Baba is a supposed excerpt of a novel I hope to write someday. At the moment its a jumbled up piece of nothings, sentences, and names, confusing, and hard to pronounce. Yet, it is the writer in me, that confusion, and also was the result of a creative writing class I took in Uni. It won me a first, and the teacher commented on my "intimacy of thought" approach. I hope that I can one day write something; moving and meaningful, with purpose and grace. Something like I pray my life would be. It is based on the life of my mother, but I have changed places and names, and have added a few elements of fiction to it. I titled it Baba because it was apt and potent, and showed the influence that one person could make on another's life; somehow it parallels my relationship with my father, and my love for him. If you leave me a comment, I'll appreciate it, honestly. I really might do this some day. The last thing I would want would be to make a hge mess of it. Enjoy.

Baba.

Chapter 1

We had our first lengthy conversation when I was five.

“Baba?”
“Na’am Ladi”
“My bum aches”
“What from?” he replied, never taking his eyes away from the paper he was reading.
“From sweets”
Aunty Chinwe, my father’s Ibo wife had returned from Umuahia with what must have been a mountain of local sweets from her mother. Mama was away visiting mama Ayi, and there was none there to supervise me. So I had eaten mouthfuls until I thought myself very happy; quickly running back to the stash as soon as I found that the mouthful I just had had sped down my gullet. Soon I was pregnant with sweets, and my bum ached readily from it for four days. In my happiness I had told no one of my lack of an encounter with my potty. No one had asked. I knew it. I had the dreaded worms.

“Baba I must have jedi jedi like Tayo”.
“Jedi jedi? What makes you think so?”
“Because I can see it trying to come out” I replied, one hand on my tummy as I peered at the dangling worm.

Only then did he look up from his paper and notice the pelvic tail I had acquired in the past hour. I had tried to use the toilet; squatting in my little potty for what seemed like forever. I looked down to find nothing in the bowl, but there was a bright pink tail hanging from me. I had tried to push it out but it did not budge. I became a little worried as Ya Liman had gone to Islamiyah; to learn the Quran, and no one was in sight save baba sitting on the veranda. So I waved to catch his attention; the lazy sun on its way back to sleep forcing me to squint.

I did not manage to get his eye; and so waddled towards him, my drawers packed between my legs, the already grey colour evolving into a reddish hue with every step I took as a result of the red earth.

When I got to him he still hadn’t noticed me, engrossed in his paper as usual. So I called his attention; and this was how my first surgical procedure was initiated. He pulled it out after making a big ceremony of sterilising the tweezers he had used. They were the same ones he used to pull his grey hairs out of his hair. It was painful, but not in an unusual way, I was a big girl and I was used to toileting and its difficulties. It earned me a hug when it was over, and most importantly, a long biology lesson.

There was a worm, there was a hug, and there was my father. That was my earliest memory of him. But Baba came and went, like many things in my life. Memories and the present became one. I remember that day….

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I had to make it in time for the ride. The colours sped past me, fusing to form light; they were all I could see anyway, the wind had caused my tears to flow and my sight was a watery oil paint. The thought of the whip accelerated my already flying pace. Baba Mabishe would be at that junction soon, he would never miss it, not today that Kaka was sick, how would he know she was anyway?

The black spot on the horizon defined my fate. I stopped to catch my breath, and head bowed to the soil, hands on knees, I said a silent prayer. I began to ache immediately; an anticipation of the rawness of skin I was going to have to endure in the near future. There was to be no bicycle ride that morning and there was no reason for the rush anymore.

I looked up, and the sun filled my gaze with brightness. The sky was empty; it shared its space with the sun but had nothing for its own. There were no clouds, no birds. It just hung there, of no use today; it did not hold any promise of rain for the distressed farmers. The ground was dry and hard; the rains were late this year. The dull brown was the colour of my morning kuli kuli; with the same cracks and indents where they both opened up in earnest for moisture. The only evidence of green was in the shrubs scattered here and there; on their journey to a brown coloured hue, to become one with the brown dust that rose in the heat.
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I arrived at school sweating from the morning sun. My fear worsened my thirst, and my legs ached from all the walking but those were indeed the least of my worries. The schoolyard was empty when I eventually arrived. The loud chorus of class five’s time tables reverberated as far as space would carry it; and far into my head too. There was no fence demarcating the school grounds from the vastness of Gurara hills. Their chiming was shaking the flimsy walls and I could hear the mumbles from the “jenus” as we called them, trying to catch on the end of each table they could not correctly recall; forming a late chorus behind the others. Their teacher would eventually fish them out by asking for intermittent recitations from the whole group. I was never one of them, and my spirit agreed in the affirmative, my knuckles would never have withstood the raps from the side of that ruler.

I stood there for a while, unsure of how to move, taking in all of it at once. The schoolyard was the one attempt at modernity at Kpategi the headmaster would say, but we were never sure this worked, having never experienced this modernity before. The tall flag stood in the schoolyard; majestic; almost as grand as my father. It was undisturbed by the sweltering heat, and the occasional breeze caused the tattered green and white cloth that signified our peace and fertility to undulate in the space around it. Fertility. The sooner we changed the green to brown in Kpategi, the closer we would be to self honesty. The white could remain; it could signify the aloofness and stupidity of those that saw Governor Bala a demigod. The grey pole holding the cloth now looked almost white in the sunlight. It travelled into the earth surrounded by a carefully arranged pile of little boulders which gave it support, the legacy of the old vocational studies teacher. His legacy; but in reality, the work of some strong boys whom God would bless for such hard work. To each side of the flag stood the classroom blocks, white from the roof to half the height of their high walls, and brown all the way to the ground. One half for the beauty of the white, the other to protect the walls from scribbling hands and the brown dust. The buildings were bordered by an array of flowers, the most beautiful in Kpategi, and it was akin to a death sentence if you ever so much as touched the leaves of the beloved fu-laa-was the head, Mallam Ibrahim would say, in his Hausa accent. “Fu-laa-was” class seven would chorus in hushed tones.

I saw Ilya the Janitor motion to me. I had barely seen him. Ilya was more than fit to work in a primary school, he was strong and hardworking; the arms of his brown wheelbarrow attachments to his strong arms when he worked in the yard. He was quick with retorts, and would even hit heads if he got close enough when the children teased him. The reason they teased was the reason he was most fit to work at God’s hill. Ilya was short; shorter than even Kaka who was in class four. So he blended in and at the same time stood out. Something like a pea in a pod suddenly discovered to have a defect. It was not spotted until it was, and the defect glared at you right after that.

All four feet of him was a challenge to see, especially beside those high walls. Wearing the same chequered green as we did, Ilya did not do much to help himself. He was one of the children until his black weathered face with the permanent stern expression was discovered; and then came the muscular arms; the muscular legs; and his work boots; all his deviation from the uniform, and he would stand out right after that.

At twelve I could have been Ilya’s mother. I was tall, but I could think of no child in primary seven that was not taller than Ilya. Ilya went to the same mosque as baba and so was friendlier to me than to any other child at school. Baba said he was from Minna, where there was nothing but parched land and the Government house. He had come to Kpategi to seek a lifestyle more promising. It was hard to imagine his job as a janitor more promising than any other thing.

I approached Ilya gingerly; clutching my uniform on both sides.

“Okun Maimuna, how are you?”
“Fine Ya Ilya, fine, thank you.”

The headmaster wanted me in his office. I froze in the heat. Why would he want me there when he could have easily enacted my punishment in the schoolyard? The sun hit the nape of my neck; hot slaps of heat. They say black attracts heat, and I was one unfortunate victim. I headed unconsciously towards the shade. Even a smile is charity baba would repeat endlessly, so I attempted to lend some charity Ilya’s way, but my face concocted a screwed image of bared teeth and scared eyes. “It will be okay, don’t worry” he said.

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I walked into the imposing office, and as soon as I realised Mallam Ibrahim was not there, I allowed myself to be awed by it as usual. The walls were lined with brown mahogany shelves, covered with glass that glistened transparently in the sun; at the same time harbouring the intense shine of the trophies held behind it. As always I immediately allowed my eyes travel to that silver one I had won at the Bidda Inter-Schools debate. It still had my name inscribed on it, and I could make out my name clearly even though I was standing at least two metres away from it. On the far side of the room just beside Mallam Ibrahim’s desk was his bookshelf. I ran my eyes along the collection of hard bound books with gold threading. A collection of the Encyclopaedia Brittanica received from the Minna missionary. It had come with a letter that had been read out at assembly by Mallam Ibrahim that morning. Lofty words, many of which we did not understand. One line I understood was the first one, for the little, soon-to-be great minds of Kpategi it had said. It was intended for us, yes, the students, but had somehow ended up in this room, perhaps for security, I doubted Mallam Ibrahim had ever read one word of them, although he made Ilya spend extra time dusting them every morning.

I heard footsteps, and started to tremble. It was not a tremble of the unknown. I knew what was coming. No matter how I prepared myself there was always this tremble though; my body never enjoyed a walloping. Mallam Ibrahim strode in in quick steps that gave him his air of importance. Maybe it was the cane and not the steps that gave his air of importance. But the steps signified his deftness; he was never too far away to drop a lash on the back. I held my breath. Behind him was a familiar face, a familiar gait -Ya Liman. Ya Liman? What was he doing here? I searched each face but they held impenetrable looks, and I realised they must have been discussing something weighty. My heart was already at a pace I could not catch up with, could I be sent home for this one act of lateness? I hated this trembling. But Kaka had been sick; Hajiya had been too busy to attend to her; I had made the lemongrass tea and helped her drink it. I had sold the cornmeal custard and the bean cakes for that morning; had bathed Nana and Jummai; and had to remember to prepare for school myself; and could not make the bicycle ride with Baba Mabishe. Surely Ya Liman would explain all that to him. I was anxious. My palms were sweaty, and I wiped them on my school uniform, but as soon as they were dry, they needed wiping all over again. Why were they silent for so long?

Mallam Ibrahim came towards me, and I should have wet myself from fear but for the greater fear of what might happen as a result, and I steadied myself. He opened his mouth but I did not hear what he said until a second later, my thoughts were deafening and they had filled the room.
“I am sorry for your loss Maimuna, you can go home with your brother now” as he tried to pat me on the back.
“My loss?” What was indeed going on? Is this what it was called when one was expelled?
“Your father” he said. “Please accept my condolences”.
What was he saying? Did he mention baba? What did he know about baba? What condolences? It was all in slow motion now, so it must have taken thirty seconds for me to turn to Ya Liman and see the tears. Ya Liman crying was a feat greater than my eyes could see or even dare imagine, and I knew then that my world had somehow changed.

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I did not hear myself screaming, but I knew I must have been, for they both rushed forward to hold me down. Ya Liman enveloped me in his huge self. Baba was on his way to Kaduna, wasn’t he? So in between my tears and shouting, I started to follow the journey in my head. He must have passed Mokwa, probably bought me some millet balls; the dankwa I loved so much. He must have then gone on to Suleja, where he must have said his afternoon prayers. If I were there, he would have rewarded my boredom with a yoghurt sachet from one of the willing little village boys hawking their wares. I imagined him telling his stories to Ya Duwa his driver all throughout the journey so that he might keep him awake. After that was Dammadami, where they must have visited Mama Gumel road who would have given them some fura balls to bring back home for myself and my sisters. After that was Kaduna city, so what was this talk about condolences again? Baba must be in Kaduna, surely they did not know what they were talking about.

Yet something told me it was true. The letter, Kaka’s sudden illness, and the whirlwind of today told me so. I felt for the letter in my pocket. It was still there, it was solid, so how could they tell me that the hand that had written those words this morning were lifeless? What did they know anyway? My father was too stately for death to take him. It took people like the old woman on swimming pool road that had been sick for years, and was kept indoors so that the world would not see the slow impending death that was taking her over. When she eventually died, we never went past swimming pool road again. If death had visited them once, it might have decided to stay for a while, and we wanted no feel of it. Could death be at AZ6 Damaturu at this moment? I saw the room take a sudden nose dive, and I fainted.

I came to between worlds. I wanted to be in whatever world baba was in, but Ya Liman was pouring all this water on my face, and I had to rouse in order not to get drowned as he became increasingly agitated with every splash. My chest was aching from a foreign pain suddenly so overwhelming, and it struck again and again as I clutched tightly at my chest. I got off the floor just in time to be carried by Ya Liman. I had not been carried in six years and I felt like a baby again; only I had experienced what a baby could not acknowledge. As Ya Liman held me, he whispered “be strong, we have to get you home.” I shuddered as I thought of what might be awaiting me there. A home without baba in it; without the expectancy of his return. I wanted to see my mother’s face; I wanted to see Kaka who might be sick from a different ailment now. I wanted to see Nana and Jummai, and wondered what we might say to each other. I wanted to be back at the home I had hurriedly run out of just hours ago with no knowledge that I might be returned to it in such a state.

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In the back of the market lorry, as we sat atop the oranges, Ya Liman held on to me while he looked into the sky in a trance. He was looking for baba, maybe his ascension. The truck was the fastest vehicle back to town, and ordinarily we might have been talking about the uncomfortable ride, but as we were bobbed up and down, losing a few oranges every now and then to the road we left behind us, we could only sit in silence. I thought about the past hour. Was baba gone when I had been in fear of the caning I was to receive from being late? What were a few hits from that cane if my baba was gone? Maybe I deserved that cane now, for being so selfish when baba could have been in pain. I turned to Ya Liman and asked, ‘how did he die?’, but all he told me was “Okun Iya, take heart Maimuna”.

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Kpategi was only six miles from Bidda, but today it could as well have been another world. As we finally got into town, I noticed the women walked differently, tied their wrappers around their waists differently; even the Nupe they spoke sounded different. Yes, my world and perception had indeed changed. As we entered AZ6 all I could hear and see were the wailing women and the darkness of clothes. I was led into Hajiya’s section amidst the many hands of sympathy that caressed me, extending prayers and condolences. Mama Ayi, Hajiya’s sister ran up to clutch me tight; her sobbing was shaking us both, but I was determined to get to my mother. I wanted her to tell me it was not true. So with steady steps, and tears that flowed down the uniform I had so carefully ironed the night before, I entered her room. I stood there momentarily; terrified. I was scared of the state she would be in. She saw me and rose; distress was definitely aging, for she had aged since I last saw her that morning.

My imploring gaze fixed at the black that were her eyes, and I already knew what to expect. She nodded, and I crashed to the floor weeping. This rose the weeping in the room to a crescendo, and the women tried to comfort each other, each comforter weeping harder than the one she was comforting. “Okun Maimuna, Okun” they chorused.

What was this sympathy? I wanted their love and support, but I was not weak. I was a Nupe woman. I turned to Kaka who was sitting up dazed. She sat on the mattress on the floor, by the side of Hajiya’s bed. The light from the window made her an apparition amidst the darkness. The younger one, Kaka was frail, and quieter, but we all loved baba equally. Kaka had known it this morning, and the knowledge had made her fall ill. Kaka and the jinns that tore her apart, whispering the future into her ears. Who would control them now that they said baba was no more? Who was strong enough to hold her down when she developed that incredible strength they lent to her when they visited? Baba would recite the Quran into her ears, stroking her until she fell asleep. He would put her in his bed, and come to present the news that she was alright to the rest of the household as we stood outside in silence.

Just two nights ago he had come out sweating, his jalabiyyah unbuttoned at the collar, and his brow furrowed. He was becoming increasingly worried as they would not go away that day. He was going to Kaduna to fetch an Ustaz that would make her quality hantu. They would write verses from the Quran in white chalk on a piece of slate, reciting verses as they wrote. They washed out the writings with water and gave it to her to drink. Baba believed in them and their chalk that could heal.

Kaka had been fighting a battle for us all. She insisted she did not need hantu this time but baba would not listen.

“Kaka shut up!” His eyes hell as he spluttered saliva. A drop landed on my skirt, the remnants a white precipitate on the side of his mouth.
“Baba I am fine this time, wallahi”. She was unusually stubborn and looked at him meekly; helpless to the situation, helpless to her own self.
He stormed off, his slippers thumping the earth and raising the dust around us until he turned round: “And if you mention that I stay one more time, I will beat that spirit out of you myself!” He turned back around just as I caught the moisture from his eyes fall on the white patch of his beard. Baba did not understand challenges greater than him.
I embraced Kaka, rocking her as she wept quietly.

She had fallen ill that morning unexpectedly, but her sudden illnesses were past novelty and the household had continued in their duties. So I made tea, and lay her on the mattress. I bade her goodbye on my way out, and I turned back one last time just as she reached out for her black scarf and tied it over her head.

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I took Kaka’s hand and noticed she still had a temperature. “I am here” I whispered as I leaned in to her. She looked at me, she had known, fighting the battle alone. “I love you” she mouthed. We hugged each other weeping, as I realised no words had provided me with more comfort this day. I helped her up, and with steady feet went to prepare her a cold bath. Her temperature would rise steadily, and no one would notice, I had had to tend to her physical and emotional pain today. Who would tend to mine?

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That night sleep was impossible. The day had been long, and we had spent it attending to the consolers that flocked in in multitudes. I was humbled by Baba’s death but I still did not understand why we were not given time to cry by ourselves, to grieve for ourselves. I was wide awake, and I looked out into the yard, away from the sleeping mourners huddled on mats. The yard wore a black too; it’s only light shone from the stone seat solitarily sitting, as if awaiting his return too. I wanted to sit on that stone that he would sit on most evenings telling us stories, so I could count each grain of sand, and tell each grain one by one that baba had gone. Soon we were going to put him beneath a mass of soil and leave him there in the cold and heat. Who would feed him? Who would laugh to his stories? I wanted him to be the one comforting me. It could have been anyone but him; he should have been here telling me that it was alright. I did not want Ya Liman, Hajiya, or even Kaka, God forgive my selfishness.

I remembered the letter and went in quietly to fetch it. Kaka had finally slept, but it had taken an injection from Ya Tanko the nurse. I wondered why he could not give baba an injection to rouse him again. I went to that stone and looked down at the sand, they must have known, for tonight the ground looked paler, they were also mourning, and this reassured me.

I opened up the letter, and read the familiar words once more.

Ladi, it said, and I remembered the name he fondly called me by. I had forgotten so much since the news, and I was sure my time tables were gone forever. My father wrote me in English, he was proud of mine often saying I took after him

I am leaving for Kaduna today and I must ache more than you do that you cannot come with me. Ya Duwa and Ya Larai will keep me company but I will miss your laughter and our talks on politics. It will interest you to know that the Governor has added one more car to his fleet, and yet there is no news of the irrigation proposals. What is Niger coming to? We have blinded ourselves and see not beyond today. He gives them bean balls at the factory and they sing his praise but do not see that they go home with less and less although their stomachs are full. I trust that your generation will rise to its myriad challenges, all the sectors of government are screaming for immediate help.

I have left your school fees for the next two terms with your mother. I do not want to be caught unawares when you three come marching towards my door. Your education is all that matters to me now, Liman has shown you how far hard work can take you. I could never have prayed for a more intelligent set of children, and your results have pleased me immensely.

Ladi, the world is what we make it. Things might become difficult someday but you must remember the goals we are working towards. You must take care of your sisters and your mother while I am gone.

Take good care of yourself and remember to say your daily prayers. I am sure you need no reassurance that I will be returning with dankwa for you. You are more than I wanted in a daughter, you are my mother.

God be with you,

Baba.

Baba was gone. He must have known it was to be the last letter, and all of a sudden it all fit. I was left alone in trying to understand this world. Destiny had called, I had to answer present.

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They said Baba died in a crash, I do not even remember who it was that conveyed that message to me. News came and went after that.
“Maimuna, the tailor has come to take measurements for your clothes for the burial”
“Iya, Mallam Ibrahim and Ya Ilya are here”.

The information that Ya Larai had also died in the car with him barely received a whimper from me. For weeks I sat on the stone trying to remember stories he had told me there. Sometimes I cannot believe the pain he is still able to make me endure; unexplainable. Many times it is too hard to bear, too much to sit and wonder about; his departure, so swift and yet so slow. An anguish that would not go away. There was no reason for so many things anymore. No reason to feel beautiful, no reason to laugh that hearty laugh that normally originated from an abyss of happiness. I still remember that happiness.

Why did things become slow after he left? The world passed by and there was not much to make of it. So many happenings gave simple things a new meaning. A dog runs past and I wonder if it feels that pain too. Has it lost a bitch ever? Lost a pup, has it had to grieve like I have? Maybe it would die someday; nothing ever made of it, its story gone with its pain.

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AZ6 had had all it took to be a Nupe home; the many mothers and sisters, and the chickens in their madness, either trailing along short pieces of coloured cloth, or displaying the coloured markings of their owner; memoirs of slavery. It was set in the heart of Damaturu Road, and was the heart of it too. The numbers that lived in it I cannot remember; coming and going, in all assurance that there was always a hot meal and a ready bed. All the kids on Damaturu road could have resided in it. We all ate together and played our many games in the big court yard: hide-and-seek, suwe; our version of hopscotch, and countless others, including those we invented ourselves. Baba used to watch us smiling; often saying to Hajiya that the neighbours lived in AZ6, and only rented space for their clothes elsewhere.

AZ6 had cream walls and a silver roof of corrugated iron sheets; the only building on Damaturu road wearing that luxury. The fence was also painted cream, except for the top of it that held broken pieces of glass; green and brown, old beer bottles; both an adornment and a safety measure. The gutter ran parallel to the fence and in the heat I felt pity on Tayo and his family that lived in the building closest to it. Most families poured their fluid wastes into it, and there were lots of infants around. There used to be a step made from iron sheeting and wood to cross the gutter and enter through the gate, but baba had removed it when it had torn Kaka’s shin as we were playing one day and replaced it with a cemented slab.

Baba Tayo and his family stayed in the first building through the gate. They had been our tenants for as long as I knew. We stayed in the buildings behind theirs; through the passage and to the right where it opened up into the courtyard. Our building stood to the right of the courtyard. Opposite it, on the other side of the courtyard was the building for the young men. Ya Liman and the many uncles stayed there; a different life from us women. Most of them were at that age where they were eagerly scavenging for a suitable girl to enter their home; never having enough finances to allow the girl or the home become a reality, in an essence something between dreamers and hopefuls. So they showered their love on us children, in the hope that they might get theirs some day.

Right in the middle of the yard was the huge mango tree Ya Liman used to pluck us mangoes from. The outhouse was a few metres away to the right of it, and right beside that were the banana and plantain trees surrounding the holed iron fence that held Hajiya’s farm. Underneath that mango tree was my most treasured memory of AZ6; Baba’s stone, smoothened by many years of stories.

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“Niger is the powerhouse that feeds Nigeria. The only state that carries the significance of the river in its name; a name duly accorded to the whole nation, “Niger-area”

He was lecturing as usual one lazy evening. I was nine and had come home with questions after a lesson about Lord Lugard and the years before Independence. Three years had passed, and stories still rung on about what the white men had left us with. We lay on his mat on the veranda, his hands a triangle behind his head, his long legs folded at the knees. His eyes were shut and I noticed that he still squeezed them, an attempt to get the setting sun out of his eyes.
“Let’s change direction of our mats” I suggested. ‘If the sun is setting in the west, we can turn east and avoid the gaze’.
“Mmm-hmm, Ladi?” he replied.
He had caught a light doze while I was pondering that. He taught me to always think before I spoke, and around baba it always had to be clever statements. My thinking must have taken longer than I thought.
So I repeated my suggestion; “Why don’t we turn our mats the other way?”
“Clever Ladingi” he replied, opening his eyes to present me with some charity. It was a double dose of happiness for me; today I was milking him dry of it. I loved the ‘ngi’ suffix he added to my name. It bore his fondness for me. Ladi, his little one.

So we turned around and he continued;

“You see Ladi, the river Niger flows in from Niamey, past Dahomey and into Nigeria through Kebbi where it reaches us here in Kpategi. It continues towards Lokoja, where it meets with the Benue in- you remember what I called it the other day?”
“A confluence?”
“A confluence indeed”.
“MA-YII-MUU-NAA!” It was Haijiya.
I ran up to her, excusing myself from baba.
“Go and pack the clothes from the clothesline right now”. She had seen us and hated that sight again. She was worried about my unnatural female interest in education. I knew how to cook stew, but she did not see education past reading and writing.

Hajiya was in her mid-thirties; married at the age of seventeen. The only life she ever came to know was the one in AZ6, they would be the memories she would replay at the time of her death. Marriage was not bordered around love in Kpategi, it was a duty, and in it she was doing what she knew best. What all the girls in Niger State were being groomed for. She could cook, answer to her husband’s call, and even make a little bit of money on the side selling cornmeal and bean balls. She was a Nupe beauty, but that was all that could be written on her tombstone. A beauty that would fast age, under the demands of her husband and children. Breasts would droop, buttocks would sag. Cheeks would jowl; lips protrude like a Nok sculpture. Why did they give in so easily? Women. What was it that condemned them to a lifetime of servitude? Seventeen years of youth, barely enough time to get detached from a favourite toy. Did she never have the sense to dream for herself?

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One harmattan morning, we stood outside in her little farm. The square patch was a bit too close to the outhouse for my comfort, but baba didn’t want cultivation in his yard save the flowers, and she was subjected to this space surrounded by weighed down banana and plantain trees bearing fruits heavier than their capacity. She attributed the fertility to the proximity of the outhouse, the same reason I would not eat her crops. That morning we had bundled ourselves in whatever we could find that would provide warmth and cover from the biting cold and heavy dust. I eyed Hajiya’s get-up and realised our sight would have been heavy on the eyes of a stranger. Two young women, parts barely discernable in a hodgepodge of clothes. It was one of her hobbies, this gardening thing.
“Hand me the can, Maimuna”
“Look at my thyme…”
“The okra is doing well…”
“We have to change the supports for the yams now …”
She paid no notice to me until I trod on something, or poked something the wrong way. So I wonder that she might have known what a passion was then. What she could have done with her precise timing of the harvest period for corn and yam, the knowledge of lilies and queens-of-the-night; the flowers she grew in front of the house She could barely piece together a proper sentence in English but was more than assured when she pronounced her boo-gan-viliya.
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They say she could not cope, especially with all of our mouths to feed. In reality she was too young to be left a widow; her breasts were not completely flat. When she re-married, she left. I do not remember who he was, all I noticed was that he was nothing like Baba, he even bore a semblance to Ilya, and he did not have the financial wherewithal to cope with the needs of the children of another man. Mama Iya stayed with us, but we might as well have been on our own, it was as close to being free as it took.

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When the war came in ’67 all I thought of was Baba. I was back in AZ6 but this time it was just the numbers to me. A, Z, and 6. What would he make of the war? Seven years and we had become independent enough to point guns at each other. Surely he was turning in his grave, questioning this pursuit of ideals of the Niger-area. Biafra. It could have as well been called killing, which was all it sounded like to me. What would become of our ‘Nigerianness’? The Yoruba Kaka and I had picked up from Baba Tayo, living in a Nupe home, residing in a Hausa state, my step-mother an Ibo woman. I had started Ibo lessons with Aunty Chinwe just before the war came. The lessons came to an end. Nothing annoyed me about the war more. I could not help but wonder if after it Aunty Chinwe would nurture hate for her life after that. What would we tell the soldiers if they ever came? Would she say:

I am an Ibo woman, widowed by a Nupe man, speaking Hausa in the many markets of Kaduna, and Yoruba with my Yoruba neighbours.

What would her family make of her marriage still? Of all states to encounter the war in the north it should not have been Kaduna.

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This time he sat on his stone, and I looked up at him from my mat. It was the rainy season, and the rain had thundered down the night before. The ground was wet and dark and the smell of the soil was like that of new life; fresh, wearing the perfume of nature. We had finished saying our morning Subhi prayers, and I was still covered in my prayer clothes, I remained on the same mat, my knees drawn up to my chest. The harmony of the frog croaks, cricket chirps, and the life that was emerging after the bell of rain had been rung from the heavens put me in a surreal state. Heaven was building its new location around me.

“The Etsu of Nupe accepted Islam in 1808 and the Northern protectorate bowed in recognition of such a great ruler who stretched his teachings as far as Mali.”
He stretched his arm to emphasise the distance of Mali.
“He went far from his capital of Sokoto to the south and east of modern Cameroon. The Jihad of Danfodio reached much farther than Zaria, and Islam was established well into Kaduna.” My eyes watched wide and attentive, his burned with passion very great.
“A little over a century later, the missionaries had come with the colonials, in white garments and white faces, with bibles, smiles, and fertilizer; winning a little more than a few hearts over.”
“Did many convert?” I asked him.
He nodded. “Some did, but the north is huge Ladi. Their numbers could barely account for one percent of the rest of us.”
“But Like Danfodio’s time we all lived together harmoniously, and many were eager to join us from different parts of the nation. The Ibos in their money-wandering had carried their wares and their passion for success from the recesses of the East, and the Yorubas had followed the river Niger from Lokoja; settling in a diverse conglomeration of people, ethics, cultures, and most of all beauty.
This was what made Kaduna great, the peaceful co-existence of different religions and cultures.
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I would never forget December of ’70. It did not herald the beginning of a wild and passionate teenage life, it was the year it all came together, the year I was to become a woman. The war had ended, Biafra did not form, and too many numbers were lost in their hopes. I do not remember whose idea it was to do the school change; the memories really do not matter. Nothing changed me more. St. Ann’s was all I had known; the catholic hymns, the sisters, my many friends, and most of all the rigidity of life. The sweet sounds of English emanated from every mouth. Different from Nupe which was the incessant beating of drums from a firm hand, and I was always happy to return to school so I could polish up on my English and improve my vocabulary.

I was to move to Sokoto, to the Federal Government College there; they were the only ones that would take me in that year of transfer; and being the seat of the northern Caliphate, were the only ones that not only offered free education but as much as free sanitary towels for girls. Nothing sounded more convenient for my family.

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The heat of Sokoto was inconceivable. The town of Danfodio was covered in red dust, and the flowers attempted to grow, but the scorching sun killed the earth and gave them a daunting task. I remember looking for the camels and cacti. Surely, this was an extension of the desert. Every one was soaked in their sweat; wringing the salty water out of their handkerchiefs. Kaka had brought my boxes with me as Hajiya was pregnant and too heavy to travel.

Kaka, she was a big girl now, stronger, and wiser. The jinns never came back after Baba left. She did not allow it, and she had stopped thinking Baba’s death was her fault. We did not embrace as she left; our love was beyond the physical. I looked into her eyes, and it was all I needed to say.

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I was barely a week in when I got the news that the principal wanted me. A little skinny girl came into my chemistry class. She walked up to the teacher, and in a scared little voice looked up at the tall chemistry teacher:
“Excuse me ma, I have a message from Mrs. Lemu. She wants Maimuna Mahmud in her office”.

I was not too surprised to hear my name, I was a new student and I had got used to the attention being proffered my way. I got permission to leave and left the classroom, checking my uniform as I walked out; checking that my scarf was tied tightly under my throat. I walked past the assembly ground to the principal’s office and knocked.

--------------------

“Come in”.
I barely heard her from the other side of the door. I turned the door handle. Ya Liman was waiting there for me this time. This time the principal, Mrs. Lemu looked more sympathetic. I planted my feet firmly into her carpet, this time I was not going to faint.

Don’t listen to love songs if you don’t have to. If there is no reason to. Superman, and plenty more. Just especially when things don’t seem to be at their best. Your space is crowded and there are too many voices, decibels, in your head. It brings down a gloom, and life’s events become unhappy, every single one of them. Queuing at the bank is depressing, the bus ride home is an ache, Tesco is a painful pierce.

I decided a few days ago following a life-long think process that love was over-rated. It was the most talked about and written about subject in the world. Maybe apart from God. And it compared nothing at all to God. It is a waste of time and purpose, tears and hope. Save for some angel that was going to come full winged (wings spanning the distance between the heavens and the earth) to swoop me up into the skies of love, I do not see my ideal man lifetimes away. Maybe I am not the ideal woman, I am quite far.

Can I honestly ask though that what is that crap about love being blind? Because if you ask me, the prettiest ones seem to be the most ‘loved’ ones around, honestly. I encounter beings of little character but for heavy endowments gathering I love you’s from the widest and most unimaginable sources. No further comments.

Money, love, sex, music; all seemingly intertwined. Men look for sex with money; love also they claim. Sex sells and makes plenty men money; directly as porn, indirectly as chewing gum and shampoo. Music sells love to make money for more men. Love is a money maker. Match.com.

With age is supposed to come knowledge and wisdom. With mine has come more confusion and elusion. Maybe it is these topics that we must erase from thought and talk. Sex, love, and money. Mos def ingeniously used all three to make music; money.

Love is over-rated but yet I listen to the words with conviction. Hope is a horrible thing; it can keep a dying man alive and in pain; make a disbeliever in love wait endlessly; turn our words to lies; make man a vulnerable and untrustable character.

Hope. It should go in with sex, love, money, and music. I build my list.

You can make a moment a memory in a glance.

And I never thought that anyone could love someone so much that they give up on everything.

Somehow, we will all wait.

Till it's beautiful.

Lately I have been put through a torment of sorts. I can barely believe this is happening to me...can barely believe the way in which it is happening to me. How can a force so far away have an effect over such a distance? How can a force so barely accustomed to, so barely experienced create such an effect? It angers me and pleases me at the same time. The wait is too long...the torment is ravaging...the egos and the statuses...the timing...my joblessness....it is all too overbearing and I fear a breakdown. Because it is sometimes too thought provoking to sit in a shell...with nothing but the air you breathe in and out surrounding you...nothing but a happy two to stare you in the face and play your strings into a crescendo...a high that is intoxicating...lifting you into space, and then dropping you with a bump on the hard wet ground that is earth.

The tease is a feather, a tickle, an itch that lasts too long, is left unscratched for too long. It becomes a nuisance..a rash...an irritation..and the skin itself is a hinderance...for the itch is now far past the skin...it tears into the soul.

I await the moment I can scratch it...and derive that far reaching satisfaction that is from an abyss of unspeakable proportions. But today, this is what you are to me, I will still call you my itch.

So I realised I do not have my famous speech up on my own blog...lol. Allow me to give a little prelude to it.

So somehow I told my education co-ordinator at College that over the summer of 2005 I had been invited to my former school to talk to the graduating year about achievements and dreams and all, and she thought it was fantastic. Next thing I knew they wanted me to write and give the speech at the Benefactor's reception which was being held at Kensington palace that year.

First thing I thought was wooow, this is big...but of course I was really happy..and proud...cos I never thought Tina thought me so highly (thats what her name was). So I took to writing it, and somehow this piece did not require too much...it just all came to me...and took just over two days to write...I must have been feeling the words so bad...they were all I remembered when I thought of home and that summer.

So I delivered it in the presence of the Duke of Gloucester and many other Dukes too..in this big old palace hall...right by the room where Queen Victoria grew up...amidst all these unbelievably rich and influential people...and it went great! It was and probably still is, one of the best things I have ever done. The acclaim I received at the end of it was phenomenal!...one old man gave me the ole kiss on the hand; I got personal numbers of VC's from Unis...shame it was Brighton and Keele and the rest that I hadnt even applied to; the Duke thought it was fantastic, and gave me a nice kiss for it...and all my friends were almost in tears too!

Well for me the first thing I thought was shit I'm thirsty! lol. So I ran to the drinks table and gulped a glass of some juice down (cant seem to remember which it was, or was it water? Doesnt matter now..lol) Somehow my thirst had become my tension and nervousness and it was great to hear my own voice fill the hall when I read it...it rang through...and quieted every single thing...and somehow it wasnt my voice...it was the words that sped out on their own...and they were crystal clear...no break...no uhm...each one jus sped past to become history...and when I stepped down from the podium it was magnificent! I still find no words to describe that moment. Allow me to eat a slice of humble pie after this; sometimes one's achievements must be given the right acclaim

So I had written and delivered one speech at Kensington Palace...and I had become somebody that night...it was more than great.

I leave u with the speech. I have read it too many times...put it in applications and all that...its been published...and people are still awed by it and talk about it...some people say they expected nothing less from me, but sometimes I still cannot believe the writer I am...but when the muse is from God and your passion, can one really take the acclaim?

My Speech.

Good evening Your Royal Highness, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Nurah Oyekan. I am proudly Nigerian, and I am a 2^nd year IB student at the Pestalozzi Village.

When I went home last summer, I told my mother I had bought a new pair of eyes. I had not received a new pair of glasses; I have perfect eyesight. I had become a citizen of the world, and was no longer going to remain a mere citizen of Nigeria. I could now judge my world against what the world really was. The myopia had finally left me. I had new eyes.

I had spent a year in England, and while trying to adjust my new eyes to the now new environment of Nigeria, I found I was not myself much. The first drawback was that my eyes never got enough light! The ever-constant power cuts in Nigeria did not exempt themselves from giving me a tumultuous welcome. I was received barely an hour into my return when ‘bang’ no light.

As the week at home continued, I developed my confidence, becoming a new person in this chapter of my life. It was with great honour that I stood on a podium, with one hundred eager and inexperienced eyes staring at me, giving a leadership and career speech at a school I once was a student at. I called it my pedestal of knowledge, the one pedestal I was happiest to be standing on.

With new eyes, one does not always see the world the way it is hoped to be seen, it is seen the way it truly is. I saw what I thought was a marred view of my society and environment. Through my eyes I saw the potholes on the roads, the homeless on the street, the inexistent drainage system and gutters for the streets, which resulted in constant floods in the rainy seasons. With it did I watch the news, and see the corruption and vices, read about the embezzlement of public funds present in the only place I could call home. I remember that the first few days back were a haze. Eyes doing all of the working, my mouth did little or no talking. It was thought that I was strangely quiet; I thought it was unbelievable that this home of mine could be called a functional society. One cannot help recalling the words of the great Musician Fela Anikulapo Kuti, when he calls Nigeria the abode of the “suffering and smiling”. I never failed to see a smiling face, a cheerful look, or receive a kind word my entire time home. In amazement, did I receive the news that Nigerians were considered the happiest people on the planet according to a survey conducted by the BBC. It is true that our hope keeps us smiling.

It is not with a sense of shame and guilt that I stand before you as a citizen of Nigeria today though. It is with a sense of ever-renewed hope for the best of futures. Because people like me will make it great someday. We shall make poverty history not just by providing for basic needs, we shall provide a range of options, eradicating poverty as a state of the mind. I need not stress how wonderful the Pestalozzi experience is, I will only call it Internationalism at its best. Shall I not look out the window of Africa, see the rest of the world and join hands with it? I will never have learnt that la in Tibetan had almost 12 variations, nor learnt of the heart-rending story of the Tibetan nation first-hand from a Tibetan girl, had I not this opportunity. I might never have had a Nepali friend with whom to sit and discuss the similar problems facing our countries had I not been this blessed. We are joined in our search for the best of tomorrows. Our zeal and dedication etched so deep in the bastions of our hearts that they remain now embedded in our subconscious, as we strive in this course.

I would not stand here in front of you, were it not for the generosity and foresight of people like you. I would have remained home, believing I had no potential, or unbelievable prospect that I would one day stand in a Palace and deliver a speech to royalty, in my quest for an education and a better standard of living. YOU buy the doors to our dreams, making them a reality, preparing the world for its future. WE understand, from having experienced first hand how a Nation can organise itself to be democratic and to achieve the greatest good for the greatest number, and keep on trying to make it better for all the different groups.

One of the best ways to understand the impact of a charity is to be on the receiving end of it. We never forget what it is that we continually gain. This has instilled in us the right charitable characteristics to make us all brothers in one world. With this, we Pestalozzi students founded a Rotaract club, called the 1066 Rotaract, as an avenue to give back to the less fortunate, ourselves being great benefactors. We have been successful, and have carried out a number of projects; supporting orphanages in Africa by building bore-holes, providing clean water supply in communities in Nepal, amongst a long list. This year, we are raising funds to support street children in Calcutta, India. We have dedicated days to washing cars and organising raffles in this stride, and we would like to take this opportunity to ask if you can donate in cash and kind toward this project. The President, Deji Williams will be going round, and would be glad to receive kind donations.

The support of Pestalozzi will create an impact on the world, tolerance and education continually being keys to take one through this door. The International baccalaureate programme has only been going since 1997, with the first batch of students gaining undergraduate places in the year 2000. I can only but dream for this great future ahead of us. The future with all these wonderful young people, many of whom will be life-long friends, networking across continents, educated by your support, and carrying the Pestalozzi philosophy in our hearts. Ourselves continuing a stream from wherever there is the need; of youthful talent, difference, excitement and delight at being offered the opportunity to come to England for two years…. *

Nurah Oyekan

* This is a speech I gave at the distinguished Kensington Palace in the United Kingdom. I was chosen by the senior management of the Pestalozzi Trust to give this speech at our Benefactors’ reception. I decided to write a speech on my stay at home, as I was hugely affected by the impact of poverty and hardship on the Nigerian nation when I went home for the summer holidays. The Duke of Gloucester and a huge number of dignitaries were present, and all joined in giving me a standing ovation when I finished giving the speech. The Duke said he regretted the fact that there were not many more to listen “to the plight of a young African girl about to make a difference in the world”.

Oh n thats a little epilogue I added when I sent it to the US universities. The speech helped loads...I got five fully funded places at Smith, Hamilton, Richmond, Connecticut College, and Wesleyan. All hail yeah? lol

I wonder what it is we search for....the psychologists call it self-actualisation, the scientists maybe that breakthrough, the religions call it different names....but is it the same as what we mean when we say God? A friend told me she heard someone call God a force...and I gave a semi-consent, using the story of Moses's request to see God and encountering strong light as my evidence....He was something stronger than the human mind could fathom. But before I deviate into the convoluted principles of religion, I remain in wonder....for that magic of life that is supposed to make it all fit together. Where is it? What is it? Is it in the madness and the rush of the day experienced in a cosmopolitan city? Or the serenity and stillness of a rural? Is it in the satisfaction experienced when giving something away? Or that experienced when acquiring material things for one self.

So many thoughts overtake the mind. Some of these in the quiet of night, some in the frenzy of day. Some people find solace in washing dishes; an avenue to collect thoughts and think these things. Some like me, in solitaire, when the game is played in the subconscious and thoughts accumulate in a rush with no connection to the game whatsoever.

So much has happened with too little time to think, stop, suffer, and maybe recuperate. Its all come in a massive flow, sometimes like a tide, ebbing, a trough, then a crest, and then a larger trough. I remember the largest of my troughs. I heard he was married. Married I thought? It couldn't be. But he was, and I was meant to deal with it. To whom was I meant to explain; to say I was weak, and that I did not know how to handle these situations. Who was going to understand that massive blow I took to my chest? Who was going to understand the pretense of being strong I lived through for a while. The hollowness that enveloped me, like nothing, come to carry me away. More than anything I wanted to know, why, and how? I still desire the workings of that engine that was so successful in totalling me in a haze of fury, of thoughts, of longing, and of emptiness.

My crest came unfortunately. Death preceded it. It was a death of someone not so close, but that meant so much it seemed we must have been closer than the physical delineated. We took time to mourn it, but hey, it was my crest! And I rode it. It still might be shortlived, but maybe it is only in my head, in this new fashioning that has been bourne out of so many disappointments and too many emotions. But in all the many disappointments, we are still crazy enough to hope; for sanity and a return to the ordinary. I confess to this craziness...for I am only human, and I do hope with my new Nur...or is it that that will walk with me in finding my Nur?

It is all so plain sometimes but yet we hate to see....but it is glaring, most times almost blinding, but yet we choose not to see. We choose complexity over simplicity in understanding our world. Maybe the simple is too complex for the human mind it must be.

What is it that makes us question our personality, and compete for a higher status? But with whom we might say? Or with what? What makes us strive to be better? Is it in a stride to be better in the sight of God? Or is it actually to be better in the sight of man? Do you not sometimes question your true intention for an action, and say "was that for God, or for me?". Do we not all at some point lie about emotions, and pretend to be happy when we are indeed not? I tend to say I try not to make a big deal about the special things that concern me, but its a big deal inside where it matters the most. It always is; the foul, now cyclic attempts at making birthdays "the best" (Isn't that what we all desire? Bless "my super sweet sixteen" for actualising this). The emptiness you feel when you are not remembered the way you believe you ought to be, or do not receive the oh so perfect presents that would be the greatest of surprises. But what is it in all these longings we strive to attain? In the PS3 is a shortlived hype; I am witness to that. These material things that we acquire...one minute they are the best, but with another they become second best...they move down the line steadily and poof! theyre gone...4oo pounds busted...you might give it to oxfam or send it to Nigeria.

What is this existence? What is this struggle? I clutch at my name for this one...for it is the only light evident.

I stopped chewing the nails on my right hand! (that is ofcourse with the exception of when in nervous situations!) That for me is an achievement though....one of those things you always want to change but believe u can't. How does the saying go; the premeditations being harder than the actual acts??? True! Because all it took was a bit of discipline...surprisingly too.

Life is a pain sometimes....but thats the beauty of it all...the struggle for happiness...as shortlived as can be...one minute u have it, and the next u dont. And this headache settles in, it tells me its home, to stay for the rest of the day. Fears, how we conquer them. Miracles, how they come in. It all eludes me.

Worries, how they pour down sometimes. Sometimes love is not all it takes.

Life, one bloody turbulent journey; emotions, time, chocolate, love, family....the good and bad, the sweet and sour, beautiful and ugly. Infused into one magical experience of smiles, laughter, sorrow, South Kensington, and a love for bags.

Sometimes dust, sometimes gold dust.

All pure magic!!

Ive been thinking for a few days now how I haven't written or read anything in a while. Very unusual as I am THE literature lover. I love blogs....for one reason, theyre ure online diary, and this is for me like turning back the pages of ure diary and discovering how much growth has occured from the time you wrote your last entry until the present. But ofcourse growth is not always positive.

I have read my old posts and I do accede to the fact that I now want to live in the past. The past when the scene outside my window would have been the lush green of the grass outside my window, with the EC in the background, and not construction works of Southside hall, or the brown of Prince's Gardens caused by the autumn leaves. But its not only the window view I want to change, its a lot more.

I want to go back to the music days, the amazing friends, and the buzz of the relationship. We all want to be what we dream to be, but dreams only show a very teeny bit of what our dreams are.

I did dream to be here, but I never dreamt that it might be this.

I miss all the special things, like what thai sweet chilli meant to a friend, or what atsa sounded like. In a way I always knew I would be writing this post.

Missing people and places is an inevitable feeling. For me, its more like missing my phases. I have phases. Some last a few months, like my love for the OC, Lost, and Greys Anatomy. Some last even fewer months; ebaying. Some a few days; dieting.

It is one phase only that I never want to call a phase, because I want it to be more than ebay, or my love for Jack and Sawyer. It is that precious stone that you never want to lose, or that memory u want to hold forever. It is that picture of the amazing landscape that holds ure breath as u live that moment. For me, it is the happiness I get from seeing that name, and my phone vibrating wit the urgency with which he wanted to speak with me. It is the jolt I receive whenever I get that sms with all those words that make me happy.

We spend so much time searching for happiness and so little time cherishing it. Or maybe when there is happiness time is the shortest thing there was. I want to go back to happy times. Sunny days and blue skies. Daffodils and the 254. I cant stand the rain. This shower of times is like hot rain, and it scalds.

One thing I know for sure, love makes you happy, and at the same time makes you otherwise. It is the memories of the happy times that make for motivation during harder times. If I did not have a memory, it would be an unimaginable life. There are too many thoughts, too little comfort.

But maybe comfort is not what I need but strength. I do need the strength, and I need you. I need you to say that itl be alright. I need you to say difficult times are a phase. I need you to walk with me, because I need you; your advice and your suggestions. Most of all I want to be the same for you. I never want you to be a phase.