price of the aso-ebi. Lagos party is not for merriment and fun alone; it is a moneymaking venture for the celebrant. She (in most cases the celebrant is a she, and she may even be an owanbe Alhaja, she may never have seen the airport all her live) has a profit margin and target, and that is Lagos for you. The good boys and rich men invited are expected to take to the dancing floor with her and endlessly spray her with naira notes. Her head becomes the target of different denominations of the naira note.
As the music of King Sunny Ade or Tunde Nightingale drown every other voice and noise around, the money-miss-road men of Lagos with high sounding titles, Otunba, Osiba, Oloye Agba, Chief (Dr.), High Chief, etc take to the floor and try to outdo one another in the naira note spraying competition. The question in the air now becomes, who will take the hand of Alhaja tonight? It is rumoured that some of the women actually use juju on the men to make them spray so much. As boxes of cash is taken from the Oju-agbo by appointed ladies of the celebrant Alhaja, people mill around in awe at the sight of so much cash and so much food and wine. Imported wines and drinks are the vogue. Alhaja must outdo all her rivals and "show" them who is the greatest in this business.
When a band takes recess another band will open the tap of songs and the cash flow is re-enacted again and again. Only the big, rich boys will get the eth best food and executive treatment/reception. He will continue to be relevant and important until he is sacked at work or found guilty of one impropriety or the other. Many of the rich boys suffered such fate at the peak of their popularity. Such was the fortune of Chief Eji Gbadero who was sentenced to death by hanging for the murder of a common folk in an attempt to snatch the poor man's plot of land. But right before the leave, the secret of the corn cake was revealed to the world and the perpetrator of evil and act of murder was found guilty and sentenced to death. He was taken aback at the court by the hoopla around when the judge pronounced his sentence, so he asked his lawyer, "what did his lordship say?"
Lagos parties are a must see, an open-air attraction, and everyone is invited. The soyoyo women and the other ladies who live off attending parties and dancing to be sprayed always out-number the celebrant(s)
"Alhaji! Alhaji!"
"I don't recognize the face"
"Ah! It is me Toyin. We met at Chief's party in Surulere"
"Uhm! I can't remember. Which Chief was that?"
"You don't remember? It is Chief Olowolagba at Obele Odan in Surulere"
"Beni, beni. Chief money power who owns the chain of pools"
"Yes, that is him. He is my uncle"
"Is that so? Would you like to join our table or you already have a table?"
"We'll team up with you here"
"It is not just you; you are not alone!"
"We are just four, Alhaji"
Once the four ladies and their other peers settled in, then the story becomes that of the person who wish to die has met the person who wish to kill and the equation is balanced. The spectators are oblivious to the great under-currents and events, making do with what the eye can see, the twitching and shaking of backsides, the binds being made and contracts being signed by a man and a woman who are interested in having more to do with one another than just sharing a table at the party. I was once told by one of my directors about how he speaks with his eyes. He calls it the eyes that talk!. For him, that was the best way to communicate with ladies and he has used the method for ages and it never failed him!
As the eyes speak to one another in a monologue and in the most grotesque of ways, the party goes on and the pick pocketing goes on with it. Trained boys and hoodlums who have perfected the trade of dipping their fingers into your pocket while you stand wide awake, watching the events of the evening, go about their normal business with professional brutality. Often well organized and scattered around the party venue, the boys knew where all the parties are taking place in Lagos every weekend. They knew which party will have Suuny Ade on the band stand and which one will have Ebenezer Obey or Ahuja Bello. They too are in active duty at the parties and are determined to succeed. At least everyone came to Lagos to succeed and you only do so when you make a lot of money. Only the naira notes define success in Lagos, nothing more. Even the musicians knew which group of thugs and area boys to give money to if he wants to perform successfully that night and take his money from the spraying home.
It was at one of these parties that a money-miss-road Alhaji was robbed of his bag of money by one of those uninvited ladies who gate crash in Lagos. Alhaji was pacing up and down and looking everywhere. He was confused and disoriented. He did not know what to do and who to ask for help. Two boys moved close to him.
"Do not put medicine on the ground here"
"Brother, I am not throwing any juju on the ground. I'm only looking for the lady who was here with me not too long ago".
"Which lady? You better move away, the party is over!"
"Ah! No way! My bag is with the lady"
"Can you believe this! Foolish man, the lady had flown away. She's taken your money and fled, you senseless man!"
"Please help me search for her. I will give you something".
The man was visibly troubled and started to curse his luck, how he was never lucky one day picking the right girl. All the girls he's ever picked up had either drugged him and then steal his money, put him in trouble or is only working for hoodlums who will waylay him and rob him! He swore never to pick any lady again, never to even cast a side-glance or tentative look at any of these "bad Lagos girls". Alhaji fiddled in his soko pocket and fished out his Mercedes Benz car keys swearing under his breath loud enough for the boys to hear, "It cannot be well with this lady". He got his keys with an unsteady hand, his eyes slightly red and distant, and went to his car, got in and drove off. The boys laughed with all their bodies and tears streamed down the corners of their eyes.
Now we can return to Lookman Oba. The last time my sister saw Oba it was at the Idumota spare part market. Oba who used to have it all and was never denied anything. He was his mother's accountant and counted so much money to his own side each night. His trouble started when his mother went to England to see her daughter. The young girl had been sent to boarding school by the lace tycoon for educational and medical reasons. She had a terrible cough ailment and would cough endlessly at the sight of a tiny speck of dust. So Bisola was taken to England and his mother made trips once a year to see. Her was a polygamous family and she wanted the best for her kids. She was hardworking and doing very well at the "Gutter" in Lagos. She went this one time and fell sick during a very bad and cold winter. She died suddenly. With no will and with Oba larger than life before his grandmother and all his mother's siblings, he decided to take over the business. He managed in sinking it and squandering it all, leaving only a house his mother had built and roofed but which needed final finishing. It was said that he almost sold the house but for the lack of genuine documents. No more cash and mo more shop to manage, Oba took to the inner city life of petty stealing. My sister at Idumota to buy tyre when she saw Oba surrounded by some Idumota spare part traders. His face has not changed but his colour has lost its entire glow, and the fair complexion of yore years was a thing of the past. Oba was rough and dirty, hapless and hopeless. My sister pleaded with the boys to leave him and let him go.
"You sabi am? Sister, you sabi am?"
"Na my brother"
"This one no fit be ya broda - na area boy"
"What did he do?"
"He is a thief and one day we go kill am if you no take am away"
"Please let him go"
"We go let am go today because of you otherwise na death for him today"
"Thank you. Thank you", she offered.
She took Oba to one side. His rough and crooked face contorted to a side and unrepentant. His body smelled of Indian hemp and ogogoro. Blood was dripping from the side of his head where one of the traders had bashed him with a rod.
"Oba! What is the matter?"
"Don't mind them, Sister Y"
"Oba! Be careful"
My sister took him to a corner chemist and asked that the wound be treated. It was with great reluctance that Oba accepted to be treated. After the treatment, she gave him some money and asked him to go back to his father who still runs his men's singlet and pants making shop not too far from where his prodigal son was thugging.
To be continued.