Captain Africa

[diekoye-blog]

#Nguigiwathiogo #camaralaye #nelsonmandela #chinuaachebe #68 #sittingatthetablewithlegends

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#Comingsoon #Stillborn #Finally #ThankyouGod @agathadwoa thanks for the art Osaretin

[nigerianostalgia]

Great Benin General Ologbosere after his capture in 1899. For a couple of years after the British army decimated Benin, the Edo general, Ologbosere, added a new dimension to the combat by moving loyal troops outside the city, from where he launched a barrage of attacks on British outposts. Ologbosere and his guerrilla fighters hid among villages and towns that supported Edo insurgency. The British expedition retaliated with bloody ferocity. British troops burned these supportive locations, destroyed villagers’ crops, detained their youths, and incarcerated their rulers. Weary of these heavy reprisals, some villagers betrayed Ologbosere and delivered him to the hands of the British troops. The arrest of Ologbosere and other fighters including Chief Ebohon did not quell the anti-British campaigns. It further drove the fighters into the underground, escalating a conflict that remains unresolved till today. Read more here

[awandringminstreli]

Hiroshi Yamauchi, 1927-2013

In 1949, at age 22, he inherited his grandfather’s playing card company. Over the next 30 years, he expanded the company, dealing in taxi services, toys, and even “love hotels.” Eventually, he took a chance on the growing electronic entertainment trade and placed the company’s focus on arcade games. Placing in faith in several young, untested artists and engineers (including Gunpei Yokoi and Shigeru Miyamoto), and by employing business tactics both shrewd and harsh, Yamauchi turned his grandfather’s card company into the biggest video game corporation in the world: Nintendo.

This man brought video games to Japan with ports of Pong and bowling alley-arcades, and saved the industry worldwide after the Atari crash with the NES and strict quality control policies. In his rare public appearances, Yamauchi was treated like an emperor: with fear and respect. And he deserved it; by leading Nintendo until his retirement (and maintaining influence even after), video games became an established medium in entertainment, art, and popular culture. He is not just the most influential man in the video game industry, but he may very well be one of the most important businessmen of the 20th Century.

Rest in Peace, Hiroshi Yamauchi. Thank you, for the Nintendo we know and love. May your successors carry your legacy well.

[tetw]

by David Sedaris

You Can’t Kill the Rooster - “Use the word y’all and, before you knew it, you’d find yourself in a haystack French-kissing an underage goat.” Three - A trio of the best Sedaris stories including The Youth in Asia, Jesus Shaves and Giant Dreams, Midget Abilities Undecided Voters - “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass?” Journey Into Night - “That’s Business Elite for you. Spend eight thousand dollars on a ticket and, if you want an extra thirteen cents’ worth of ice cream, all you have to do is ask.” The Santaland Diaries “The woman at Macy’s asked, “Would you be interested in full-time elf or evening and weekend elf?” (Audio recording of the author reading the full story on NPR) Old Lady Down the Hall - Her name was Rocky. She was my neighbor. I hated her guts. She was my best friend. The Man Who Mistook His Hat for a Meal - “My father has always had some questionable eating habits, but this is getting ridiculous.” Laugh, Kookaburra - “One burner represents your family, one is your friends, the third is your health, and the fourth is your work. In order to be successful you have to cut off one of your burners.” Six to Eight Black Men - “The words silly and unrealistic were redefined when I learned that, in Holland, Saint Nicholas travels with what was consistently described as “six to eight black men.” Wildflowers and Weed - “In Paris they warn you before cutting off the water, but out in Normandy you’re just supposed to know.”

[diekoye-blog]

Things that matter

Chemical weapons matter, and their use matter even more.

It is inconceivable that as a world that can prevent the use of such weapons, we ignore a flagrant call to action.

There are international laws and treaties that countries contest and ignore. 98% of the world has signed the treaty to stop the use of chemical weapons. Their evil cannot suddenly be merely debatably because stopping it is inconvenient.

Kerry is almost beginning to seem like an overzealous child, ‘just let me throw the bomb please’. But when you think, you realize his zeal is actually desperation, because he understands the potential consequences of inaction.

They are severe.

The best case scenario, we do nothing and nothing happens. The best case scenario if we strike, is Assad is sufficiently deterred from further using Chemical weapons, and his capability to use them is diminished. We can ask for nothing more from this option [as a best case scenario] but understand that there will indeed be consequences as varied as their unpredictability.

However, for every best case scenario we can dream up, there are worst case scenarios. Perhaps Assad can distribute it to terrorists, and when they detonate the chemical weapons in and around the Middle East and possibly Africa, say he told us it wasn’t him all along.

Kim decides to play with bigger fire and try a nuke.

As a people, we decided that the only thing as important as national sovereignty is the security of those within the individual nations. In hindsight, we have bemoaned genocides, motivated by all sorts of warped thinking, and chastised those that stood around silently as these atrocities occurred. Now, tens of thousands are dead, and chemical weapons were used on hundreds of children, but I suppose dictators are not interesting anymore.

I understand that my arguments are not balanced, but they are not meant to be. I am not debating whether to strike or not, I am convinced a measured military strike in Syria is the appropriate path to take.

  P.S Even if a rebel group and not Assad fired the Chemical weapons, I think it behooves everyone to have such weapons and whatever capacities exist to utilize them destroyed.

[egrlfrnd-deactivated20231228-de]

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nice

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the truth about memories

It is my memory, and I do with it as I please. I edit, re-file, meddle, and toggle, then assure myself that what I pull out at times of reminisce is truth.

[diekoye-blog]

happy people

I like happy people. They're much easier to forgive.

[diekoye-blog]

Moses

2 Then the Lord said to him, “What is that in your hand?”

“A staff,” he replied.

3 The Lord said, “Throw it on the ground.”

Moses threw it on the ground and it became a snake, and he ran from it.

(Exodus 4:2-4)

Moses wanted to be great. He was given a staff, and told to use it – shepherd your people from slavery. It became a weapon, and he ran.

This is my prayer, that when we are given our weapons, we do not run.

I am not Moses, but like him, I am blessed. I was not to be born a king, yet I am raised in palaces. For a dozen years I have been taught, I wondered what the lesson was. Today I know: I have a weapon. It is as innocent as a staff and as deadly as a snake. I seize it by the tail…

I do not run.

[diekoye-blog]

Thoughts on the NYSC

Nigeria is caught in the stranglehold of inefficient bureaucracy. We have a bloated civil service at every level, often lacking the right training and skills to be thoroughly efficient, or insufficiently compensated thereby inducing extracurricular businesses that distract their time and attention. But this is not news. Few things are, as our potential and shortfalls have been vastly documented.

The National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) was instituted to promote greater national cohesion after the civil war, and give young graduates a foot in the corporate door and a chance to gain valuable work experience…

My time at the NYSC camp was a mixture of experiences. Yet, most prevalent was the comfort in the ‘universal strive for better’ that was apparent from all irrespective of background or state of origin.

On the flip side, the sheer waste of time is numbing. From jetting in and out of Abuja with what they must consider ‘your father’s money’, to the hours in camp wasted on ceremony and the hint of real activities. I spent about 190,000 naira [roughly $1,200], flying in and out of Abuja 3 times to resolve needless bureaucracy because, I refused to pay a 130,000 naira bribe to fly in once at 60,000 naira. Either ways, I would have spent roughly the same amount of money; however, doing things the right way came with the punishments of a 3 month delayed start… and more wasted time. 

My initial prevalent frustration at camp was not the living conditions or barking of soldiers and officials alike, but the tedium of wasted minutes. However, I eventually realized that one didn't have to jump at every whistle and hustle at every bugle and a tranquility settled over the anxious seconds that still trickled away. Then the ennui of insufficient activities ate at our curious minds and we feigned ailments and fled home. Many of us who took ‘sick leaves’ returned, for we realized that none expected us, few rejoiced in our return, and we saw with a shock that our homes had not written us in that chapter. And, this I admit with much hesitation, perhaps we missed the strangeness of camp. So, with our ‘malaria curing’ vitamin tablets and dry bandages, we returned. By the second week, realizing we had but a finite time to endure the delicious hell, we decided to live instead of merely exist. And the drinkers drank, and the active were ignited, and the romantic ones chased love.

And romances do blossom, and friendships are sparked, some undoubtedly for life. Others, not much longer than the fleeting guilt whose denial aids the hasty erosion of camp memories, and more importantly erases that lust fuelled and deeply satisfying copulation with the girl on whom you showered all the pocket money from your mother: a ‘satisfying’ feat whose repeat will rescind you to a level of shame that briefly taunts the face in the mirror. In all honesty, despite her immaculate figure, it was not fun. The whole time, as you scanned the crooked corners of the cheap motel room, and looked at the stained sheets on the bed that smelled as muskily as her upturned bottom, you knew it was a memory you’ll wish to forget. (This is not from personal experience, and I almost deleted this paragraph, but it’s the reality…)

I found that in an enabling environment, without repercussions, a man is quick to redefine the boundaries of his morals. What was impossible to contemplate just yesterday can now be considered ‘without explicit partaking’. When time was limited, and circumstances were abnormal, and camp is abnormal, [and political office in Nigeria is abnormal], then we are excused of our actions. For we do not truly live our lives then, but are spectators of our own existence. 

Some human connections are more wholesome but less imprinted on post-camp life, restricted mostly to the occasional ping on CD days, perhaps a gathering or two, and a picture display and celebratory text on birthdays. Then you stop randomly bursting into camp songs, and looking at camp pictures, and missing camp friends; as normalcy begins to erode the heightened emotions stoked by camaraderie in the face of collective oppression. 

Even when I stop yearning for moments from camp, and watering friendships that had blossomed fiercely but briefly, I would yet miss camp. I will miss it for the ideals upon which the NYSC was founded - for some remain imprinted in its DNA, by tools as elegant and simple as the uniform whites. This was its message; we are one, we are equal. In our rich diversity and orange jungle boots, we are one. To some, the message was hidden. They could not discern the truth from the clamor and people tried to stand out with their spending habits and ‘swag’, but still it was the most equal place I’ve been in Nigeria. I love to debate, and I could do so thoroughly because (a) we had all the time in the world and (b) the ‘you’re a foreign educated nerd’ deference people often gave as an excuse to not argue their point was not there.

I am not naturally right, I am just a guy with an opinion amongst a sea of opinions. For once, this sea of opinions shared the same bed. I did not have to sit on the fringes of a party listening to the arguments of the drivers to get a different perspective; diversity [economic, social, and political] was an ever present. Diversity - the balance that time and class endeavor to erode, defied the odds continually at camp. I wanted to hear a compelling argument for Jonathan, to tackle the merits of a civil war, and surprise surprise, there are many who don’t agree with calls for a revolution. At camp, I could finally meet these people.

My dear Nigerians, we have succumbed to a detrimental pacifism, with the excuse that our God always wins in the end. We relegate our duties to faith and hide behind the security of religion. Well, the demons that shackle you to poverty are not hidden in your villages, no, they are in Abuja parading the corridors of power. Why are you poor? Because your schools are poor, your health is poor, your job is poor, your prospects are poor. There is a common denominator to all this... Your government.

Our government is killing our working class. Not individuals directly, but through a continued destruction of the structures that bear this arm of society. They accumulate the bulk of the wealth and divert some miserly crumbs to the poor to enforce their will. Herein is where the danger lies. The middle class is the central pillar of society, and working class fuels it ambitions. A society that strangles its working class cannot know progress. Nigeria has constantly exhibited growth while actually regressing. It is a fascinating phenomenon.

I used to struggle with people who seem able to constantly put their head down and ignore the 'life' around them, content with the routines of their personal existence. But now I realize they are the key elements in a revolution. It is those that value normalcy the most that most avidly fight for it when forced to. The time is coming, one way or another, you will be forced to. I learnt this in camp when I realized that the ones that came up with the most creative ways to avoid ‘unnecessary routine’, were those most keen to simply carry on with their lives.

I learnt that the NYSC camp is crucial to anyone who wishes to understand the psyche of the ‘upwardly mobile’ Nigerian youth. I learnt we DO have a middle class and working class, and they want what is best for themselves, and given the right [and necessary] conditions, they will fight hard for it.

  I know this article is already long and barely coherent [sorry, out of practice], sha enjoy the final rant if you wish:

The warlord mentality of our leaders and the 'my chief must be the biggest' idea of followership have plagued us since our independence. This is of course the reason for the current in-fighting amongst the governors and the political brouhaha currently on display in Rivers State. The PDP, the parasitic cabal with a stranglehold on our livelihood has compromised our collective wealth amongst themselves. ‘Dashing’ each other the country’s wealth with exhibitionist impunity. Let’s pray they destroy themselves with their infighting.

I started this article as cohesive argument [for and against] the NYSC. The writer has lost his plot, but I hope it shows [perhaps hazily] some thoughts on the NYSC, and its role in our society.

It’s not all doom and gloom. The NYSC is still the best way to experience diversity [tribal and economic] and currently serves as the best method of installing a certain militancy in our people which will be important when the protests come [and they will come]. Additionally, Senior Captain Mohammed Bala Umaru who was the camp commandant proved to be an intelligent, well-read man who gave me a whole new level of respect for the Nigerian Army.

[saharareporters]

The Mace, The Mob And The Mess By Henry Eguridu

By Henry Eguridu

Precedents are like domino effects, chain reactions that occur due to changes which causes a spiral and so on in linear sequence. “A dangerous precedent is being set in this country” cried Chief Obafemi Awolowo as he fought back attempts by the Balewa Administration to impose a state of emergency in Nigeria’s western region in 1965.

[lettersofnote]

On May 22nd of 1925, the great Gertrude Stein wrote to fellow author F. Scott Fitzgerald and offered, in her own inimitable style, a brief review of his recently published novel, The Great Gatsby. It can be enjoyed below. Also of note: Fitzgerald’s editor’s reaction to an early draft of...

[diekoye-blog]

Prologue to 'The Stillborn'

I sit in Uncle’s study, at his big desk with unfinished work. My thoughts are clouded, preoccupied by so many unanswered questions. A strange stale breeze waffles in, suffocates the atmosphere, the air heavy, life recedes. Settling on the room, it has lost the desire to go elsewhere, this is its ultimate destination. I wonder what next, I know Uncle’s view – return home – it is as unwavering as the finality of his death.

And as I sit at the desk, I hear a faint distant drumming, the drummer unknown - a ghostly message floating from an unidentified source. It gets louder and closer, overwhelming. Suddenly, a bold intrusion into my face, I am sure it emanates from within the room, but from whence I cannot tell. Then I see them. They dance into the room, in their inchoate serenity: a voice within whispers to me, “they are the dreamers of the stillborn child in 1960”. They were surely mourners by all appearance, they had about them unseen tears of potentials unfulfilled, they swirl, as apparitions, they float in the trapped capsule that is Uncle’s study. Was this his legacy? Was this my destiny? I watch them dance to the tunes of the ghostly drums, to songs about my past and future. I watch them sway to the sorrowful beats. They beckon to me and I follow. My limbs are numb, uncontrollable, and my mind is a tabula rasa of cacophonous inner voices. I am on the mighty wings of a great eagle. The drums beat crescendo, speaking an ancient language, which though unlearnt and untaught, I yet understand.

In uncle’s voice, it speaks to me as I follow its rhythmic dance beats. I understand its words but I do not comprehend all of its meaning. “You need a simpler tale to understand, you must speak with Emeka,” it says. We are approaching a door that seems to open to both space and time. The voice begins a trembling soliloquy:

At her beginning, I was there. I watched as she was entered forcibly, her insides plundered, her seeds corrupted. Her rapist is single-mindedly vile, it must execute its intention; he approached his assignment with complete abandon, intent on total violation of its captive, for that is what he was born to do. No one, alas could prevent the sordid act, no one knew what to do, how to stop... But now the seed is germinating, some cautioned, we must abort. For her conception was an abomination, its consummation too violent, and though her birth was seamless, the polluted seed forebodes the monster child. But the caution went unheeded, the fate of the child was sealed for its nativity transcends time; mere mortals cannot understand it. The child is born. Physically, she is a spectacle to behold. We laugh at the needless worry and fretting of the augurers. But it is years foregone, and the legs refuse to walk, the hands refuse to work the simplest of enterprise, and her words are incomprehensible and incoherent. The child is a monstrous deformity, possessing the DNA of its father. She is named Nigeria. She is mentally handicapped. She is premature. Her incubator is shattered and greedy hands reach for her supple flesh. Fingers of tribalism, bearing venal shawls of democracy and blankets of corruption invade her bed of affliction and debt. The child was polluted in conception; at birth, she is diseased. She was not washed as was customary, its navel was not cut, the child received no inoculation against the rampaging viruses that ate at the innards of its captors; it had no swaddling clothes and elements had their way in her. The child was stillborn. October 1960. At her birth, life was stilled.

But we have reached the door, and the voice is suddenly silent. I am led to a grand room with a circular table at its centre. At it sits three men. There is an empty chair. It is mine. I sit and listen. Ignored, they speak with each other. But I am in the conversation. They speak words of substance. Their words are alive. Their utterances fill the room, spill past the door, and beyond the present. Timeless words of immortals. I recognize them from hallowed frames and crumpled notes; they were the founding fathers. I see Obafemi Awolowo, Nnamdi Azikiwe, and Abubakar Tafawa Balewa.

Their conversation seems as a monologue. A dignified trinity, their voices of reason are indistinguishable. Their voices are weighed with a thousand sorrows:

But we did nothing wrong, we fought off the British peacefully

We gave them each autonomy through federalism

Yes, we had our faults, we made judgements, some erroneous… but must they not learn from our errors

We showed them the power of free education, taught them how to build roads, how to cultivate nature endowed with cocoa, oil palm, rubber, groundnut…

Then they found oil, the black gold, the curse of the land

Perhaps that is why

They drown in their greed

But who are they

The very ones we left behind to care for her

They are children trying to raise a baby

They are boys pretending to the status of real men

They refuse to grow up, to take responsibility

That is no excuse

There is no excuse

They fight about everything, religion, class, tribes, money, power

They kill our dreams

They kill her dreams

She is stillborn

Her deformed heart has almost lost its beat

Yet, she stumbles on

As a zombie, blind, deaf, without ambition

They strangle their own dreams

But who are they

They are cowards

Their greed and corruption is not satiated by money

They never seem to have enough

Perhaps this filthiness of their mind does not stem from a love of money but a fear of poverty

Even in their theft, they are inefficient

Foraging for seeds, they forget the fruit

They eat the seed and plant nothing

They should know what to do

We laid it out clearly for them

Suddenly, like they notice me for the first time, they turn to me. I am intimidated; they have the noble impenetrable stares of lions.

“Why don’t they know?”

“Why don’t they remember?”

“Why are they not reminded?”

I stutter unable to respond, until suddenly the drums begin to beat again. I am still cowering beneath their gaze, when I am again transported on the mighty wings of the great eagle back through the door that conquered time and space to Uncle’s study. The beats begin to quiet and the presence leaves the room.

And as uncle's spirit passes away, I feel a slight shiver. A sentence, innocuous but consequential, has spilled from my reverie to the paper before me:

‘The gestation period unknown, a C-section was planned. The day was October 1, 1960.’

The words sting my eyes with the cruelty of an arrow that pierces a baby’s heart. I look out the window and begin to cry. Then I write with the violence of Uncle’s frustrated fights and incomplete battles. The words pour with fury. As the lingering questions of the founding fathers assault my ears with the force of a thousand drums, my pen attacks and ravages the paper.

I could not stop. 

[re-workblog-blog]

A Maasai tribesman in Kenya today has better mobile communications than President Reagan had 25 years ago. If they’re on a smartphone, they have access to more information than President Clinton did 15 years ago.

Peter Diamandis (via disrupt-it)

[diekoye-blog]

The Dame and The Damned

I listen to the ponderous wails of Miles Davis ‘Round Midnight’ and scour the Nigerian Guardian. The headlines are just as dire as the sad notes that leak through the speaker. Maybe like the notes, they will assume a muted joyous crescendo, but I doubt it.

This is what we have been taught to accept:

That although the ‘The Federal Executive Council (FEC) has finally approved the Petroleum Industry Bill (PIB), creating six new companies that will help Nigeria drive the nation’s efforts towards transforming the oil and gas sector,’ we would be plagued by fuel shortages, inconsistent electricity, bad roads, an inefficient bureaucracy, irresponsible legislature, and to crown it all, the constant piss of some of the elite.

That Governor Seriake Dickson has the audacity to insult the collective intelligence of the people of Bayelsa, and Nigeria by appointing Dame Patience Goodluck to the position of ‘Permanent Secretary of the state of Bayelsa’ - an oil rich state, floundering in poverty and violence, is instructive. The message is simple – ‘You, the people, do not matter, and are not a factor in the administration of your lives’.

Yet, kudos to the state, it has produced our president, Goodluck Jonathan, the husband of the Dame. A man who told us of his shoeless childhood. Yet whilst being driven by these barefoot ghosts to all manner of irresponsible governance, Jonathan has forgotten the poverty that foisted this on him. He must have or he would not support his wife’s endeavour.

I am sure she means well, and she has a bond with the people she has been called to serve. But it shows a misunderstanding of the ails that torment and stifle the nation. Yes, it is all good and well, to have an affable first lady that stumbles over the pronunciation of the word ‘umbrella’, but when you appoint her to lead an already inefficient bureaucracy, surely you are damning the citizens.

But this is what Jonathan does not seem to understand as he affably steers the country towards disaster. We need capable people in all facets of service because the country, while still a child, is creaking under the restraints of its stifled growth. It needs efficient, knowledgably, learned, incorruptible, and patriotic people to lead the country. And Nigeria is blessed to not have a shortage of such people.

[diekoye-blog]

Nigerian Market Scene - Book Extract

Uncle had a baby Benz; it was the first Mercedes with a tapered front. Seun sat in the front ‘passenger seat’, and his mother sat at the back ‘owner’s corner’. The man behind the wheel seemed like he could barely reach the pedals and see over the wheel at the same time.

“Ma ma mama ma my name is mo mo monmon Monday,” he said, starting the car and reversing severely out of the driveway. Mr. Monday was extremely angry at the world and with his insufficient height and stuttering speech, he perhaps had reason to be. He did not bother with pleasantries or say another word as he darted through the congested roads of Lagos, cutting through the stifling heat, and navigating potholes, okadas, and danfos. The streets were chaos and Mr. Monday adequately thrived in it. His hand would shoot to the horn as he cut off a driver and avoided a jaywalker. His grip on the wheel was intense but his face was a mask of composure. An accident threatened to occur every minute yet the frenzied performance played on at a permanent crescendo with no causalities.

Seun was fascinated as all the props were precariously set and everyone played their part to perfection. The danfo drivers cursed and screamed stopping their vehicles and jerking them back to life at the most inappropriate moments, okada drivers swerved dangerously in and out of traffic, piteous beggars carried desiccated bowls in decimated hands, tall buildings stood at rigid attention in the melting heat, petty traders ran with tray laden heads to the rolled down windows at every opportune moment, and the ice cream man weaved tiredly through all this on his bicycle. Yet, Seun, captivated, was the sole audience to this absurd normalcy.

But all this was serenity compared to the market. A Lagos market in the nineties is the pinnacle of organized chaos and mundane excitement. An unlocked door or open window was a faux pas of which the ignorant were promptly remedied: a few minutes ago, a woman had her bag picked off her lap through a door left ajar. And right before that, a lady had driven off with bleeding ears as her earrings had been snatched off her ears for having the impunity to display them through open windows. They found a muddy lot guarded by touts with brown teeth and minds distorted by marijuana and ogogoro[1]. They were burnt black from the sun and bathed in foul sweat. They had bulging muscles, alcoholic breaths, and all promised to take proper care of the car. Seun and his mother descended and Mr. Monday remained at his wheel with a defiant scowl.

Ranti’s face was adorned with only a determined pout, and her bag was securely fastened through her arm, above her elbow and beneath her armpit. The last time she had been here, a seemingly mad man had poked her in the chest, twisted her ears, and muttered about her being disrespectful. When she got over her surprise and reached up to assuage her throbbing ear, her earrings were gone, and the mad man had disappeared. The market was no place for careless people, for delicately bred ‘aje butters[2]’ as they were called.

His left hand in his mother’s unyielding grip, Seun’s inauguration was fast paced. They approached the first stall with a rickety wooden table laden with assorted materials. A rotund woman in the next stall was already beckoning Ranti over to ‘sample her wares instead’. Ranti Ehurere looked the short fair man in the face as he wiped his hands on his soiled vest and adjusted his jeans.

“Madam, wetin you wan buy, I go give you correct price”, he said

“He will be going to The Federal Government College here in Lagos,” his mother said proudly. “He will need some red, checkered material.”

“Ah, nna fine boy, you’re a big man oh”, he said in slightly nasal tone, his hands rapidly fingering fabrics. He pulled out two identical pieces and quoted two different prices.

“Chai, you wan kill me!” Ranti exclaimed. “Na how you go dey give price like that?”

“Haba madam, I see say that you sef know quality, you know am well well. Madam as you see dis one so, dis one na correct material, na from China madam. You fi wash am fifty times, e go dey still dey shine like ruby, I no fi lie madam”.

Already the other piece was forgotten and they squared up like boxers in a tight ring, jabbing and squaring, haggling and bantering. Finally, his mother bought the material at half the initial price and twice the price of the ignored fabric. Both of them had the satisfied smile of a hot, loud quarter of an hour well spent. Seun and his mother made their way tortuously through the market; bargaining, walking away in disgust, being pleaded at to return, grabbed at the hand, poking at materials, swearing at sellers, being sworn at, laughing, sweating, walking, haggling… Mallams swore and “Wallahied”, Yoruba traders greeted “Eku asun mummy”, Ibo men said “Nna make we talk”, and female sellers begged “My sister patronize us now”. Traders bought them chilled cokes from men who walked by with buckets full of ice and bottles, and they told the sellers to keep the change for their children. Through all this, Seun’s tired hand, attached to his mother’s firm grasp, dragged along his tired mind on his tired feet. The initial excitement was short lived and his stygian garments stimulated more misery.

By the denouement, his mind was buzzing from too many drinks, yet he could hardly move his legs and his mouth was cemented shut from fatigue. Laden with bulging bags, they marched tiredly towards the car. Mr. Monday saw them approaching and with brisk steps of his tiny legs he was soon gathering all the bags in his short, stocky arms. He sneered at the dirty pale children that hounded tired shoppers. A young, skinny boy with large honey eyes and light caramel skin covered in grime approached the woman to their left. There was a bloody gash above his left brow attended by a contingent of dancing flies. She was moved to compassion and made the mistake of giving him ten naira. In a matter of seconds, like a swarm of locusts, a dozen impoverished children, clinging to her arms and clothes, seized her. Her act of charity was not going unpunished; slowly her dignity was unwound with her loose wrapper. The more she tried to placate them with her goodness, the tighter they clung, until she was crying in agony and distress. Suddenly, one of them was sent sprawling to the floor by a blow to his head. One by one, they were torn off her with vicious blows and kicks. She wanted to stop the muscular dark man from hitting the sensitive looking children, but could not. Her eyes were streaming with tears as she hurriedly got into her car and handed the man some money as gratitude for extricating her from the discomfort.

As Mr. Monday drove out of the market with his stern features, an armless man nodded at the car and mouthed for mercy. He was from Maiduguri. He had had his arm amputated for stealing a goat to feed his hungry children and then put on a train heading south to Lagos. He had one large red eye and another that was tightly shut – a legacy of a water-borne disease that almost took his life when he was six-years-old, and pale skin covered in old wounds. And if you looked close enough, you saw the in weary eyes a future reflection of the emaciated boy.

And always, at all this, the sun sneers ferociously because it can partake only from a distance.

The ride home was mostly in silence. Mr. Monday guarded his stammer and Seun and his mother were thoroughly spent. The road had lost its magic and menace. A looming police roadblock barely roused their interest until they were pulled over.

“License and registration?” The officer asked with too much efficiency. Mr. Monday silently handed these to him.

“Madam, please step out of the car,” he said with exaggerated competence. Mr. Monday wordlessly stepped out as well. The officer kept up his interrogation with a barrage of customary questions. “How many of this and what, where of that”. Seun’s mother was so fatigued that when he finally decided in his benevolence to let them go despite the major offense of Madam ignoring section 57 of the long forgotten and completely disregarded 1954 law to wear seatbelts at the back, she was only too glad to give him a few hundred naira for his efforts. His corrupted fingers had not stashed the money in his grateful pockets before Mr. Monday suddenly became animated and snatched the money back from his surprised grasp and returned it to madam.

“Ma mama mad mad mad madam don’t do do do do that,” he finally forced out. “Ple ple please get in th th th the car,” he continued. He gave the policeman a look that froze him in his sullied stance, got in the car, and drove off. The car was cocooned in stunned silence and it remained so until they were once more parked under the expansive guava tree in uncle’s compound. Providence smiled on them to keep the policeman dumb for that moment. Police checkpoints have been witnesses to ‘accidental’ bullet discharges.

[1] Ogogoro: Locally brewed alcohol

[2] Aje butter: Slang for ‘delicate’, or ‘well-off’ people