The Fear of Homo!

Melvin had learnt the norm in the school: serve yourself. The PG refectory was the small house opposite the PG hostel. It was neater and more spacious than the undergraduates’ refectory where you cannot concentrate on the food because of the flies that buzzed uncontrollably. The PG refectory was not as noisy and overcrowded as the undergraduate refectories where you would have to stay on a long queue for sometime before you could buy food. There was smell of freshness hung in the air. Melvin tried to imitate John, eating with fork and knife. The fork refused to balance in his fingers. He looked up and saw John watching him. He smiled shyly and dropped the fork on the table. John laughed. Melvin stood up and crossed over to a sink on the wall and washed his palms. John looked up still smiling at him. As he ate the Ogbono soup, he was conscious of his white shirt to ensure that the gluey mucilage of the Ogbono soup would not loll down on it. After eating, John paid and they climbed up to his room. While they climbed the staircase, Melvin tried to recall the face of John’s hideous roommate and wondered if the two of them were gay mets. He thought about how he would manage to sleep in the same room with such an ogre without having convulsion. He was afraid, not just because of Efe, also because he wasn’t sure of the kind of person John was. He wouldn’t want a repeat of his secondary school experience, where Senior Bus-stop would have sodomizing him if he hadn’t stabbed him with a kitchen fork. He couldn’t say what the gays liked in him. If John turned to be a gay, he would be the forth gay to make attempt at sodomizing him. Agbo, the huge chemist boy in his street at Aba, with chest like a fox, was the third. He was even the one that gave Melvin the money he used to purchase his JAMB application form. He was so fortunate that he fled from Agbo. He ran into Agbo’s chemist shop for a shed from a heavy rain. While he waited for the rain to stop, he dosed off on a short bench behind the counter. When he opened his eye, the door to the shop was slightly closed and it rocked slightly as the breeze of the rain outside moved it. The shop assumed some kind of unholy quietness that frightened him. The hushing sound of the rain outside swallowed the wailing of the rusty ceiling fan that rarefied the suffocating stench of drugs in the small enclave of the shop. Agbo was sitting behind Melvin caressing his opened chest and the flap of Melvin’s trousers was open. Melvin jerked up in shock and zipped up immediately and turned to Agbo with astonishment in his gassy eyes.

      “What is this?” he managed to berk in cracking voice and the veins that run across his temples stood turgid.

      “KC cool down, I… I’ve not…” Agbo said with some curves of mischievous smiles on his face. Melvin pushed him violently and he fell backwards and hit the back of his head on a counter and the bench overturned and hit him on the face. Before he could get up Melvin pushed the door open and ran out into the rain.

He wouldn’t want to have such an ugly experience again with John, and John had all the while been behaving like Agbo – the unsolicited kindnesses, the mischievous smiles permanently on his face and the steady looks whenever he looked up at Melvin with those bulgy eyes. Efe was away when they returned and that heightened Melvin’s fears. The veranda was quiet with such unholy quietness like in Agbo’s chemist shop. A grasshopper perched on the handrails and catapulted itself to the ground floor into the empty quadrangle. Melvin wondered why such small animal would not fracture any limp when they jump from such heights.  There was nobody in the room. Melvin was tired. He needed to sleep but he couldn’t close his eyes when he is alone with John and he couldn’t remember any story to tell to break the ice cold silence that set in. Then the door swung open and Efe entered the room with his shirt hung on his shoulder exposing hairy abdomen. Melvin breathed out loudly. He would have done the sign of the cross if John was not looking. John was watching with a calm that terrified him the more. Their eyes met and Melvin flinched. He wished he could read what went on in John’s mind. 

Kpachaa

I ate kpachaa today. Kpachaa is a name for roasted yam and plantain. I guess they call it kpachaa because of the way you scrape out or kpachapu the stains of charcoal on the yam and plantain after roasting them. What method of name formation could this be called in morphology? Is it onomatopoeia or descriptive name? I will go back to my old morphology test book.

Okay now that you know what I mean by kpachaa, let’s continue with the story. I came home a little earlier yesterday at about 6:00pm because I was not feeling very strong. So I walked down to a kpachaa spot in obiagu to enjoy the local delicacy. The rotund woman behind a dirt caked table that housed three charcoal blackened pots and several flat plats of different sizes smiled as I greeted her. She flashed a dead brown tooth n front. That reminded me my mother. She was just as fair as my mother and at exactly the same spot in the front row of the upper teeth she had a tooth that was brown and dead like my mum. Beside the woman was the njaoku burning with golden embers and the slices of yam and naked plantains suspended on a metallic net. Sorry I don’t know what njaoku is called in English language, I an Igbo man.

“Nwam what do you want?” she asked still smiling

I didn’t smile back because I didn’t like the films of dirt lining like a brown ring round her neck. “How do you sell?” I asked business-like, pointing at the roasted plantain.

“One fifty each” she said and wiped her palms on her wrapper still smiling.

“Give me this yam and these two plantains together with one hundred naira worth of Ukpaka. I will pay three fifty for all. Is that okay by you?”

“okey, no problem but you will add fifty naira to it so that you don’t cheat mama o?” she said looking cunningly into my eyes, with the tone of voice these mothers use when they want to use moral suasion to get favour. I just didn’t respond to that but looked away.

“madam nyem mmrir!” screamed one agboro in the small dark water proof house behind the woman.

“a na m abia o!” the woman shouted to the air and asked me, “are you eating here?”

“where? No!” I responded disgusted.

She breezed into the water proof house and rushed out almost immediately. Something striking about the woman was her serious unseriousness and the never dissipating smile on her face just like my mum. Then she picked the yam that I spotted. Now I could see the several lines of wrinkles on her hands and shriveled fingers, which must not be unconnected with her constantly putting her hands in the fire to turn roasting yam or plantain. Now I could see the black and brown stuff that caked round her finger nails as the hand plucked the yam into a flat plate on the dirt caked table. I didn’t see when she washed the plate.

“ewoo!” she screamed and dropped the plate and made to a basin of yellowish brown water with some foams of red oil floating on it to wash her hands as if she knew I was watching the hands. The hands emerged drenched from the dirty water and she wiped them on her wrapper, still smiling. I screamed inwardly and wished she didn’t wash the hands at all because I could still see the brown and black stuffs around her finger nails and now the water must have melted them.  She grabbed the yam, put it on her left palm and sliced with a crooked knife I didn’t see when she washed. From the front pocket of her apron she brought out some small black cellophane bags and flogged the air with them to straighten them. Then she did the worst. She put the cellophane under her armpit.  Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr…. She touched her index finger to her tongue and picked a white cellophane bag. There she emptied the flat plate of sliced yam.  Then she poured some red oil in another plate, sliced some onions into it, added some already mashed pepper, a little salt and something that looked brown like old men’s tobacco snuff. Then she used a spoon to turn them together. Then she use the spoon to collect a little of the stew she had made and placed it in her left palm. I watched the left hand move up to her face and her mouth opened and a long pink tongue curled out of the mouth like a snake and licked clean the palm and lolled back into the enclosure of the lips. Her eyes squinted and her head nodded. Smiles….

The tongue licked palms grabbed the first plantain and broke it into seven pieces like the bread of christ’s evening meal and put them in another flat plate. She did same to the second plantain and added two spoon full of Ukpaka to the stew she made (I don’t a finished Ukpaka has an English name because the white man eat Ukpaka. He might have a name for the raw one anyway but that’s not my concern here). She brought out one of the black cellophane bags from her armpit and flogged the air with it and emptied the plate of plantain in it. She took another cellophen from her armpit, flogged the air again and touched her index finger to the tip of her tongue and opened the cellophane and emptied the plate of stew into it.

Now kpachaa was read!

I didn’t know how to tell the woman that the hunger gnawing at my stomach walls had disappeared. I just paid and turned to leave.

“thank you my son,” the woman said “I don’t have enough Ukpaka today, next time I will give you more jara”

I didn’t turn as if she talked to me. I just moved on.

“let’s pray I survive this one first before talking about a return purchase” I said to myself and sighed. I was not ready to throw away the kpachaa. So I ate it! Yes I did! It was my hard earned money.

Now if you are my friend

, just watch me and be ready to rush me to hospital just in case of any diarrhea or cholera. My car key is always on my reading table in case you will need to drive me with my keke to the hospital.

However I have pledged never to look into that small water proof house again talk more of buying kpachaa from there. But wait o… Kpachaa is a very good delicacy to enjoy. So where in Enugu do I get one made in a hygienic environment?

Please throw in your suggestions please please please.

  

IN MY COUNTRY

In my country
Election is a dreaded sabre toothed monster
That comes on Eke market years
And gives birth to Abiku Sons
Sons that spread sheer tears
On the faces of innocent mothers

I am the mother
crying everyday in the street
For my sons and daughter torn in pieces
By the offspring of this cruel monster
where do i go from here?

In my country
Election comes like a blood thirsty masquerade
cheered by public toilet mouthed ogres
Mouths that defecate incendiary words
Lips that ejaculate acidic spittle
Sending on exile kids that build castles on mere sand

I am the lad
Building on rocky ant hills now
B'cos the monster trample on my sandy castles
who will take me to a beach side
where creativity knows no bounds?

In my country
Election is a greedy Oracle
That feeds on the blood of gullible youths
to wipe out the self acclaimed tomorrow's leaders
While retaining backward toothless grannies

I am the youth
Raped every now and then
By this cruel monster
And sacrificed on his altar
For purification of sins I did not commit
Where is my savior?

Now he comes again...

TO BE CONTINUED.....

LETTER TO THE OLD ME

LETTER TO THE OLD ME

Dear Old-Me

Sad and sorry to say I have never expressed my love for you this way. Now I know how important it is that I show you some love, and be emotionally expressive with you, especially when I look back at the things we’ve been through together; the choices you made for me and the places you have led me to.

I remember those days when you drew me to very good friends; those days when our street in Ugwumba Estate was full of boys that sold or smoked igbo, bus conductors or drivers and street hawkers. The street is till like that till date. Do you remember I nearly joined them but you held me back and said it wasn’t a good life for me? Do you remember I hawked biscuits, then I hawked chewing sticks at the motor park and then I wanted to start selling pure water but you drew me back. Thank you so much because the boys that sold pure water then are still selling it till date. Dear Old-Me, remember you told me to learn a skill and I learnt to sew women’s bras and tights. That kept me homely and helped in school too. I am grateful you drew me to Abel; he taught me marshal art and we snuck out of the house early mornings to the stadium where we learnt to play Shutokan Karate. We came back in the afternoons to sew bra. That was good for me. Though he too smoked igbo in secret and I pretended as if I didn’t know, you told me to get only the good part of him. I stole his bra patterns. I got them and mine became unique. I thank you Abel. Do you remember Amechi? The one we called Michelin tyre because of his body building? He too was of help because I sew with his machines. You told me to stay away from distractions at home. Though I knew Amechi smoked igbo in secret too, I obeyed you. I will always obey you Old-Me.

When I sewed at home, Okorie, the one we dubbed Poker was my good friend. You told me to stick to him because he was very brilliant at school and he was about to teach me how to make pirated Petals Relaxers; the ones he packaged and sold in Port Harcourt. He promised to teach me but somewhere along the line he formed a bad alliance with Fela, the one we called Ego-Nnenne because he stole his grandmothers money when he was a little kid. Dear Old-me, I thank you so much because I obeyed you when you told me to quit my relationship with Poka. Then Poka started smoking igbo with Fela. Soon they graduated from igbo to brown powder and then to coco (point five). They even started selling drugs for Baby-I-love. So sad, Poka was killed and burnt to ashes by an angry mob who said we went robbery. Fela was killed same way too but here I am still moving on.

Then again, you drew me to another very good friend, a friend that is now more than a brother – Nwoha Richard. Then we roamed the street like twins and addressed ourselves as “Baas”, a Portuguese term for Master, because we read it from the novel, King Solomon’s Mine. We called ourselves “Santos Santos, Mr Benson’s son” and said “where have you been since I came back from Switzerland?” Then we were the envy of the boys in the street and everybody wanted to be our friend but we didn’t accept them because they didn’t have what he had – love for education. Because Richard made some money as bus driver we played scrabble, danced kilamiti and drank juice to the envy of every other boy in the street. We went out to eat A & B – akamu and beans – at Urchman’s shop. I remember my friendship with Richard made me take my education very serious. Richard was rare bread. I have never seen a guy with his kind of internal self motivation, determination and strong will. He left the bus business and clinched his education so tight. Now most of his colleagues in the bus business have been kill in one way or the other. I owe him a lot.

Dear Old-Me, do you remember the other friend you drew me to; the one that had a mini grocery shop in front of their house? Do you remember him? I wouldn’t want to say his name because I later discovered that he was a gay and wanted to sodomize me. You told me never to let that happen. He didn’t know that he was instrumental to my growth and progress. Did he? When I passed the GCE and wanted to write JAMB, Mum tried to discourage me. Old-Me, you told me to get disobedient and I did. Grandma also told me never to listen to my mum in anything that had to do with my education and I obeyed you and my grand mum. Then I stopped eating at home. The mini-grocer was helping me with feeding and some pocket money like I was his girl friend. Then when he tried to sodomize me, you told me to stab him and chase him out of the house with a machete. Then we quit friendship with him and you told me not to bear any grudges against him.

Dear Old-Me, do you remember the first time we got into the university, the first place we landed was in my cousin’s room in Alvan Ikoku hall; a room full of cultists. Do you remember that we sold igbo in that room? When I wanted to be like them, you advised me otherwise and said it was not why I came to UNN. You saved me from their hands and I didn’t join them though I sold igbo for Chineke-Muo at Jives sometimes. Thanks to Jehovah that I was not caught by Fimber the one-man-squared Chief security Officer of the school. Dear Old-Me, I can’t say what would have happened to me if I had continued with Chineke-Muo and his guys. Most of them didn’t graduate you remember? My cousin had mental issues and left school. I’ve not seen him again since the ugly incident at GS building, where he went mad in front of all the students and was hurried home. I wished I could help him. He was a very hospitable guy. I wish God will help him.

Dear Old-Me, do you remember you told me to search for Uche Ajike, the one we called Darkness at Aba? I did and I found him. He was very glad to see me in UNN. He took me like his younger brother. There was something he did that I cannot forget; a rare gesture of hospitality. He gave up his bed space for me, when bed space was a hot cake. And I stayed in that same room till my graduation – Room 436 Alvan Ikoku Hall UNN. Some people thought I was actually his blood brother. I owe him.

Even when I met old secondary school friends that stayed off campus, you advised me to mind my relationship with them but I am sorry I didn’t listen. I just wanted to explore the world because of the freedom I had. Then I moved in with then into their apartment off campus and I quit attending meetings of Jehovah’s Witnesses just to please them. On the rag day we got drunk and fought a group of well armed military men. Just the three of us. Do you remember that the military men shot at me? The bullet missed me and hit the rickety taxi packet by the road. I would have been dead before now. Thank Jehovah they didn’t kill me. Do you remember I packed out of the house back to the hostel only when Abacha, the deadly cultist threatened me with two guns in hands? I thank Jehovah he didn’t kill me. Then I learnt my lessons never to disobey you.

Old-me, I remember you rejoined me with lovely roommates at the hostel. I can’t forget how much they helped me. Paul Ezudo rekindled my seriousness with my studies. I saw him as a competition, read like him and played like him. Funny, now we are working in the same industry. Orji Ukariwe was like the big brother of the room. He advised me all the time and called me Nwa Aba though he too grew up in Aba. Kenneth Nwankwo paid for my bed space when I didn’t have the money to pay and we shared everything like we were brothers. Do you remember Obinna Ekekwe? He was the one that loved dancing. He was the one I called Doublasky because his nick name was Double. I even wore Double’s cloths to school like they were mine. I owe those guys so much. Don’t you remember Awa Daniel too? He brushed me up in French. Remember I used to make C in French courses but from the day Awa came into the room, I made nothing less than 90 in all the French courses. That guy was a great man. Funny, I’ve forgotten French. I can’t speak it again.

Dear Old-Me, I want to use this opportunity to say a big thank you and say: “I love you.” I will always love you despite the mistakes we made together.

To be continued….