Back to Issue 7.

NO CITY FOR YOUNG BLOODS

Chidiebube onye Okohia

Ibadan,

running splash of rust

and gold-flung and scattered

among seven hills...

– John Pepper Clark

1.

Brown. Everything brown. Brown is the weight and hue of this city. The mud that fights with tar on the long stretches of roads, the faded roofs of buildings that cannot release one another like Siamese twins, the pigment of aged folks that ply the environment. Brown. A pallid, pale picture that has extended as the sign and signal of this ancient part of Nigeria's southwest. If you manage to navigate the rancid forwardness of the chromaticity, you still must adjust to its anachronistic presence looking at you from every corner.

2.

Compulsory service to my nation brings me to Ibadan. But Ibadan shows me it has its plan. Ibadan has its own music. A slow-paced, sluggish, waist-strapped diminuendo. Moving from the high-octane, hard-metal breathlessness that Lagos stuffed into my consciousness, this unripe facsimile of Lagos is a laggard highlife song. For the few weeks here have poured out its oohs, odds and offs.

The people here are slow. Stagnant. Like hills unperturbed by rain or sun, they make no haste or hurry. But their minds are fast when they notice a stranger.

It is as such mundane Monday mornings. An okada [1] pulls up close to the sidewalk. I flag him down. 

“I dey go Oluyole Estate. How much?”

“Three hundred, the slightly corpulent, seemingly middle-aged, man says, averting my eyes, hesitantly, after studying me briefly. I know he has inflated the price. But I am not going to be outdone.

“Ahnahn! Oluyole Estate for here? Three hundred ke? From this Mokola? No o. Na one-fifty I go give you o.” I do not know the place. But I would not allow myself to be tricked by these opportunistic lots.

“Shey na only you I go carry? Because if na two people, you fit pay de one-fifty.”

“See, I no get three hundred. Carry me na. Na one-fifty I get. See am,” I brandish the tousled notes to him. “I be corper [2]. You know say corper no get money.”

“Kopa shun! Er... okay. Make I carry you for two hundred.”

“Why you dey do like this? Na one-fifty I get.”

He contemplates for a while before he finally concedes. “Na because you be kopa o.”

“Thank you.” I give him a chuckle.

I sit down thinking about the possible outcome of my impending interview at an office inside a hotel, in the estate. I had run away from my original place of primary assignment in a pastoral locality called Ibarapa. Save for the scenic landscape of rocks towering over the thick presence of forest trees, largely evident as a village prototype, Ibarapa was devoid of the basic necessities for the twenty-first century youth: light, passable medical care, network coverage, and a bank. Ibadan is a better place, and I am seeking relocation and a new place of assignment.

My hands grip my document folder steadily as the rider ignites his machine. The okada bucks through the flash traffic. The burl of the fountains of air hits my face, my eyes, with dust and sand. I slipstream through Ibadan.

[1] - motorbike

[2] - colloquial term for a corps member; a graduate who undergoes a mandatory one year national service

3.

Community development service are for Thursdays. I have been reposted to Ibadan. But this time, my place of primary assignment is the Ministry of Tourism. It is soft work. I bet Falz had had an encounter with a civil servant from this Secretariat before conceptualising his “Soft Work” song, because the only activity at this workplace is to warm the chairs with our butts and delve into trifling, trivial, and sometimes, tacky discussions. 

I see watermelons. Watermelons well-peeled, served chilled with toothpicks. The watermelons that are specimens of womankind, with striking anatomical contours. They are all here to do the citizens job of serving their country. It seems as though the entirety of those posted to Ibadan are sent to this local government area in the north; such numberless amount of youths. I also notice familiar faces from camp. Many of them, like me, were opportune to the joblessness of working in any of the ministries. At this point, an additional place of work is, if not necessary, compulsory. It already seems like Nigeria is serving us.

4.

They are here, too. I do not know how they do it. These ubiquitous teenagers who appear at different places. They come in a suppliant mien, never speaking but letting gesticulations do the conversation. In twos or one after another, they come. They accost me, palms clasped together, crouching and standing as a pendulum movement, they give the performance signaling me to give them money. I never have anything to give.

A week before, two young boys dressed shabbily approached me as I alighted my ORide. I did not have to tell them that I had no cash; the rider did the monition. “Shèbí ó wípé bí òún bá l'ówó òún á fún ẹ? Gẹ́gẹ́ bí o ti rí i, kò l'ówó kankan. Óyá, má a lọ. Fi í lọ rùn sílẹ, kí ẹ yé fi ara yín ṣ'ẹlẹ yà.”[3] I averted their gaze. Their theatrics were becoming ridiculous.

[3] -  Yoruba: I think if he says he does have money, he will give you? As you can see, he does not have any money. Hurry, start going. Leave him alone and stop making a fool of yourselves.

5.

Friday. It is the first time in the month he has reported to the Ministry. He has become a ghost. He is a poltergeist that haunts the office whenever it is time for clearance. Like him, there are many. This beautiful young man, draped in white shirts atop ash pants and a Timberland boot to complete the equation, joins the heap of corps members who frequent these offices. He knows I am new here and we strike a duologue.

“You be Batch C, abi?” I ask him, expecting to get the affirmative.

“Yes. You na nineteen B na?”

“Yes. But omo, notin dey dis ministry o. Na make person just come here dey gist.”

“Be-fore. Anytime wey I come here, I go notice say my IQ dey reduce. Notin dey here.”

“Mehn. But na to go find another job na. But de tin be say these Ibadan people sef, dem no wan pay betta money...”

“Bros, see, I dey tell you: notin dey here. Money no dey here. No betta hustle for here. I no go lie you. Dis place na say you wan kon relax. Say you don make all your money from Lagos and you just wan come make pesin no disturb you.” He adds the last sentence with utmost saliency, “Their mentality for here low. Dis place no be for young people.”

Afternoon is already established. Every corps member in the office decides to disperse. I also carry my idle self away.

I arrive at the street where I usually lay my head. Old Ife road vouchsafes this Catholic Corpers' Lodge. But there is hunger, searing hunger. My chest is getting stoked by ulcer feeding on no food in my stomach. It is three o'clock, post meridiem. After downing only bread accompanied by worthy cohorts: groundnut, akara [4] and, happenstantially, beans, for two consecutive weeks, I need a change of diet. A bukateria [5], looking like Hell's abandoned kitchen, flash my eyes. I enter the dodgy insides. A table cataloguing used cups, plates and spoons wonders what a stranger like me is doing there. The squeezed sachets of used pure water nylons also join the onlooking. But I do not mind their petulance. Only a hunger that humbles even the most selective taste buds would have brought me here.

“Ẹ fún mi ní rice hundred Naira [6],” my tired throat manages to blurt. The nonstandard blending of Yoruba with English expressions is sickening. “Ṣé ẹní ẹ̀wà [7]?”

“Bẹ́ẹ̀ni [8],” the aged woman who is visibly rotund mutters. I cannot help but notice the dewlaps that wear the flesh of her triceps dangling as she moves the long spoon to add my order to the fairly neat stainless plate. “Ṣé kí nfi ẹran si [9]?”

“Èló ni ẹran [10]?”

“Fifty naira.”

“Ẹ fún mi [11].”

She completes my order and adds a river-full of stew. “Gba [12].” Brunch is served. I sit down in the small room, and as I plan to begin my conquest of this small heap of edibles, I notice I would not be alone. Some hungry flies have been planning a bushwhack. My spoon becomes a sword. I ward off wave after wave of the Spartan flies who come to deny me this one satisfactory moment. I finally win and fortify the precious meal. In minutes, I erase the existence of the chow. Two sachets of water help the food settle for proper metabolism. Sweat pours out freely from my dilated pores. I manage to survive for the day. My legs begin to leave the stall as I hurry to go and rest. I pay the seller her due. No thank yous are exchanged.

[4] - bean cake

[5] - a canteen, a simple-eating place

[6] - Yoruba: Give me rice worth hundred naira

[7] - Yoruba: Do you have beans?

[8] - Yoruba: Yes

[9] - Yoruba: Should I add meat?

[10] - Yoruba: How much is the meat?

[11] - Yoruba: Give me.

[12] - Yoruba: Take.

6.

The road is not so busy. The blazing afternoon sun begins to retreat and there is lack of colours, or perhaps floridity, except the tasteless, smallish wine-painted Micra cabs that contrive to allow passengers squeeze themselves like hapless sardines in a can—three human figures in front, three at the back.

But there is an unusual stealing of glances as the bystanders, mostly men and women between, a little under, and over threescore, scrutinise a rare spectacle. Returning school-children have their eyes covered by startled mothers, roadside idle mechanics busy their time with whispering to themselves the probable cause of the situation, and okada riders, kiosk sellers and other supernumeraries bid the moments with this display. An exhibitionist treks in the calefactory weather. She descends to the place I had ascended from. My eyes analyse her aspects, and she becomes an object of my commiseration. Her bare youthful chassis is paraded to any and every eye that wish to enjoy the free show. If only sanity was around to tell her that she is too beautiful and shapely to auction her assets to any view other than nude modelling, she will not savour this long walk. Swaying on her left hand a torn lace, she keeps talking to herself as though drowned in some sort of bizarre reverie.

My exhausted self arrives my new domicile. Evening prayers just began. Oh, it is going to be a long night! 

7.

The moon starts to observe its night watch. The clouds, as per their usual routine in this state, begin to prematurely ejaculate raindrops which they eventually withdraw, leaving a strong, solid petrichor. I am in the room, on my bed, lying like a vagrant. The six bunks here remind me that this is only an improved extension of camping experience.

“Make una come o!” A voice sounding with the tinge of horror, surprise and victory calls from the front door leading into the mock dorm. I arise, my sleepy eyes immediately become wet with vigil. A stray snake had been slain. Eleven forty-five, post meridiem and we are out to analyse the savagely splattered head of the two-and-half feet reptile. The assailant, or saviour as might be accrued to him hereafter, takes no haste in making sure the poikilotherm does not manage to navigate into the closed doors. Only the guys are outside now. The unisex lodge has the female occupants snoring their way deep into the cold night. We dispose of the decapitated ophidian and prattle about the need to weed out the surrounding overgrown grasses that condescend to engender a hideout for such wild animals.

I lay on the bed again. This time, my mind meanders, after casting wagers on my survival and success chances, and finally settles on the Yoruba saying: Ibẹrẹ to dara ko ni idiyele ayafi ti ẹnikan ba faramọ titi de opin [13]. Good proverb. I am inspired. Roll out the talking drums. Curtains.

[13] - A good beginning is of no value unless one perseveres to the end.

about the writer

Chidiebube onye Okohia is a graduate of English from the University of Lagos. A poet, writer and artist, some of his works have appeared online and print at Kalahari Review and Farafina. He currently blogs at thehuesofolden.wordpress.com.