Papa Efe & Sons

A tale on polygamy

Rukevwe Akpokighe sat watching TV in the family living room.

Anybody looking at her would assume she was very engrossed in the women PDP rally that was presently being broadcasted live on the giant screen TV that Papa Efe aka Chief Ehis alias ‘The Man’ had just bought recently.

Rukevwe popularly known as senior madam by the younger women in the community was in fact not seeing the women on the television. They were market women shouting PDP slogans until they were hoarse (someone said they had been paid five thousand naira each to do that).

She was staring at the screen but was actually looking back in time. To a time when all the drama that was her family really began.

The surprising news that her husband Papa Efe just gave her was what led to this sober reflection.
She remembered clearly how it had all started as if it was yesterday.
It was some years back, about seventeen years.

Ehis who was not called chief then had just returned from his cement stall and she had served him his dinner of boiled yam and fish pepper soup.
As she made to return to the bedroom where she was sewing he had asked her to come and sit down as he had something very important to tell her.
‘Papa Efe,’ she had replied. ‘That thing no fit wait till tomorrow? I no get time now o, two customer cloth dey my hand and dem go collect am tomorrow for wedding. I don already cut them I wan go finish am.’

She was a seamstress.

She had a tailoring store which also doubled as a wrapper store where she sold  Abada and George wrappers. It did not matter that one could count all the wrappers in her shop on one hand.

‘The cloth no go run Rukevwe.

This na serious matter. Make you come siddon.’ He had said, patting the space next to him rather impatiently.
Theirs was a modest sitting room with two sets of brown sofas separated in the middle by a rectangular wooden table.

Ehis always preferred to eat there, maybe it was because it was the only table they had.
Rukevwe took the seat reluctantly, hissing underneath her breath.

One of the women whose dress she was making was very quarrelsome and she was in no mood to quarrel with her. It was not that she could not match her quarrel for quarrel, she just was not in the mood.
Whatever he had to say was serious she thought. He hadn’t even touched his food.
Papa Efe did not joke with his food, especially yam and pepper soup.
He cleared his throat noisily and began to speak.

The Polite Trees

22:55

I’m walking down Riverside Lane alone. I can picture my mother scolding me for walking down this road alone so late.

Walking along, I notice yet again the neat rows of trees on both sides, their branches stretching out to intertwine in the middle of the road, forming a canopy that is very welcomed on a hot summer’s day.  The trees look like rows of battle weary soldiers, standing in line in a peace making handshake. If trees have feelings these must feel like I do when that man takes my hand. His handshakes last seconds longer than necessary and they leave me with a feeling that I find hard to describe..

I force my thoughts back to pleasant ones.

Polite trees.

That’s what folks around here like to call this road even though it’s got its own name. I am now at the middle section of the road, at the point where the road snakes off to the left.

I can make out the outline of the huge Birch Tree that stands just behind Dr Lawson’s house. Out of the corner of my eyes I think I see the tree move. This is absolutely ridiculous, I say. Trees do not move. I walk on, no longer confident.

With shocking realisation I see that the tree is actually moving and is now at a place that it is obstructing my path. In wild panic I turn around and run down the road I have come. Reaching the end I look back only to see that the tree is back in its usual place as if it never moved. I shake my head. Did someone add something to my drink at my cousin’s party? Otherwise how could a tree move?

I must have imagined it.

I begin to walk back again. The eerie silence is beginning to get to me and I am anxious to get home.

This time as I approach the tree I keep my eyes fixed on it to convince myself that the earlier sighting was indeed imagined but again the tree begins to move. It seems to glide along the path, silent and speedy, like a ghost in haste. I rush on determined to cross to the other side before it can block my way again but it beat me to it. As I run smack into its middle it folds its branches around me in a suffocating bear hug, a human like warmth, a warmth so familiar and so dreaded that I open my mouth and scream and scream…

“You’ve had one of your nightmares again.” I hear my mother say.

I open my eyes to see her sitting beside me, her arm is resting against my brow.

I close my eyes but I know sleep will not come again for he is standing a few metres from my bed, awkward like. But I guess no one noticed anything about that. They never do.

And again I had seen his face…. my stepdad’s face… in the middle of the huge birch tree.

 

Train To Insanity

The journey was almost over.

They had been travelling for over sixteen hours and what with the time change and crammed travelling conditions, the American could not wait to go back.

His agency had been contracted to return a certain young woman to her family in Spain and he had been chosen to carry out the assignment.

He sighed deeply and once again turned his attention to the girl by his side.

Her files told him that she was sixteen years old.

She did look sixteen but only in the look of innocence around her, for even though her dress hung loosely around her like she was wearing a dress a size too big, he could still tell that she had a well-shaped body underneath.

He continued to look at her from the corner of his eyes, wondering. He had done all he could to draw her out and make her comfortable, but all his attempts had failed. Even the entertainment magazines he had bought her at the duty free shop eight hours ago were still on her lap unwrapped. She hadn’t even glanced at them.

It was obvious she was upset. He had caught her on several occasions wiping tears from her eyes.  All his attempts at conversations only drew monosyllabic answers from her, or at the most, very short sentences.

‘Would you like to stretch your legs for a bit?’  He had asked.

‘No, thank you’ was all she said.

‘Are you hungry yet, would you like to eat something now?’

‘No, I’m fine thank you’ she had replied with a forced smile.

At that moment the warning lights began to flash signifying that their train, the Barcelona Express was approaching.

The girl took the vacant seat next to the door of the train. She could feel the man’s eyes on her, he had told her his name but she could not remember what it was. He was probably wondering why she chose to sit so far away when they were travelling together.  She could tell he was perplexed by her. It was unfortunate that they had to meet under such circumstances. If he had met her this time last year he would have got a completely different girl. But a lot had happened since that time.

Before then she had been a very happy and carefree girl living the American life, with loving parents and great friends both at school and in the neighbourhood life had been perfect. Not until one Thursday night ten months ago when her parents had been killed in a car crash on their way from a conference. The Police had told her that one of their car tyres had come off as they negotiated a hilly bend.

Since then things had been terrible. A succession of family friends had come to stay with her in her home as she had been an only child, but after a while they had become too busy to come. They were also too crammed for space to take her into their homes when she asked them to as she had been told that she was too young to live on her own. So the Law had stepped in. The Court had decided that since she was an adopted child, she should be returned to her birth parents if they were willing to have her. She had been depressed by her parents’ death but everything became worse after that decision was taken. Nobody bothered to ask if she wanted to return to Spain, to her biological parents. She had grown up in California. She had known no other parents or life except the one. The people she was now being taken to meant nothing to her and she did not want anything to do with them. Her feelings were that if they really wanted her in the first instance they would not have given her up for adoption. Neither would they have waited until her parents were dead to take her back.

Perhaps it was because they thought that she had no other choice. She had thought of running away and had even researched places she could run to, but the thought that she would be looking over her shoulders every time she passed a police officer did not appeal to her. And so, in desperation, she had perfected the plan.

It was at exactly 1pm that she sprang up on her feet and depressed the emergency door knob opening unto the second rail track, the one from Madrid. With shocked expressions on people’s faces, she hurled herself under the wheels of the approaching train from Madrid.

Adriana was a middle aged Spanish woman of slight built with a beautiful but sad smile.

She had been a great beauty in her youth but now one had to look carefully to find the beauty that was once there for sad happenings in her life had turned her into an anxious looking older woman with a permanent tic in her right eye.

Today, however was a very special day in the life of Adriana for finally her prayers had been answered and her baby girl was returning back home to her.

She had been so excited in the weeks leading to her baby’s return that now the day had come, she could scarcely contain herself. She had done a total makeover on their lovely home in San Fernando de Henares. She had even redecorated the beautiful attic room she always referred to as ‘our daughter’s room’.

No one had ever lived in that room. It was filled with toys and presents that she had bought for her daughter over the years. Things she would have given her if she lived with them.

And now the very thing that she had always wanted was finally about to happen.

Begonia Marcus had been a very lovely baby. She was the first child born to a happily married but desperately poor couple. At birth she had been very light-skinned. No one in the family had ever been that pale. Even the colour of her hair was different. She was so exquisite and fragile that her skin bruised when she was picked. In the first few months she was so sickly that they spent most of their time on admissions in the newborn and later, the children’s ward.

For long no one could say precisely what was wrong with her. Not until Adriana had gone to see a specialist who requested that the baby should undergo some specific tests.

The tests had been very expensive; the cost was equal to her husband’s salary of three months. However they had revealed that she had a genetic condition which was responsible for her being constantly sick. The doctor had told them that if she was not placed on special diets and medication she was likely to die before her fourth birthday as the deficiency in her genes would lead to her organs being destroyed.

They had been devastated at the news most especially as they could not afford the kinds of meals she was required to eat. Neither were the medications anywhere near affordable. After weeks of brain storming and Begonia’s health worsening, they could find no way out of their predicament than to give their baby away to a family who could afford to care for her.

It had been a very difficult few months while they met several couples who were looking to adopt their baby but they did not feel right about any of them until they met the American couple.

The couple was at that time resident in the Country as expatriates.

The man was an international staff of an oil company there.

Adriana had noted how the American woman had cuddled Begonia the first time they had met. The look of love in her eyes had not diminished even after she had been told of the baby’s condition. Adriana had known it in her heart that moment that her daughter would be well taken care of by that woman. But it had not been easy letting her baby go.

She had been heart broken after Begonia had gone to live with her new family but she dared not ask for her back because she knew that she would die living with them.

Things only improved slightly when Adriana took in six months after Begonia left to live with her new family. Blessedly the pregnancy had resulted in a healthy baby boy.

In the beginning she followed the American couple around just to catch a glimpse of her baby, but that was until they relocated back to America when Begonia was two years old.

Adriana had fallen into a deep depressive illness when the family left.

She thought that she would never see her child again. It was about that time that her husband’s long time employer died, the man who her husband had chauffeured faithfully for nineteen years. He had left her husband some money as a reward for his loyalty over the years. The money had been invested in an Olive producing farm which over time had done well that he was able to divert funds into other businesses. Suddenly the thought had come to her one night as she lay unable to sleep that they could ask for their daughter back since they could now take care of her needs.

She had spoken to her husband the next morning about it but he had refused. He was of the opinion that it was not right to disrupt the girl’s life like that.

He had suggested they wait till she was eighteen to contact her.

In the meantime Adriana had successfully tracked her daughter’s address in America through private investigators and started to take yearly secret trips to Whittier where she lived.

She spent those times following her daughter around but was always careful not to arouse suspicion. Through that means, she got to know Begonia’s friends, her favourite activities, and other wonderful details about her life. There were lots of difficult moments on those trips as she often had the urge to run over to her daughter. She would have given anything at those moments just to hug and hold her baby.

They had phoned to speak to her after her adoptive parents died but she had refused to talk to them. The rejection had hurt but her husband had consoled her telling her that it was expected, telling her to not expect that things would go so smoothly at first.

She was so glad that finally Begonia was coming home. With time they would build a fine relationship together, she was sure.

It was 4.00pm in the evening. Adriana stood at the window overlooking the highroad.

It was now two hours past the time her daughter was expected.  Her husband had begun to pace, while their son had gone back to his room, tired of waiting in the living room.

Surely there had been some delay of some kind, she thought, her tic going off faster than was usual.

They heard the siren of the police car even before they saw it. Adriana scrambled on top the coffee table that stood next to the window to get a better look. Her husband ran out of the house to the road.

There was a police car approaching their drive way and in the front seat sat a man with a worried, frantic look about him. He had a different skin tone from the others in the car and she thought he looked American.

Adriana wondered, her brows meeting in a worried frown why on the day she was expecting her daughter the police would decide to bring her a frightened American instead.

The Whys and the Hows (2)

Children ask a lot of questions especially when they are younger.
Ask any parent of a five year old.

Now the challenge is not just in the multitude of questions or the rate of bombardment.
The real challenge for the parent is the ability to give the right answers.
And not just the right answers but satisfying ones for that matter otherwise your answers will just give birth to many off springs which are of course more questions.

I will give an example.

Years back my family and I visited the Louvre Museum in Paris.
My husband and I spent a lot of time admiring the beautiful collections on display to our children’s boredom and increasing irritation.
When one of them could no longer bear it he came over from where he was sitting and began to tug at my wrist.

‘Mummy, it’s enough. Let’s go.’

‘But I haven’t even seen the Mona Lisa.’ I replied.
‘How can I come all the way to this museum and not see it? Give me five minutes I will soon be done.’

He reluctantly walked back to his seat.

There was a great number of people surrounding the Mona Lisa that try as much as possible I could not push pass the sturdy wall of people to get close enough for a proper view.
Tired of trying I walked back towards the entrance and tried to capture some shots by zooming my camera lens.

After a few minutes I felt a familiar tug at my shirt sleeve.

‘It’s now five minutes. Can we go now?’
He was back.

‘Hold on, let me get this one shot.’

‘But why? Why must you get a shot?’
He asked.

‘I want it that’s why.’

‘Why do you want it?’ He replied, puzzled.

I rolled my eyes wondering why he had to start his question sessions at such a critical time.
I looked around for my husband to bail me out but he was no where to be seen.

‘Because,’ I said finally as I peered short sightedly into my camera in an attempt to capture that perfect shot.
‘It is the Mona Lisa.’

‘I know it is the Mana Lisa. You said that five minutes ago and also about thirty minutes ago.
Besides you said that we should never start sentences with ‘because’ but you just did.

I glared at him in reply and in the process mistakenly took a blurred snap shot of my feet.

‘And besides,’ he continued, unruffled
‘It’s just a woman wearing a black dress and sitting down. She’s not even smiling a lot.
What is so special about her that there are so many people staring and taking pictures?’

I gratefully passed the camera to my husband who appeared beside us at that moment and did my best to explain art to him.

My answer was probably just partially satisfactory because he proceeded onto other questions.

‘Why do people like to stare at other people?
Why do they take their pictures?
Isn’t it rude to do that?

‘I don’t understand.’ I replied.

‘Look.’
I turned to see what he was pointing at.
It was a portrait of a woman breast feeding a baby.

‘Why was the photographer looking at her while she was breastfeeding?
And the worst is that he even took a picture and put it here for everyone else to see.’

‘Look at that one’ he continued earnestly, pointing with one hand while peeking through splayed fingers, with one eye squeezed shut.
He did that whenever he thought something was inappropriate to look at.

‘She isn’t even wearing a dress, the photographer must have sneaked in and snapped her without her knowing and has now put her picture here.’

‘Why do people do that?’

It was a tough question based on shrewd observation and I found it difficult explaining myself initially.
I answered as well as I could then and we had a longer chat later.

But his questions left me asking some of my own, like-

‘Why a woman’s nakedness should be admirable and acceptable when in form of Art (painting or sculpture) but if a woman should decide to appear in broad daylight in her birthday suit it immediately becomes something detestable, shocking and unacceptable?

‘Why is explicit description of sexual acts permissible and even sometimes labeled as ‘good music’ while the demonstration of same to the public criminal?
Do they not affect the human senses?
Why should it offend the eyes but not the ears?
What really is the criteria for society’s judgement of what is acceptable and what is not?
Is it a case of one standard for this, another for that?

Maybe I should rename this post.
I think it would be better as ‘The Hypocrisy of Art.’

Or what do you think?

A Book and 2 Dozen Eggs.

Writing about my train experience brought back lots of other novel related memories.

One of them happened when I was a 15 year old high school student (Senior Secondary School) in one of the northern states of Nigeria.
It happened that I was reading an interesting book that I was yet to finish and could not wait to find out how the story ended.
I think it must have been a Romance or Suspense novel, those were the kind that I could easily access back then.
We were having a lesson in Agricultural Science.
While the teacher was teaching (he, incidentally was my favourite teacher but the lure of the possible ending was greater than my interest in what he had to say that day) I smuggled the book onto my lap and continued reading.
He must have said something to me which of course I did not respond to because the next thing I realised was that the class had suddenly gone very quiet.
I raised my head to see why that was so and my eyes connected with my teacher’s brown chequered shirt.
He was standing right by my desk with his arms akimbo and looking very displeased.

‘Makolo,’ he said sternly.
‘There is a time for everything and lesson time is certainly not the time for reading novels.’
‘Now hand over the book.’
He stretched out his hand and extended his palm, a no nonsense look plastered across his otherwise smiley and jolly face.

‘Please sir, I won’t do it again.’
I whispered, meaning it that one time.

The whole class was watching.
I wished the ground would open up and swallow me.

His hand remained outstretched.
I surrendered the book.

I was so distraught that I could not concentrate on his lessons or any other that day.

At school closing I refused to go home with my friends.
We were a group of four who lived close to each other and enjoyed our long walks home from school.
They were fun walks filled with noisy chatter, laugh and eating of sugarcane or whatever snack was in season, blowing chewing gum bubbles and just generally doing all the things our school principal used to say were inappropriate behaviour for young ladies, especially those from her school.

After futile attempts to convince me to go home with them they walked off.
Alone at last I walked over to the teachers’ quarters.

The teachers’ houses were located at the back of the school far away from the classrooms.
It was the loveliest part of the school with lots of trees which included fruit trees like the Mango, Orange and Clementines trees.
There were also lots of flowers of varying colours and vibrancy, I particularly remember that the purple ones were the most.
Whoever planted the flowers must have purple as his favourite colour I thought as I sat on a large rectangular block near the teacher’s house.

It was easy to identify which was his because he lived next to the school poultry.
He had said so in class on several occasions.

Few minutes passed by and along came the teacher carrying a pile of books.
I saw that he had my novel tucked under his arm.

‘Makolo,’ he boomed, smiling.
He must have forgotten about my book I thought.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I want my book back sir.’
I added a ‘please’ as an afterthought.

‘Im not going to give you that book.’
He said, no longer smiling.
‘You had better go home now.’

So saying he walked off and turned the bend that led to his front door.

Not up to an hour he came back out. He had changed his clothes and looked refreshed, like he’d taken a shower.

‘You are still here?’ He seemed surprised.
‘You better go home now before your parents start looking for you.’

‘I want my book sir.’ I repeated, as quietly and as respectfully as I could.
‘I’m not going home without it sir.’

He stood there for a moment as if contemplating something.
After a while, he turned the opposite way and walked away from the quarters.

It was a very hot and sunny afternoon.
A typical afternoon in June in Northern Nigeria.
There were a lot of shady places due to the presence of many leafy trees but there were no sitting places in those areas so I had to remain seated on the block in the sun.
I got quite thirsty but I had decided that I was not going to leave the school without my book.

After what looked like many hours, I heard footsteps.
It was my teacher.
He did a double take when he saw that I was still there.

‘Makolo! Your parents must be worried by now.’

He looked worried himself.
He came to stand in front of me, he was sliding the palms of his hands off each other like someone who was trying to dust off unwanted particles from their hands.

His hands seem clean, I thought.
What was he trying to dust off?

After some time he began to mutter to himself. I heard words about stubborn children, children who could get adults in trouble.

I didn’t think he was talking about me.
I did not consider myself, a fifteen year old, a child.

Abruptly he turned on his heels and hastened into his house.
He came out almost immediately with my book in his grip and handed the book over.

‘Thank you very much sir,’ I said, getting off my uncomfortable seat and dusting off the brownish earth that had stained my green skirt.

‘Wait,’ he ordered as I began to walk away.

‘I recall you once said that you like eggs Makolo. Isn’t that right?’

I nodded in answer.

‘Will your mother mind if I gave you some eggs?’

I shrugged in response as I did not know the answer to his question.
No one had ever given me eggs so I couldn’t say how my mother would react.

‘Wait,’ he said again as he walked quickly back into his house.

Soon he was back with a small plastic bag containing some eggs which he gave to me.

‘Come, I will walk you half way, it’s getting late.’

We walked towards the big green gate, the one that led away from the city centre.

I got home shortly after five.

My mother was on her way out, I met her at the entrance to our street.

She later told me she was going to one of my friend’s home to ask after me.

‘Where are you coming from at this hour Ayibu?
Don’t tell me you went to a friend’s house straight from school?’
She asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

‘I’m just from school, Mama.’ I replied in Igala, my mother tongue.
‘Good evening.’

The greeting went unanswered.

‘I didn’t know your school now closed at 5pm. Or is today your sports day?’

‘No. Sports days are on Thursdays.’
I replied.
‘My agric teacher seized my book.
I didn’t leave until he gave it back to me.

‘AYIBU.’
She screamed, then threw her hands up in the air looking towards the sky, perhaps in supplication.

‘This book craze must stop.
It is getting out of hand.
It must stop.’

I did not respond.

‘Now go in and eat something, your father will hear about this when he returns.’

It was my mum’s ultimate threat.

The ‘your father will hear about this’ was usually more scary for us kids than what our father actually did when he was told of our misbehaviour.

Most times he said and did absolutely nothing, yet the threat never failed to make us uncomfortable or nervous.

That one time though I did not mind the threat.

I reckoned that getting my book back was worth anything, as long as it did not involve the book being taken away again.

The Secret Keeper

Got myself another Kate Morton book today and I’m super excited.
I’ve got three of them now, I think there’s just one more to go.

I really love her writing style.

Which brings me to when I first read a book by the above author.
It was her best seller titled ‘THE HOUSE AT RIVERTON.

That day I had taken a train from Schipol in Amsterdam that was heading towards the north of the Netherlands.
It was a journey of over 2 hours which I was looking forward to because I had a ‘juicy’ new book in my handbag.
Settled comfortably in a corner of the train I brought out my book and was soon oblivious to the world around me.
About an hour or so later, from some far recess of my mind I noted two men were standing very close to me.
I resented that as I was sure there were still free seats around,besides I felt it was improper how close they were and so I looked up from my book and frowned briefly making sure that they saw how distasteful I found their proximity.
Immediately, I was back in the old house in the book, with the sisters.
Few moments after giving them the bad eye my brain began to have a conversation with itself.

‘These men are still standing very close to you.’

‘Yes I know that and it’s really annoying.’

‘Did you notice that they are wearing blue uniforms?’

‘Of course I did. Now can I please read my book in peace?’

‘The uniforms have a logo at their breast pockets.’

‘YESSS, I saw that.’

‘Is that not the logo of the National rail line?’

‘Oh My God, of course it is.’

I looked up quickly.
One of the men had a big satisfied grin on his face.
They were the conductors (ticket examiners) who had been patiently waiting for my ticket.
Apologising profusely I fumbled in my bag for it.
One of the conductors, after stamping my ticket said that he had never seen anyone get so engrossed in a book as he had just seen.
They had asked for my ticket when they got to my seat but I did not respond even when they repeated the question in English.
They therefore decided to stand as close to me as possible (probably thought I was deaf 🙂 ) in the hope that I would then notice them.
That hadn’t worked as well.
One of them had become so fascinated that he had decided he would wait and see how long it would take me to finally ‘see’ him.
The second colleague had gone on and finished off with the other commuters and returned to resume standing by me.
That was when I had finally looked up and gave them the dirty look.

They wanted to know the name of the powerful book that was capable of rendering people deaf and blind.
Amidst more banter they walked away some moments later.

You can now see why I’m really excited about this new one.
I hope it’s a super read.

Not sure I will travel with it though.

3D, 4D, 5D, 6D…

My daughter came home very excited the other day.
She and her class had just watched a 4D movie.
‘Mummy,’ she said, jumping on one foot excitedly.
‘You should go and watch one.
I could actually see the fog around my feet and even had the sensation of snow falling on my face.
It was amazing.’ She said, dancing around the kitchen.
‘We should go again soon.’
I smiled indulgently as I beheld my teenage daughter who at times behaved so grown up and at other times was like a little child.

Not to digress.
I remember when I first watched a 3D movie, it was really fascinating but at a point I had to discard my 3D glasses because I had got tired of dodging the flying birds in the animated movie we were watching.
It kept feeling like they would soon fly straight into my face and I was getting tired of all the dodging.
‘It’s just an effect,’ whispered my husband in irritation.
‘Stop moving your head around so much before you bang my head with yours.’
That was the point that I took my glasses off.

And now several years later there’s the 4D movie.
I’ve decided to sneak out and watch one alone and see how it feels before going with the family. No need for any late night emergency room visit.
Especially as I’ve heard that one actually experiences things.
Makes me wonder what any other ‘D’ coming after, will be like.
I told my daughter that day that it will probably get to the point that we, the viewers will star in the movies we watch along with the cast and we will probably also be able to decide how we want the movie to end. And then wave a hearty goodbye as the cast disappear into thin air at the end of the flick.

Care to share your experiences and thoughts?

Where do you think technology is leading to with regards the above?