THE ‘KOMOLE’ PHENOMENON

Dance enthusiast or not, you cannot but be fascinated by the kind of weird and funny dance steps and routines we have nowadays. Since dance involves the movement of the body and its parts, we can be sure we would see more bizarre, creepy and eerie movements in our lifetime. Dance is inexhaustible.

            Fads come and go, trends are never here to stay, and patterns are particular only the first time they appear. Same can be said for dance – they are only for an exact season. How long the season might be is the unpredictable factor. But in all these, I’ve seen an exception to the rule. It was around before I was born. This present generation met it on ground. Heck, when the world ends in 3012 and this world is filled with nobody living now, it would still be going strong, I’m sure of it. Presenting… a movement far more than a dance step… the happened… the happening… the experience… the phenomenon… the KOMOLE.

            Komole (Yoruba name), literarily means to ‘touch or reach the floor’. That more than explains the dance. It is a dance that neglects the concepts of time, weight and space. This widely known dance is achieved by allowing gravity to dictate your movement from whatever position you were in. And the only way gravity moves, in case you do not remember, is down, down, down. That’s the joy of the komole. It doesn’t start or finish any dance, but it interludes into another dance, giving the dancer an unprecedented crescendo needed for the travel in the path of exiting a gyrated orchestra and entrancing another one.

We all know that the person or people who start a revolution are not the ones who finish it. And the ones who finish it bear the brunt of the decline even though they enjoy most the benefits accruing from the insurrection. The luckiest, to me, are the people who gave the revolution the momentum, got the uprising to the highest point of victory and acceptance before backing off. It is said that the flower start dying at the highest point of its blossoming. The apex of the mountain signals that the only way to keep moving is go downwards. The point of the greatest peril, the inevitable decline begins at the achievement of the utmost victory. My point is, the komole is the only dance that is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because it leads you to that climax in your dance routine making it exotic. A curse, because once you’ve reach that zenith, no matter how hard you try, any other dance step doesn’t just add up, Any other dance parody just doesn’t improve the overall dance. A very good one might maintain the tempo and pace but none can augment or amplify on the whole. Komole, although lasting a few seconds or minutes (if you have an inhuman stamina), is what is supposed to be called the total dance application. Why? You ask. Your answer lies in last three paragraphs (were you even reading this at all?)

            Everything has a history, the reason why it is what it is and how it is. Honestly, the exact times-gone-by of the komole beats me. To know about an old, you go to the old, right? Well, from a woman reported to be over a hundred years old (there is no I-got- to-Russia-using-my-grandpa’s-bicycle-powered-by-nitro-boost story here, I promise), I learnt a few things. Apparently, in the olden days of old, young maidens moved with their mothers or female masters from town to town selling wares. The sale of the merchandise was just a means to an end. They were always sure to arrive at towns or villages during market days or market seasons. These days were usually busy by any standard – just imagine a Brazilian carnival but instead of scantily feather-dressed ladies and booze, there are a lot of buying and selling and negotiating going on. Most communities on these market days take time off (usually a day or two) to relax. The chillaxing involved the young maidens in the market square dancing to bata, gangan and the sort to entice the young men of that village to take notice of them and ask for their hands in marriage. The end to which the sale and purchase of goods is the means, is marriage. So, women sell their wares as long as they still have daughters or female servants ready to get hitched. The catch? Their dance moves (something about a very good female dancer being a very wife. Don’t ask me how). The most successful dance application? If you don’t know it by now, you should stop reading this article.

            Tales that touch, ehn? Here’s another one. In my secondary school, I was involved in an ethnic contemporary dance - in other words, traditional dance. I never had the slightest idea I would soon be slyed by my so called friends and dance colleagues. We had practiced for weeks and we were all sure of a perfect performance. I was placed in the strategic position of the middle of everybody. No, I was neither the tallest nor the slickest dancer. I was the only boy in the group. The other male students bolted (pun intended) when they discovered we would perform the cultural songs in front of the whole school. I was not deterred and I stayed behind, coupled with the fact that I would be the only dancing guy among dancing girls which would give me the title, Balogun awon Obinrin. It turned out to be the second worst decision I’ve ever made. On the d-day, we were set more than ever. When we started our routine, everybody was enjoying it – the audience, us, and me. The hype and excitement suddenly got to our lead singer and she decided to up it a notch. Down she went with the komole and stayed down. It only took a second for the remaining of us get the hint. I wanted to scream “NO! Please NO!” I could dance but komole was a hard bit for me. Everybody around me went down like they didn’t have bones (females seem to have an easier time dancing the komole. Don’t ask me why). I kept standing in my ‘strategic’ position in the middle like a fool. Okay, they would soon get up. I thought. I was wrong. They kept dancing while almost on squatting. I tried to move down but it was too late. The lead singer had to rise up not because she was tired but because I was pitied. I got laughed at but I learnt my lesson: when the komole starts knocking, you should not be caught asleep because it won’t wake you up. You should be caught standing, ready to go below, konko below.

               

I was given an impromptu task somewhere sometime to support and oppose this statement: ‘humans are not born bad or evil, but they become evil because their environment’. So, in the heat of the moment, I penned and penned. I felt rather than thought. I felt too much but it released some feel-good hormones in my brain. Below are my rants, some incredibly intelligent, some just plain stupid. But I guess that’s your judgment to pass.

SUPPORTING THE STATEMENT

Humans are not born bad or evil but they become bad because of their environment.

            What constitute being bad? Why do we call a person evil? Truth be told, sometimes it is because we are envious of the person or we just hate them. But more often than not, people we call evil have done nothing directly to harm us, but they are the same people who had seemingly failed the tests of character, morals, ethnics and even politics. They are the ones that go down in history as the great antagonists of everything good we had learnt at home and in the society. They are the ones that would stop at nothing to achieve the diabolical desires of their hearts. They are the ones, we think, hell made for.

            It is usually said that there is nothing new under the sun but we cringe anytime the offspring of a ‘good’ person turns out evil or we are suspicious when a relative of the infamous gangster preaches to be good. This debunks the argument that being bad or evil is inherited. It is never in the DNA. Therefore, we are not born evil. We choose evil or in the context of this debate, we are modeled by our environment to be evil (of course, this cannot be without our permission).

            Come to think of it, it has never happened – at least in the real world – that during the christening of a child, he or she is proclaimed irreversibly evil. Such a baby, if there is, would be put to death immediately. And yet, that baby may grow up to become a hoodlum or a political fanatic stealing, killing and destroying thousands of lives and properties. In short, the child might grow up to be a devil and people start to wonder where it all went wrong.

            Where did it all go wrong? With a little investigation, we arrive at the conclusion that somebody or something must have affected his or her psyche. And the last time I checked, environment comprises of somebodies and somethings. So, mathematically; if a bad person is affected by other bad people and things that shape their life, and, if environment is made up of people and things, therefore evil persons are influenced by their environment.

            When evil people tell us their life stories and put out reasons why they are bad, we tend to sympathize with them even if it is for the shortest possible time. This means that like evil people, we can also be evil. All that is needed is for the environment to affect us wrongly.

OPPOSING THE STATEMENT

Humans are not born bad or evil but they become bad because of their environment. Lies! Fallacies!

            Ever heard the names Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin? What about Al-Queda and Boko Haram? If your answer is a resounding NO for the two questions and four names, you may likewise have never heard about Google or the alphabet. Adolf Hitler sanctioned the killing of millions of Jews and Joseph Stalin terrorized his own Russian Citizens – both lead revolutions to overthrow the previous ‘evil’ governments in Germany and Russia respectively. Al-Queda and Boko Haram are extremist groups concerned with wiping out everyone else.

            Imagine Hitler was not born. I make bold to say that the Second World War wouldn’t have taken place. Imagine Sani Abacha never existed. For starters, we would not have been banned for the 1996 and 1998 editions of the African Cup of Nations (a football/ soccer tournament) or Nigeria would not have pulled out of the United Nations due to the crimes against humanity Abacha committed. Wickedness and evil are in the blood and the environment has nothing to do with it.

            Looking back into the annals of history, we normally discover that those who we regard as evil, as Satan-sent, had always been perpetually their bad deeds. Their deeds become infamous or unpopular when they have enough power to showcase them without being punished. Granted, there are some cases where power is not needed. We have all heard and read stories of how a seemingly young person with a bright future would turn into a thief and a killer with no regard for anything or anybody. We pray we should not have children or relatives like that. Why? Because we know that once we have such, they can’t be changed. It is in the blood.

            We should never be forced into thinking that all things are possible (except with God, if you are religious) and that evil people can eventually come around to be wonderfully good. The truth of the matter is that this world needs evil to be displayed so that good would be appreciated when it arrives. And who better manifest evil than the people born with it, as it. This has been mentioned before – and it can not be stated enough – that: it is in the blood.

FABLES FROM THE STABLES

It all started when the seniors and juniors fought and the teachers punished the seniors for bullying. The seniors internally held the highest possible grievance towards both the juniors and the teachers although nothing could be done about the latter. Vengeance would be served to the juniors, they promised.

            Several weeks later, it all came to a head. The particular day, a sunny day in March, had started brightly for everyone involved – maybe the ‘jovial’ atmosphere contributed in its own way to the mess. It was lunch break and everybody had just finished devouring the ever delicious Amala with some sort of soup. One of the seniors, Taye Alade, found it fruitful throwing stones at a group of juniors walking past the seniors’ block of classes. To say the juniors ignored him was an understatement. Their absolute disdain infuriated Taye so much that one of his latter projectiles hit Yemi Salako, a junior, on his head. Although not bleeding, Salako has had enough. He turned to confront Taye. Threats and insults were flung helter skelter. The other seniors who had been looking for an excuse to fight joined the fracas. Soon, most – if not all – of the juniors and seniors were arguing angrily.

            Then the fight started. The unwritten code of fighting conduct was fully active. For novices, it states that the ‘starters’ of a fight should slug it out without the interference of any outsider (except of course, any outsider wants to join the brawl). So, back to Salako and Alade, the provoked and the provocateur. In a circle of adrenaline- charged boys, Salako made the first move. With a clenched right fist by his side, he flapped around his left hand pushing and shoving Alade backwards. Taye Alade, it became clear, was better at throwing stones than actually skirmishing. Timid, he bent over, skipping around the circle to dodge advancing blows. But, it was clear he was no Mohammed Ali and there was no possibility of him returning a left hook or the uppercut. He was disgracing the seniors!

            Taye’s twin, Kehinde, arrived late at the scene. He was playing the fool somewhere else in the school when he heard that his brother was at the point of obliteration. He rushed to the scene of the fight, relieved that his doppelganger was not yet dead, hard-pressed his way to the first line of the fighting circle. Without warning, he punched Salako in the chest. To say the latter received a rude shock would probably be the best mixture of an irony with a healthy dose of sarcasm. Salako fell on the cold cemented floor. A loud thud was heard. Was it his head? Could he have fractured his skull? There was the awkward half a second silence that usually presided the frantic flight from a crime scene to avoid being called in as a witness. But the time frame was enough for everyone to realize that Salako’s head was fine. The sound came from his uniform short’s back pocket. Salako stood up amidst cheering from his mates. He felt the object through the pocket, shook his head as if to say, “It is broken?” Then, he became livid. Whether because he was unjustly thrown to the ground or because that item was broken or damaged, we would never know. However, one thing was certain – whatever was in that compartment was destroyed during the fall. He faced his new and only opponent, Kehinde. Taye was nowhere to be found. Talk about disappearing into thin air. A struggle between the two ensured.

            Tunde Disu had seen enough. He was one of the juniors whom Taye Alade had been throwing the rocks at. He had supported his best friend, Yemi Salako in the fight against the first Alade twin. He still had faith in his pal’s fighting skills against the second twin. But, the fight was getting silly. Punches were now frequently missing their targets – a classic case of fatigue. More importantly, any teacher could come around and arraign them all for disturbing the school’s peace. He was going to stop this. Disu started the peacemaking effort in the Sunday school way, shouting some “you guys, stop fighting” and “calm down now”. When his lungs almost gave way, he resulted to peacemaking the United Nations way. He was going to send troops to the affected regions. He was his only troop and he decided to put his body on the line. Disu moved forward and using his hands as ‘separators’ tried to separate the two fighters. Salako recognized his friend and hesitated. Kehinde Alade was not so gracious.

Apparently, he had aimed a blow at Salako’s head before this unscrupulous and rude junior tried to break up their duel. Alade was sure he was winning. He was sorry, he reasoned, but this waft of his had to hit something, someone. He was already in the zone and his momentum was unstoppable. The punch landed squarely on the upper lip of Disu, who unsuspectingly was just turning around from his friend to calm the senior. What happened next was no surprise to anyone, even the victim. Of course, there was the fountain of blood gushing out of the lip that had defied both biology and physics, as science has yet to understand why a silted lip always ‘rise up’ to the occasion when it’s  been bled dry.

            Well, for Disu, the peacemaking efforts were over. Nothing increases or decreases his esteem like the happenings on his face and a swollen upper lip would definitely cause his self worth to nose dive to unprecedented relegation. In a fit of fury, his fist was promelled knuckle-first into the temple of Kehinde Alade. The casualty gyrated to a series of slow motion dance steps before falling like a spineless doll. In short, he lost consciousness. Now, the silence lasted for about half a minute as it dawned on everyone that someone might have fainted or worse. Surprisingly, nobody fled. Some of the seniors gathered around Alade and carried him to the sick bay. The juniors left the scene one by one too shocked to even talk. Tunde Disu was more concerned about his face than a possible death by hanging sentence. He went to wash his face. That was priority.

            The often untold part of this story was that the school was mixed. Yes, during the clash, some girls were snooping from a distance. When the fight was over, it was a blatant race to find who would get to the teachers first to relay their tales of the Armageddon that they witnessed. The senior girls did. They told the teachers how Tunde Disu started the fight and how he punched Kehinde Salako senseless as if he was a pillow. They even told of how every other boy begged him to stop but he needed to quench his thirst for his senior’s blood first. Before you could say Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, the ever-bored-with-their-jobs-and-looking-for-the-littlest-excitement male teachers, four of them, sprang up and got to the juniors’ block of classes. One of the teachers dragged Tunde Disu out of his class. For the next half hour, he was slapped, flogged with belts, and beaten by these teachers. A particular junior student had to leave the panorama so that she would not wail for her mate being strangled by these wicked men. After the trampling, Disu was punished for the rest of the day at the school roundabout.

The seniors had had their vengeance. They claimed that the teachers took their side because they were against them the first time. How stupid!!!

Lesson learnt: Most things don’t make sense and the few that seem to do are overrated. But that is the definition of life.

      

MY CAB GUY

What do people - who are not taxi drivers - say about taxi drivers? That they are a bunch of bad-mouthed semi-illiterate (mostly illiterate) vagabonds with rickety cars and a wrong sense of entitlement. Truth be told, some have said worse. Personally, I see them as people who transport me from one place to the other on road (textbook definition). But because of my distrust for them, I rather them swerve me of more money and get me to my destination safety than the otherwise unthinkable.

            My perspective has forever been changed because of one taxi driver. I know it is difficult, even impossible, for a good egg to turn all the other rotten eggs into good ones but this guy gave me hope.

            On this fateful day, I was going home after a mentally inducing and inherently stressful three-hour exercise and I just wanted to go home and eat and sleep and rest. The garage was filled with all kinds of people and noises. I approached the next ‘turn’ (the next outgoing taxicab) and peeped inside. Two women were seated at the back and a huge sweaty man was standing just outside the door. I sat in front, disappointed and afraid that my seat partner might not be on the thin side of life. The taxi driver was nowhere to be found.

            My patience was moderate – although I wanted to reach home as fast as I could, I was happy I was at least seated in a means of transportation. Well, my tolerance was not shared by the other passengers. The two women behind me started murmuring but mostly to themselves. Something about how taxi drivers waste people time and how stupid they can be sometimes. “Why don’t you own your own cars”, I wanted to ask them because I was already getting irritated by their nags. I remembered I saw a lady-like woman and another old one when I checked the other time. “Or you can marry a rich man” “and you, why don’t you marry off your daughter or something to that same rich man?” I was already screaming in my head at the complainers.

            As I was internally venting my anger at those two seating behind me, the male passenger standing outside the taxi started shouting in Yoruba, “where is this man? Does he know people need to get somewhere?” nobody seemed to flinch in his direction. This ignorance of his presence seemed to have hurt his ego because two minutes later, he was wailing again. This time, however, he went to meet someone I presumed was our cab driver and didn’t spare him any sweat, scream or saliva as he finally got the attention he needed from the whole garage. The taxi driver looked up at him and explained as calmly as possible that he had already told the huge man (now the reaper), and the two female passengers (that was before I came) that he wanted to see the ECO or the EFO (I didn’t really get that) and when he was coming to meet us, the taxi just before ours was have loading problems and he decided to help his colleagues tie all the load well into the booth. I was pleasantly surprised with his response and even the naggers behind me had to just shut up.

            The huge male passenger was having none of it. He ranted on and on about how the taxi driver was wasting his time. Suddenly, the cab guy raised his own voice and without censoring his speech, told the man pointblank that if he was in so much in a hurry, he should enter the next turn. The hulk of the male passenger just increased his own volume as if it was contest whose winner will be the first to burst his windpipe.

            Meanwhile, the women behind me had started nagging again. This time, though, they were grumbling about how impatient people can get. I sat there smiling and thinking how two-faced and two-mouthed some citizens can be.

            Everyone in the garage joined in the argument. The commuter was implored to take another taxi while the driver was cajoled to drive his cab away from the park. The taxi driver stated that he would drive out on one condition: the male passenger was not following his taxi. The cab guy started approaching us. I became happy because we were finally going and because I was the only one seating in front and if I’m lucky, could be the only one till I highlighted. My joy was short-lived when that same passenger entered the cab and put his sack load between his legs. The taxi driver turned his neck and told the man hat he couldn’t and wouldn’t carry him. The man stubbornly refused to get down. The taxi driver, as gently as he could, told us - the remaining occupants of his taxi – that since this man would not get down, he (the taxi guy) was going nowhere. In short, we should get another taxi.

            We all got out of the taxi but there was this awkward feeling among us: we all felt and looked like fools being chased out of a taxi by its driver just because we couldn’t pay. And the cause was the impatient passenger (what I would like to call him is highly offensive).

            I got into another cab –with the help of that taxi driver who must have felt sorry for us – where I had to share the front seat with another person.

            Throughout the journey home, my mind was fixated on the scenery at the garage. There was only one winner: the taxi driver who stood up for himself. People, like the huge sweaty man, are those that continue to speak ill of these cab guys not realizing they have their own suppressed illness of looking down on these taxi drivers.

            If all taxi drives can fight for their rights and self-esteem from unruly people of larger size (as in the above case), it would not be long before people that thinking of them as human beings who are making ends meet by being taxi drivers, not that they were born to do so.

INDIVIDUALISM? IN THE CHURCH!

Adam Smith, wherever he is now, must be leaping for joy. In 1776 (when his book, the WEALTH OF NATIONS WAS published), he seemed to have changed both the economic and the political landscapes. Whats more, he has been hailed as the father of economics and been blamed as the reason the poor become poorer. He advocated capitalism – something about benevolence of the baker and his bread, an invisible hand, and privatizing the fate of the economy. Simply, he preached that the society as a whole improves due to our inherent self-centeredness. The idea is, everyone does what is good for him or herself, thereby making the social order better.

            His thoughts have been debated, modified and sometimes rubbished in the centuries since his book came out. But never has his brainchild been so thoroughly accepted (except, maybe in 1776) that it becomes frightening. I’m talking about capitalism in religion, no, capitalism in Christianity.

            Christianity has been preached many times as a way of life and not a religion. We, Christians get that, don’t we? It has been and is still been proclaimed as the only way to get to heaven or the land of paradise. We, non-chriatians don’t get that, do we? Now, the new inside information in our various churches is that we should be capitalist in our belief. Individualism has become the order of the day. If you want to go to heaven, you must build a good relationship with God. You and you alone. More “I”, “me”,” my” than “ours”, “us”. The thinking behind this logic seems reasonable enough. We come to this world alone. We die alone. We would be judged alone. So, invariably, your destiny is in your hands. Your actions and inactions determine your destination (heaven/ hell). But all these are justifiable to a point.

The whole purpose of this your-father’s-salvation-cannot-save-you analogy is supposed to encourage more people into the religion, the way of life. Now, it is just chasing people away. If my parents don’t have any bearing on my going to heaven or hell, why the flip are they forcing me to pray, praise or go to church. It’s my life, my spirituality, my heaven. Every other entity can go to Bethlehem for all I care (Disclaimer: the above is a fictional thought and should be viewed as such. Any coincidence occurring is just that, a coincidence. The author is not responsible for what you think about or say to your parents).

The most interesting aspect of this yarn is that these same people that preach the concept of ‘me, myself and I’ are the same individuals that accuse the lawmakers of being selfish. They accuse them of synphoning public funds to make sure nobody in their linage or generation or genepool is poor again. They point fingers at the wealthy with the monopolies at their disposal while millions of Nigerians are suffering. There is also the case with people in position of authority and influence that help only others like them. the most gallant examples that come to mind are the state governors. How can you be against what you vehemently talk about in your religious gatherings? Capitalism in the church and socialism outside it.

            If this movement continues, Karl Marx would soon be leaping for joy. Because, like Marx himself believed, too much individualism would eventually bring its downfall. And a new social order would rise up supporting the fact that we can all go to heaven if the church authorities and our homes are given total responsibility. Collectivitism carol. Everyone’s salvation would depend on the church. Churches would begin to have salvation figures to attract more members although they would definitely be under the leadership of a government church. Once the leader of my church is saved, I am saved. Christianity would be socialized.

Personally, I don’t care for either individualism or collectivism but a compromise can be reached. If the church authorities and homes do their Christian jobs of guiding, the individual should be left to continue the journey. Yes, mistakes would be made, some regretted, some irrevocable, but at least, an unforced chance is given to everybody. And Adam and Karl can stop leaping.

           

THE ONES THAT GOT AWAY

“John, that girl make sense, abi?” I said, nudging my head towards the beauty with afro, simple make-up and tinny-tiny dot gold earrings (there should be a name for that). John turned and looked at me pointedly as if we were the only ones in the large lecture theatre and I was seeing double. Then he nodded once, twice while looking at her saying, “of course, you gbadun am, shey?” “No. yes, I just dey…” “She make sense. Go yan am”. It was my turn to look at him as if he was crazy to which he responded with the why not look. “See,” he started, “just wait still this boring lecture is over and go bust her brains”. I responded in relief, “okay. You be sure guy. Na why I love you”. “Hey guy, calm down”, he said and we started joking again. I needed that little chat of bromatic boy-speak to encourage and recharge my creative faculty of playing out, in my head, a thousand ways to woo a girl. Then it loomed: what about the thousand girls that were not wooed? What about the ones that got away?

            My first amorous sight came when I was in primary one, when my best friend was named Sikiru, when my class teacher was called uncle Alhaji. She, lets call her A for Angel, was a heavenly being on earth. My innocent mind couldn’t comprehend how she could be more intriguing to me than the other girls in my class. She got away not because she didn’t notice me as I was uncle Alhaji’s favorite but because I let her – coupled with the fact that in the next school year, I was in primary three (a thing called double promotion, mine for being both too brilliant and too old for my previous class. I take the former) and the joy of using biros instead of pencils made me forget Sikiru and A for Angel.

            My remaining three primary school years were laced with affection for G for Gentle, S for Smart and Q for Quiet. G was disinclined to activities although her clique brought out the talkative or, in the word used by one of my past principals, the garrulous, in her. Her gentle spirit amazed my playful and troublesome mind. S for smart was my desk mate for the whole of primary four (throughout primary school, my less than tall frame always landed me a seat in the front of the class, inevitably with the girls). She is the cleverest human being I know. She got my love the day I had a migraine and I placed my head on the desk to cry it off. She noticed I was crying, called the teacher’s attention to it, and personally took me to the sickbay. Although my rationale for crying off a headache still baffles me (yes, I shock myself sometimes), I was glad I did. Q for quiet was just that… quiet. If I were to use three words to describe her, they would be quiet, quiet, quiet. She rarely talked in class. She rarely cried if and when beaten. She rarely stood up from her seat all day. It always ran me crazy until I realized I was angry with her behaviour maybe because I liked her. Although I had a good friendship with S and, to a lesser extent, G, I lost contact with them (including Q) as I entered secondary school. Don’t I cherish past relationships?

            My secondary school life was exciting and confusing. I liked E for exciting because of her electrifying attitude as I had loved those primary school ones. Then it went downhill from there. Attitude flew out the window and my eyes were my judges for liking a girl. I tried to bring mannerisms back into play, but it had already turned physical. I concluded I preferred some body parts to others but still endeavored to use stance and other fascinating details to befriend a girl. There were I for Iron lady, W for Wow, and B for Blissful. Later, there came T for Thin. I (Iron lady, not myself) had a boyfriend for four years; W left our school before we became seniors, and B! Oh my sweet B. I couldn’t let her go or she wouldn’t let me (whichever is less embarrassing for me) and she was nothing short of a dear friend. My love for T almost scattered everything. And incidentally enough, she was a close friend of B. You might want to know, T also got away.

            In my young adult life, there were just a lot of hit and misses, a lot of getting away. There were D for Dark, H for Hospitable, V for Vivacious, M for Motherly and C for Cute. They all got away because of me. No, I did not have a mouth or body odour. I just didn’t lift a finger let alone make a move. I guess I was either shy and stupid or wise and bidding my time (I take the latter). The good news is that they are still in my sights, even now as I’m writing this down.

                                                                                               

The bad news is that I’ve found another person.

This afro-carrying, simple-makeuping bolt from the blue is my next project (I hate to call her a project but that’s what it feels like) and she must not get away. I say this for almost every other person, but there is something about this being, this entity, this organism, this creature that is mesmerizing. John has encouraged me and I’m ready to bust her brains. Oh! The lecture is over. Everybody is standing up. I’m looking around for her. Target identified. Moving in on the target. Wish me luck.

HER GROWING OCCUPATIONS

The first time I met Asake, she seemed interesting enough – geeky and shy, but fascinating to watch and talk to. It started with a “chance meeting” and one discussion led to another until it doodled on the educational hazards we encountered while growing up. I had expected a tale of pop stars and actresses and wives and mothers but I was treated to a rude awakening that this was no ordinary girl or lady or woman (what’s the deal, by the way, with unmarried females not wanting to be called girls?). So, the following can be called an aspect of her biography penned down by a stenographer (me!).

            According to her, her first would-be job was to be a pastor (or pastress). Shock, I must say was my expression as she doesn’t look like someone bent on going that road to me. She said it was when she was around the age of five or six. Her aunty living with the family at the time was usually with her during the holidays. The aunty made fried sugar coated peanuts which she sold. Asake loved being with her partly because she loved tasting the peanuts for an acceptable level of “sweetness”. The aunty also taught her the times table from two to twelve that was at the back of her notebook. She owed her multiplicative skills to her aunty (and I must confess, she is a genius at anything with numbers and the letters A, B, C, X, Y, Z). Her love for pastoring came alive when every evening she was entertained by this relative with stories from the bible that fascinated her. Infact she still remembered her aunt’s classic line after she had been interrupted and she’s back to resume her story: “so, as I was saying …” Asake smiled a smile of sadness, of missing the old days. Praying and hoping that I was not too forward, I asked her where are aunty was. The distant smile turned to face me, “she is now married with two daughters in her mansion, the last time I checked.” So much for selling peanuts, I didn’t say. Asake said when the aunty (I think her name is Wunmi or Bunmi) or anyone asked what she wanted to be, “pastor” was her petite and short response.

Was I in anticipation of her second growing occupation? Of course I was and my face mask did a pretty good job of not betraying me. My disguised enthusiasm turned to apparent alarm when she recalled that next; she wanted to be a soldier. Okay! I didn’t see that coming. When I asked her why, she indicated that after that aunty had left to marry, the next set of family members to live in her house were her uncles, three of them. At different times, they each bought a gun for her (what about Barbie dolls and tea party parties. I wanted to scream at her uncles, “Men, she’s a girl!”). During a particular holiday, she said, there were four toy guns in her house – the fourth being the one her dad bought with her first video game, the FamilyCom. I knew it was the FamilyCom because she called the console ‘terminator’, and I am a console freak. Her best games on the ‘terminator’ were duck hunt and another – the game gun was used in both. Using her uncles’ guns as bases, she decided she could either be a cowgirl, a policewoman, or a soldier and she opted for the latter. The cowgirl was a no-no because she didn’t have the complete attire (she had only the gun, belt and hat. In my silent opinion, that was enough) and the policewoman story was gone the second that every evening, her extended family would always have complaints and rain abuses on the policemen shown during the news. I just had to ask how many people lived in her house. She counted thirteen and her dad, uncles, and younger twin brothers constituted the male gender in the house. Her dad worked out of town and was home only on weekends; so, during the week, there were 7 females (mom + aunties + cousin + maid) and 5 males. Once at a time, her uncles brought their fiancées to live with them until they were married, beyond which they stayed a few more weeks before disappearing. I could only imagine the size of the house.

What happened to the army dream? It was squashed, literally. The uncle who bought her the toy submachine gun visited them one day and without looking down, crushed the gun she had put at the door entrance while she was playacting one of those her Rambo tales. The other guns also got damaged one way or the other. She later had a Tommy gun and a water gun but the weapon carrying saviour of the defenseless was gone.

            In secondary school, she was a whiz kid and it was automatically imperative for her to go to the science senior class and become a doctor in the future. And so, she decided she wanted to be a practicing pediatrician. Her mom was a nurse – she had lots of support and enough colourful books showing the biology of humans and the chemistry of chemicals. She loved the books and dreamt the dream until she started taking biology in her senior secondary school. Although she had no problems with chemistry, biology was too essay-oriented and notes and notes were written. She even found that physics was more stimulating than boring biology but that could be aided by the fact that she was not a good drawer. The medical doctor vision stayed a reverie as a new one took over – engineering. Her fascination with chemistry, physics, mathematics and technical drawing relegated to the background any liking she had for the human body or life. Aeronautical engineering was the coolest engineering occupation around that time and that was her preference. It was aeronautic love all the way till she wanted to write her JAMB/ UME. There and then, she had second thoughts. Physics was no longer interesting and being called Engineer Asake (husband’s last name) didn’t look so attractive after all. Her father had always hammered that he would love to see one of his children studying economics. Through the exam brochure, she saw that she could do math and geography (relatively simple subjects to her) with economics. Her dad didn’t hesitate to give his blessings and she started yet another career path as an economist. She told me she missed her chemistry and technical drawing but economics still provided her an opportunity to continue her fixation with arithmetic problems.

            And that was how I met her – we were both studying economics in the university. Though it was unsurprising, I was still amazed when she told me her best aspect of economics was the immense and colossal econometrics. Being an econometrician was not completely out of sight for her but it is in parallel with her entrepreneurial ambition. I could only wish her good luck. I hoped she has lots of it. The conversation shifted and it was my turn to begin my chronicle of growing occupations.

Wow! From a pastor to a soldier to a medical doctor to an aeronautic engineer to an economist to an econometrician to an entrepreneur is really a long career path. But it was more than sweet relief for me that a genius like Asake would have problems deciding what to do in the future. So much for my parents’ and teachers’ brain-piercing shouts and ear-splitting screams that I should have already known what I wanted to be at the age of ten! Infact, for their information, I still don’t know what I want to be in the future.