Striking Resemblance

His Mother dropped Kefas off at school that morning, as she was wont to. Her kiss on his cheek was perfunctory, absent-mindedly ruffling his hair as he exited the car. She didn’t however step in to say hi to his well-liked teacher as she sometimes did. Her scarf, rather than tied on her head, was flung around her neck, seemingly carelessly, but enough to hide any tell-tale bruises on her fair skin.

She did not say goodbye. Her mind had already moved on. It was now focused on the market and how fast she could purchase the ingredients for the fresh Okazi soup Bitrus had requested as his dinner. After a quick glance to ensure Kefas was safely inside the school premises, she drove off.

Kefas' teacher, Ms Iveren was your favourite teacher’s teacher. Cheerfully overweight, constantly dressed in long, bright flowing dresses which sat comfortably on her ample frame. She radiated a kindness so tangible, one almost felt it could be packaged and shared amongst other teachers who sported sullen faces like they were only paid to look formidable. In fact, she was seen by most parents as a constant ray of sunlight, able to pierce darkness and enliven the mood of even the most sullen of children.

Today, however, she could do little to improve Kefas’ mood. The boy’s face was closed in, locked into a perpetually bland expression that hinted to a tightly held control of raging internal emotions and conflicts. She mentally filed him away for further attention at the end of the school day. Perhaps a discussion with his mother when she came to pick him up would suffice.

Kefas meanwhile, had zoned out. In his mind’s eye, he replayed the events of the previous evening, hearing again snatches of his mother’s conversation with her sister while working on his Maths homework, as usual, unsupervised.

“Leave him and go where?”

“…….and survive how? On what? With what? Ha! Shey you will bring the money for me to go back to school and start work?”

“…….And what will my Kefas do? You know he won’t let me go with him. Who will now take care of my boy? Ah no o.”

“…..my dear, I will do as the pastor said na. He is my cross to bear so I will continue to pray for him. Please let me continue with my cooking joor.”

“…..yes I know he ate it yesterday. He liked it very much and said he wants to eat it today again and you know he does not eat yesterday’s food. It has to be fresh……”

Kefas had no idea when the call between his mom and his aunt had ended as he was not listening anymore. He had zoned out again when the cooking talk started, focusing on solving a very troublesome math problem. However he was sufficiently distracted by the return of his father. Hurriedly pasting a smile on his face, he ran to him in welcome, stopping short when he saw his visibly exhausted mother seated, asleep at the table, phone in hand, soup ingredients lying unused around her.

Taking his father’s bag into the bedroom, he remained there, back against the door. He knew the script by now.

Closing his eyes, he futilely placed his hands over his ears, but he could still make out his mother’s protests of “Ah! Bitrus! I was tired, true” silenced by the thuds of what he knew were his father’s fists. He imagined, rather than saw the belt come out and repeatedly lash against her bent back, scattering the ingredients on the table.

Ms Iveren interrupted his reverie, pairing him with Amanda, the brilliant chirpy girl who, in Kefas’ opinion, always laughed too readily and was too willing to lead class activities. They were to share a text for a reading exercise.

Immediately the strong-willed girl moved the shared text from the morose child, intending to read first, the teacher knew she had erred in shelving Kefas’ issue till day’s end.

The tightly coiled time bomb that was his emotions exploded. His fists rained against Amanda, hitting her face, head and neck, as if consciously avoiding every other part of her body.

She moved to intervene, and stopped short. Not because of fear to her personal safety, for she could have smothered his flailing fists on her ample bosom if it was needed, but it was the words, the words that floated clearly to her ears, distinct, despite the keening cries of anguish from Amanda and the protests of the other school kids, that chilled her to the bone.

Kefas’ voice had suddenly become guttural, he had aged right in front of her. Timing his words to the smack of his fists, he shouted, enunciating clearly with tears streaming down his cheeks:

“Bitch! Whore! Who are you to read first? I’m the man here. Know. Your. Place.”

Believe Them Anyway

Like Lips leaden from excess grass,

The words refuse to form.

With obvious reluctance to escape my lips,

They reverberate in my head

A wordsmith, I am not,

Flowery phrases I have not

But I dare to ask,

So what, if I lack the words to be the poet for you?

Paint my feelings in metaphors punctuated with punchlines,

Proclaim my desire in measured phrases to astound you,

Describe your smile as a window to happier times

How I see your very essence as a time machine,

A tribute to its ability to make me pause and stand still

I want to describe with wonder, the fullness of your lips,

Explain my bedazzlement by the sway of your hips.

The sound of your voice, the lilt you’ve come to personify.

The ululations inspiring, yet calming, much like a lullaby.

Yet because I lack the apt phrases, I fear you may wonder.

If I speak with plain words, will they make you a believer?

Would you see the pedestal I aim to place you?

Or maybe you are Helen and poetry is my Achilles.

Perhaps I’ll just say I love you and leave you to decipher,

From my silence so loud, it will scream my words louder.

Darling, whichever words come, however less they seem to say,

They bleed genuineness, therefore believe them anyway.

Converted

‘If I ever got around to having a wedding, I want this one,’ was my immediate thought. From my vantage spot, I could see that the guests present numbered less than one hundred and seemed to only include young people. I was already salivating at the dancing that would ensue at the end of the boring formalities. If I could change anything though, it would have to be the suit. My groomsmen would wear Jeans and Tee shirts, I was sure.

My introspection was interrupted by Jimoh’s entrance with his bride, which sparked off a reverie. I remembered him coming late to Beer Barn three weeks ago where we were to watch the Champions league match between Arsenal and Basel. I was already there, along with Ohis and Manu, and we had our customary Beers in front of us. He was grinning from ear to ear, and that set me off as I didn’t believe anyone had enough reason to be that happy; so I threw in my first Jab.

‘This United Man, Wetin dey smile you? Your mate dey here? You no go wait for Thursday night football?’

His reply was fast. ‘You wey dey the Champions league, you go win am? Ohi joined in.

‘No mind Buchi. Na heartbreak man. Arsenal fan. Mister lost causes. Even the writing wey dey give am joy, I hear say na musicians dey win their best awards now. In short, just drink your Beer.

I took my L in peace and asked Jimoh. ‘But Dude, why are you so happy?’

‘I’m getting married in two weeks man. Isn’t that enough?’

I was flummoxed to say the least. Why would someone be pleased at committing himself into an institution from which the only exit was a jail break?

So I scoffed. ‘And so? Are you the first? My friend, reflect soberly on the impending loss of your freedom.’

My disloyal friends turned on me again. This time it was Manu who responded. ‘Oga, calm down. Not everyone is cynical like you. Some of us are hopeful and believe in happiness.

Before I could respond, Jimoh Chimed in.

‘His problem is that he’s like his coach. He’s a perfectionist. He wants a crossbreed of Angelina Jolie and Michelle Obama. Have you heard his checklist? Left handed Sexy, Book reading, black, Artistic, geeky, beer drinking doctor. Hopeless man. Shey he is a writer. He should create the character.’

I did not respond even though the jibes cut deep. I just drank my loyal, faithful beer. At least Beer wouldn’t turn on me.

Today, watching the couple dance to their seats, I couldn’t help but envy the seamlessness with which they moved. Their happiness was evident. Little details began to come back to me. How Imade would complain of hunger to me and Jimoh’s call would come in to say he was at our Office bringing her lunch, and I’d dismiss it as coincidence and gripe about him not bringing me any. I remembered too, how, we’d all stopped watching Saturday football games at mine and moved on to Jimoh’s because the warmth they both exuded made their place a cocoon too attractive to ignore.

I recalled Jimoh asking me if I had noticed anything different about him of late. I had. His strides had become surer, his smiles more genuine and immediate, in fact his confidence was infectious. He explained it to me; ‘I’m no longer alone man. I’ve found a partner, younoamsaying? I’m whole. I have it all.’ The realization that I was, for all intents and purposes, alone hit me harder than an onrushing linebacker.

Looking at them both, I wondered how one could be so comfortable placing his whole essence of happiness in the hands of another human without fear, recalling when he said to us at the table;

 ‘Unlike you man, I can’t live in fear. I’m taking the plunge. You should try it too before you become senior bachelor. Boya you are Banky W? Who do you call when you’ve had a terrible or awesome day? And don’t say your E-Reader Tablet. Shey that thing you call your girlfriend will hold you in your low periods? Even George Clooney got married. I hear Jolie is available now. Goan find Visa and fulfil your fantasies.’

Sitting at the groomsmen table, I smiled remembering that last comment. The elegantly dressed bridesmaid opposite me returned my smile, erroneously thinking it was directed at her. Sneaking a glance at her hand to confirm the absence of a ring, I ignored my meticulously constructed checklist of an ideal partner, shocked everybody on the table by leaning towards her, grabbing both her hands in mine, and said;

‘Hi, my name is Buchi and I’ve been wrong for so long. Now, I want to have it all like Jimoh. I don’t know you, but I’m willing to chance it. Are you?’

Please Accept My Apologies

To the woman befuddled by constant talk of feminism,

I have no justifications, only Apologies

not for telling you who you’re equal to,

but because I needed to convince you of your equality.

And so, I apologise,

For society,

For years spent convincing you to be proper,

Unsolicited attempts to define your honour

Outfitting you in dresses, with frills and in lace,

For pirouettes and curtsies, you must speak with ‘grace’

For illusions of purity, to keep you from exploring,

And that useless strip of skin, to become your undoing,

I’m Sorry.

For Excuses,

The passes provided for man, not extended to you,

telling you to aspire, but no more than your husband

‘Ugo nwanyi bu diya’ because who the hell are you?

To wear any other achievement like an armband?

Away with you to the kitchen, for that is your office

Or the other room, for he owns that orifice

I apologise,

For the titles,

The Dr Mrs., Lady pilot, female head of state

Sobriquets functioning as reminders of your ‘place’

Making the achievers an aberration. It’s not your fate

For who would dare give strong women a heroic face?

And shame us with a revolution of wives we cannot handle.

I’m sorry,

For our parents.

Who gauge your lifespan similar to dog years;

And monitor your biological clock just like livestock,

Premium placed mainly on physical attributes

Because, how does intelligence help you breed children?

I apologise,

For concessions,

The glass ceilings placed to ensure you stay put

35% because 50 has a similarity to parity

For meaningless talk shows and seminars to allay your fears

Convince you of something being done to change the present

yet deny legislation to ensure your future.

Let me also apologise,

For not teaching you enough

Asking you to raise enduring queens rather than humble kings

Painting females as attractive when they become footstools.

Creating medals for long suffering queen mothers

For punching bags are necessary to let out a king’s anger

It’s a man’s world you say?

Then perhaps all men should be feminists.

For my gender, and all its contributions to your status,

I have no justifications, please accept my apologies,

21 Questions On The Unborn Conundrum

One,

The Unborn Dead

First I am liquid, only one of many fluids,

I cause no trouble, am serene, like the druids

Even then I’m alive, though filled with uncertainty.

Thinking, what is this sac that holds me in captivity?

Time passes; I grow in body and mind.

When do I get noticed by the parent mind?

Why pour these hot fluids on me? They burn me.

Imbibe more fruits. They develop and form me.

Oh I’ve been noticed, now, no more foods come.

Aha! How restless the parent mind has become.

Now I have an idea. Too young to let me stay

And little stones come. For what purpose I pray?

Stop the stones. They turn me back to blood

Am I deformed, my limbs, they refuse to bud

Oho! They’ve stopped. Do I have time to re-grow?

I sense a larger space out. Have I enough to show?

But I have to struggle. I sense my minder worried.

Am I that much trouble? She seems so harried.

Where are you going? Oh no! I sense danger here.

Wait! Wait! My screams are not loud enough to hear

Um wait. Won’t I find out what I have to give?

Am I to be killed before I have a chance to live?

Aha! The sword of Damocles, it sucks me out of my harbour

Sliding fitfully into oblivion, I scream pitifully, ET TU’ DOCTOR!

http://www.voicesnet.com/displayonepoem.aspx?poemid=180167#sthash.ucMhsfFp.dpuf

Two.

I wrote the above poem in 2010. Six Years ago. Not difficult to deduce my stance on Abortion right?

Well, you aren’t exactly correct. I like to believe I wrote it in an era of naivety. You know, sort of like William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience. That was my period of Innocence.

Now? I don’t know. This is as sensitive an issue as any other, in any society. (It makes and breaks elections in the US). Also, although a lot has been said about it, still, not enough. Some better writers than me here on this site have postulated for or against it, with various degrees of Success and engagements.

I’ve read a number of posts here, on this issue, and the responses have been err… let’s just say enlightening.

First off, lets agree on the basics, We’re talking about Abortions due to unwanted pregnancies. Not Medical complications-induced abortions.

I’d like to go after it in piecemeal so I can gather my thoughts. People look at it in different ways.

• Religion– It’s a no-no. Every Religion, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Jewish, whichever, all condemn it. I’m catholic, so, faith wise, I should ascribe to what my religious doctrines say. Again, some people here can probably shed more light on it here than I can.
• Realism – Some people prefer to take a more realistic POV here, and say the persons involved should take a decision whether or not they want to keep the baby, irrespective of their religious or moral inclinations.
• Feminism – Now there are women, and to a lesser extent, men, who adjudge that there is no moral quandary here. They insist that the woman, and the woman alone should be responsible for the decision whether or not the baby is kept to term, since she and she alone supposedly undergoes the difficulties of pregnancy and birthing.
• Idealists – Some of us who believe that the baby should be taken to term, irrespective of all, there is always a way out, a way for the child to be taken care of, irrespective of the circumstances of the parents. It will all work out in the end right? All’s well that ends well.

I know almost all of us will assume to belong to at least one of these groupings.

Permit me to call a mild Bullshit on all of them. First off, the Religious person/leader who insists the child must be kept will not help the initial victim – the woman to bear the rigours of pregnancy, endure delivery, which I am assured is very painful, take care of an infant which, I have seen firsthand, is tough going. Neither will the Realist help you fight the depression and attacks of conscience that is usually associated with an abortion, even for the most jaded of girls. The Feminist is more likely to turn the girl to a cause than to help, and for the Idealist, the less said, the better. Please don’t say ‘All’s well that ends well’. Even that Shakespearean comedy ended farcically.

Therefore, I have the following questions I’d like answered.

What should we really be focusing on? The symptoms or the Cause, is killing the Spider not more effective than constantly cleaning cobwebs?

Instead of forcing the pregnant girl to keep an unwanted pregnancy, even after being abandoned by the man responsible, and/or disgraced by the parent or guardian, why aren’t we making a play for enlightening parents and Guardians that having a pregnant ward/girl child isn’t the end of the world?

Shouldn’t we be asking why the bulk of the Sex-Ed most of us in this forum have is from books/friends? Why aren’t we asking why it is absent in our national curriculum for public and private schools?

Shouldn’t our religious leaders, knowing the influence they have on our largely uneducated/unenlightened older generation make efforts to re-orient the minds of these people so as to reduce the shame and stigma associated with teenage/single motherhood, and foster more acceptance and accommodation amongst our parents and Guardians?

Shouldn’t there be a clamour for our elected and appointed leaders to make concrete efforts to avail the nation, especially the poor with credible public health care, to ally girls’ fears of delivery complications, and encourage them to take pregnancies to term?

Should we not be asking why tertiary institutions, especially private ones, still expel any lady found to be pregnant while in school? Did the pregnancy suddenly destroy her ability to study, to learn? Did her brain become pregnant too? Why force her to hide the pregnancy and then choose the route of Abortion here?

We have very few orphanages in the country. Knowing how poorly run they are, what happened to volunteering to help out sometimes at some of them, instead of visiting only on our birthdays to take pictures for social media and to assuage our consciences? Why aren’t we making the choice of keeping the pregnancy to term attractive for pregnant girls?

Again, to we, our current generation of youths, our ‘woke’ generation, when did we become so cynical, so hardscrabble, so jaded, that we’ve become in danger of losing our humanity? Who 'chairmanned' the forum where we decided and agreed that life is a Yes/No, Agree/Disagree, White/Black situation? What happened to fluidity, to grey areas? What happened to examining things according to their specific circumstances, instead of allowing ourselves to become so polarized by divides, to become like the Americans and their Roe V Wade fixation?

Why have we stopped thinking for ourselves and decided that we must belong to someone else’s school of thought?

Why am I asking all these questions I have no answers to?

Kindly help me answer them.

Blame Everybody

‘Hey, what’s that word for being afraid of cramped places?’ He asked.

‘Claustrophobia’. I responded.

I briefly flirted with the idea of exposing the meaning of the word, to include a lack of means of escape, but refrained because he still would have been correct.

‘Correct guy. You always have the answers to all my questions, in your previous school, was your nickname Bookman?’

I smiled ruefully. He was close.

Unbidden, the memories surfaced, breaking to the top like air starved divers. As usual, I tried willing them back into their forbidden mental compartment, but, like Pandora’s box, once opened, attempts to force them back in seemed futile. I succumbed and let them wash over me overwhelmingly. Another Place, another time.

A little under a year ago, James had taken one look at the spindly, sickly looking eleven year old, when I had been introduced to him, being the Senior Prefect in my new secondary school, and declared me his Boy. To my ecstatic parents, he said ‘This Bookworm is my school son’.

‘Thank you my son,’ they chorused. ‘He needs looking after. His head is always in the clouds, like he lives in his books. Very forgetful. Please take care of him for us.’ My mum pleaded earnestly. They left, secure in the knowledge their son had a protector.

And what a protector I did have. I defined the word breakable. I was thin and looked like I should avoid heavy gusts of wind lest I get blown away. I had no understanding of physical activities and contact sports, so I didn’t even get on the field. Despite having an above average ability in Chess and Scrabble, I was awkward around people and so kept away from them. My goggle-sized nerd glasses completed my ensemble, making me ripe for being picked on by both my peers and my seniors. That didn’t happen though for I was under James’ protection. I spent the first term exempted from every compulsory labour activities, and slept at least an hour more than my mates. When I got a gift of a rechargeable lantern to enable me read into the night, well after lights out, I was in ecstasy. I became proud of my nickname.

I returned home for the holidays, singing the praises of my benefactor to my parents who were overjoyed. ‘Listen,’ My Father said, ‘we’ve finally found you the perfect school for you to thrive in. Don’t you do anything to antagonize James.’ I nodded vigorously.

Of course I wasn’t going to displease him. He made me feel safe and comfortable. I had come to trust him implicitly. Even when he started giving and requesting compulsory massages although I had no physical exertions, I wasn’t altogether scared.

Maybe that’s why it’s my fault. I should have run away the first time I felt his hardness rubbing against me during one of the massages. Perhaps I should have been wary of the seemingly constant alone times with him. To be honest, there was no surprise. It felt like a mere progression of activities, feeling almost natural. By the time it culminated in me lying face down beneath him, hearing his loud grunts, feeling the warm, sticky deposits when he was done, I wasn’t altogether shocked. I was passive, numbed by the repetitiveness and my own powerlessness. It seemed inevitable, like a script acted in a daze.

Or maybe my Parents should be blamed. They probably should have noticed my reluctance to return to school after the second holidays, or the return of my solitary lifestyle and not believed my ‘it’s alright’ answers to perfunctorily asked questions about my wellbeing. But to be fair, I always was a morose and withdrawn child and I do not expect anyone to notice an extra cup of water in a full bucket.

Perhaps James can take some of the blame. He found me too pliant (shoot, that blame might be mine), but my pliancy probably encouraged him to pass me off to Jimoh when he was graduating. Maybe I wouldn’t have snapped if I hadn’t been transferred on to Jimoh like a mere piece of property of which my only claim to fame is as a receptacle useful for stress relief.

Or blame my books. Yes, blame them. Maybe if I hadn’t lived too much in them, I would have known that one does not stab another multiple times and remain at the scene, nose deep inside yet another book. All my book knowledge couldn’t make me street wise.

Oh well, I’d forgot I had a question to answer.

‘Bookman?’ I asked my Bunkmate, No. I was called a Bookworm.’ He laughed and got up. ‘O boy, It’s almost time for parade. Get your beautiful behind up and prepare.’ While passing out of our corner, he rubbed my head, lingering longer than I thought necessary. Perhaps my fear was unfounded, but I still reached under my pillow and drew comfort from the feel of the sharpened breadknife I’d secreted there.

I’d just got a new book, as I opened it to read, I heard the call of the Bugle. I hastily dressed up in my parade whites. I can’t slouch in Military School. Here, I don’t have a protector.

The Exodus

Her carriage betrayed her, made her profession obvious.

The absent Stethoscope was no hindrance to my predicting.

Happy to leave, her excitement was infectious.

‘Miss..’ ‘Doctor!’ She corrected as I checked her in.

I watched her go.

His phone in his ear, he made his apologies;

He was headed home – just a temporary holiday

Business would resume soon, only a few issues,

Nigeria is still my second home, he needed to say.

I watched him go.

She walked in a shuffle, burdened by expectations.

Her family’s sole hope, Dad’s severance paid for her exit.

Top of her class, should be pride of her nation.

She leaves with her knowledge, her host Nation’s profit.

And I watched her go.

His hasty footsteps, the numerous furtive looks

I recognized his face; he had recently trended.

His frustration was apparent, his demeanor spooked.

The under-fire journalist, His patience had ended.

And I watched him go.

They came in a group, airy, confident without worry.

With special dispensation, Foreign exchange a no-brainer.

My smile is wider, for tips I want them to remember me.

They’ll leave wealthy, and return shortly, even wealthier.

And I watched them go.

He was earlier than normal, his retinue even longer.

His plane had been idling. Our alertness no happenstance.

Another conference, another interview, Ah, my leader.

But I’m happy. Our relationship fares better long-distance.

I also watched him go.

I return home early tonight to the sound of my generator.

It's the norm now, the hum lures my children to slumber.

My dinner heats up, my wife completes her dressing.

Almost late; her Second job calls. We need the money.

And We all watched her go.