Three
days later, I woke up only to realize that it was the day my uncle was leaving
for Jaji. I took a deep breath, darting my eyes around my room, wondering my
uncle's departure. That was the moment I knew I will be missing my uncle and
closest companion. Just then, a cascade of images cleared my eyes like bright
camera flashes and I began to write:
A Note to my Uncle
As you go to the field
Forget not your shield
Forget not your mind
And to evil be unkind
Give your all to the state
And break terror's plate
It's me, your son
wishing you victory's sun
I
put the note on the pocket of his shirt as I shed tears of joyful pain. We
embraced each other profusely and he whispered to my ears:
"Enenche,
you are not yet what you shall be. Take your studies seriously, behave well and
do whatever you like. I love you!"
"I
love you too uncle." I responded cheerfully.
I
went back into the house as they drove out. I prepared for school, had my
breakfast and was about to leave for school when I overheard a conversation. It
was between Udokamma and Mr. Bako.
"Don't
belch so loud." Udokamma said.
"Na
weitin you dey talk?" Mr. Bako asked.
"Mallam,
you know what oga said?"
"Sey
wetin?"
"He
said we should do whatever small oga says."
"That
one no be wahala now."
"But
he said that we should watch small oga's movements."
The
house-maid and the gateman went on talking. I was ready to leave for school and
didn't want to be late. But their words told me to be careful in my daily
affairs. Yes, my uncle trusted me but I needed to conduct myself in order to
continue to enjoy his strengthening confidence in me.
The
driver drove my uncle to the airport and may not be back so soon. So I entered
a bus just in front of my uncle's house. In the bus were other school children
with three women, supposedly their parents. While the children were holding
tightly their flasks, their mothers were bewailing the state of the nation.
Every night, the sounds of bombs, machine guns and cannons leave the people
sleepless, with eyes wide open, waiting for the cock to crow. They spoke of the
destruction they had witnessed; how they became widows with families to take
care of. No one would have imagined that such tragedy could occur in a time so
brief.
Before
we reached the next turn-up, the driver inserted a CD of Asa. He raises the
volume of the Disc Player and sang to our hearing:
There never used to be
This much attention to security
Until the terror and catastrophe
And now there's guns and war machines
Maybe, maybe the sun will rise
Maybe, maybe (ouh)
Maybe, maybe the stars will shine, maybe, maybe
No one is listening
To the truth or is it just me
I guess I must begin from now
To make that change I always speak about
Though
the women did not appear to be fascinated by the music, I felt enchanted by the
lyrics. Music seemed to possess a mystical power, capable of calming our
troubled and broken lives. Asa evoked in me a sense of freedom with her dulcet voice.
No doubt, the music shortened the journey and made me less worried about the
tendency to be late because of the traffic. The bus halted right in front of
our school building where I alighted and ran to join the assembly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After
recess, we had History. Entering the classroom, the teacher dropped Irele's The
Negritude Moment on his table. While he was teaching, Abimbola caught his
attention and that of all of us. Donning an earpiece, she is carried away by
Mariah Carey's Hero:
There's a hero
If you look inside your heart
You don't have to be afraid
Of what you are
There's an answer
If you reach into your soul
And the sorrow that you know
Will melt away
[Chorus:]
And then a hero comes along
With the strength to carry on
And you cast your fears aside
And you know you can survive
So when you feel like hope is gone
Look inside you and be strong
And you'll finally see the truth
That a hero lies in you
It's a long road
When you face the world alone
No one reaches out a hand
For you to hold
You can find love
If you search within yourself
And the emptiness you felt
Will disappear
Lord knows
Dreams are hard to follow
But don't let anyone
Tear them away
Hold on
There will be tomorrow
In time
You'll find the way
Abimbola
was miming the lyrics when the class was going on. All eyes were on her but she
seemed not to have noticed. She went on to the utter surprise of everybody in
the class.
"Abimbola,"
the teacher called.
She
continued. Her ears were blocked by the rhythm of the soothing song.
"Abimbola,"
the teacher called again.
This
time around, she heard and quickly answered with a sudden sense of fear.
"Yes
sir." She stood up, removing the headphones that were stuck to her
ears. The whole class laughed. It was then that it dawned on her that she had
long been sighted by everyone.
"I'm
sorry." She apologised immediately but the teacher was already inflamed.
"To
redeem yourself, you have to render a poem, share a quotation with us or you
leave my class and never return." Looking at the teacher, she was
dumbfounded before she opted for the first option. The whole class was as
silent as silent as the sheeted dead.
"The
title of my poem," she began, "is I'm Sorry." She flashed
us with a smile as she started:
Though like no fanatical preacher
Listen to my plea dear great teacher
For my mind is drawn by a mighty muse
I’m ceaselessly seeking to amuse
I’m sorry with my little story
Beautified with a musical history
Making me burst forth without my knowing
With lovely tunes expressed by singing
I promise to do my utmost
To calm my spontaneous outbursts
Especially when listening to a lesson
That we all may learn like humble masons
Indeed, her poem left me mesmerised.
It seemed an immortal spirit dwelt in her frail looking body. I sensed from our
teacher's countenance that he was impressed. He pardoned her and the class
continued. But the passion which the marriage of poetry and music had indelibly
brought into her life was undeniable. Her performance in class had been
consistently exceptional and her behaviour is characterised by honesty almost
to a fault. As soon as school ended for the day, she walked out of the gate as
fast as a dislocated joint slipping back into shape. I wanted to see her. I
rushed to catch up with her but she had entered a bus. I couldn't call her name
for she had gone.
To be continued...
