The Funeral

When Baba Agba died, we had only been in London for four months. We were still finding out feet. I was still perplexed that it was no longer norm to kneel and greet anyone that was older than me. I was still feeling the pain of not buying our daily breakfast eko* from Mama Bisi across the street. People looked at me strangely when I smiled at them on the bus, I was just happy to hear them speak Yoruba. I feared if I didn't listen closely I would forget and I would be called an 'akata' by the neighbours whenever I go back home. I always hated when Biola and Dele came from America and refused to speak Yoruba. When they were called akata, Aunty 'Wonu their mother would smile a proud smile. When we boarded our flight those months ago, I swore I would never be an akata*.

Baba Agba's death was a tremendous shock to us all. He was a hearty old man sure to reach 100 before he passed. Even at 80, he went to our backyard and tended mango and agbalumo* trees like they were roses. He often poured a glass of gin at their roots praying that his children be as fertile as them. Mum would always plead the blood of Jesus, apparently Baba was inviting ancient spirit into our christian household, she would not have that type of backward belief ruin her family. My father didn't mind so much. He often joined Baba Agba; arguing that he had done it since childhood and he is not about to change because he became born again and that he is not going to be fanatic with religion.

Since my father is Baba Agba's only son (the Arole of Jakande family), it was required of him to return home and watch his father's rite to the other side. So home we went for Baba Agba's funeral. We arrived two days before the wake. Dad's sister aunty Jaiye had done most of the planning. There were women in ankara wrappers across their chest everywhere, they were cooking endless pots and pots of Jollof rice, the meat being fried seemed like it was the products of a mass murder of unfortunate cattle. I imagined a rather bloody abattoir. I have never like cow slaughtering, the dripping blood, the shaving, the smell of burnt flesh as the head is roasted on open fire.

Baba Agba was burried in our backyard in between the mango and agbalumo tree, he wanted to rest with his ancestors. It made me sad because I knew I would no longer be able to climb the trees. Mum would be too worried about the spiritual consequences of climbing a dead man's tree. It also made me sad because I wouldn't be able to eat the fruits without tasting the strong camphor Baba Agba always smelt of. 

After Baba's body was securely covered with sand, dad and aunty Jaiye's 'my father is dead' wailing came to an almost unreal end. There was continuous blaring of King Sunny Ade and Evang. Ebenezer Obey. People danced and danced. Women with their hips moving at ungodly paces filled our compound; their gele* poking at the eyes of those near them. In the middle of KSA's merciful God, I saw Dad walk in to the house with Aunty Jaiye and a woman I had never seen before. Mum hurriedly followed them clutching her wrapper to stop it falling. The crowd took no notice of their hosts' disappearance. I suppose it was aided by the endless flow of Jollof rice. You could calm a rioting crowd with the amazing power of Jollof.

I walked towards the house, peeped through the window. The strange woman was crying. She just kept on weeping, while my family watched in silence. I felt a wave of guilt like I was letting myself into some personal clandestine moment. As I took the first step to walk away I heard dad call the woman in almost affectionate tone. 'Deola, 'Deola please stop crying. The 'Deola woman took a few moments to obey the plea to cease her tears. Mum had a strange countenance towards her I wasn't sure what it was. 'Deola, quiet now gave aunty Jaiye a long warm embrace and dad joined them. Mum on the edge of her chair suddenly got up interfering with the awkward reunion. I know you have both missed your sister but it would be great if she could explain where the hell she has been the last 14 years. The embrace became odd and cold as the three came free of their entanglement.

'Deola started her speech abruptly. "I swore to myself that I would never come back until Baba dies. How could she wish my Baba Agba death. How dare she. I hated her face. I hated the contempt in her voice and yet i didn't leave. 'Deola didn't stop. She continued to speak blasphemy. She said Baba touched her, that he had touched her since she was 8, that it only stopped while she was away at university that he had done it again all those years ago when she was pregnant and refused to say who the father was, that it was why she abandoned the child and ran away. "It's true, he touched me you have to believe me". Aunty Jaiye fell to her knees bawling; uncontrollable, shaking; inconsolable. 

'Deola knelt by her side, said she was sorry said she wasn't trying to ruin the memory of a good man, the legacy of a respected man. Aunty Jaiye, amidst coughs and choking breaths said I believe you. He touched me too. My had spun. Why would Aunty Jaiye join this treachery. What would accusing a dead man do? A dead man unable to defend himself. I couldn't listen anymore. I sat on the floor fearing I would faint. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. I cried silently. Then I heard my name in muffled speech. I refused its significance and walked away. 

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Baba Agba literaly means Old man or perhaps Older father
Eko - a semisolid meal of jelly-like consistency made from corn
Akata - a derogatory word used to describe people in the diaspora who have 'lost' themselves, especially the use of ones native language
Agbalumo - agbalumo is a fruit, agbalumo is poetry, what is the English for agbalumo?

La Vie en Rose - A love Letter

                                                                                                                                    Saturday 4:00 AM

Sleep has evaded me till now. Days on end, weeks of consistent tossing and turning. Of course, it's cliché, but I cant sleep. I would say I can't breathe, but that would be a lie. I'm breathing fine thanks.
I always thought I was rational, I mean who loses sleep because someone is on their mind? What sane person would let sound mind suffer because they can't stop thinking about another?  I know its cliché but I can't sleep.

I got stuck. That's what this is. It is no sweeping off my feet or run away with you kind of situation. I got stuck, that's what this is. My suppressed subconscious would disagree. It knows I smile when I hear syllables from your name. It knows my fingers trembles with each word I write. I am rational, I got stuck is what this is.

Now even though I ll deny every single word, here is my short line to you to tell you

Even though its cliché, I can't sleep but for you
The oddity in me finds conformity in you
The compliant me, stands apart for you

I'm rational so an inscription for myself

Don't be afraid, its only love.

The Affixation of The Besotted

I suppose we can progress.
I suppose we can move past this, this convoluted circumstance we have found ourselves
I can extrapolate beyond your words
Don't give me lies. Don't give me deception
They'll only ruin us.
I suppose I can wait
I suppose I would wait.
Till your ways catch up with you, till no longer you can run
Till then I suppose we can progress .
I suppose we can pretend, pretend that yesterday
was just a dream and today a bright morning we can seize.
I suppose I can forget. I suppose I should
I suppose tomorrow can be the future I create.
I suppose I can forget that today is my imagination and yesterday never really ended
I suppose we can progress,
I suppose you will
I suppose I won't.

Bimpe's Breasts

Bimpe was 13 when her mother took her bra shopping for the 8th time, she was 12 for the first. She remembers because her mother had so happily been counting, but this time she wasn't so keen;"what are children eating these days growing so fast that you are terrified?". Little did she know the dread that her words brought Bimpe.

Theirs was a grand house filled with maids, guards and gardeners. Each weekend there brought a host of guests and family with talks of Real Italian leather and Swiss lace that a certain madam bought by way of Dubai.  Bimpe was amidst it all, always locked on the arms of her father. She was his pride and he never failed to tell his friends how intelligent she was. How she was going to be Nigeria's female president and not before she wins a Nobel prize in literature like Soyinka. "She's going to be a star this one". He said it so often that she had his words etched on her heart. She dreamt the same dreams and often  she would watch him speak and see the words as a string of gold beads with alternating glittering stars carried on the wings of golden birds. She would watch them as they do their golden dance, sway and finally they would weave them into her hair as she smiled a satisfied smile. I am a star, she would mutter, forgetting herself. She often forgets herself.

It was no surprise that Bimpe was loved by all that met her. Her father wouldn't have had it any other way. So when she was called by Uncle This and Auntie That she would oblige. They often came to her house bearing gifts. Her favorite was the Ice creams. Pistachio ice cream. Nothing beats Pistachio ice cream. A horse ride at Oniru beach was cool, but ah the green of Pistachio ice cream was much more cooler-literally.

One harsh harmattan, Bimpe arrived from school with chapped lips and an itchy scalp. The hot northeasterly winds were not joking, they took captive of every 'unvaselined' skin. She walked in and sat on the couch was a well familiar face that made her smile ear to ear ripping her lips further but she didn't mind. Uncle Ṣo!!! she screamed jumping into his lap. Bimpes mother stared her down as she normally did to correct supposedly bad behavior; understanding, Bimple stood and knelt greeting as she was expected to "good afternoon sir". "I have told you may times that Chief Ṣobanke is not a bouncy castle and if you saw him at work with all his PAs and MDs running after him you would behave properly". Her mother rose and went to the kitchen, she always entertained Chief Ṣobanke herself  she thought none of the house maids were worthy.

Before her mother was even out of sight Bimpe was back in Uncle Ṣo's laps, he told her not to worry he had brought enough Cool Green to last them the entire evening. "Your father and I have lots of business issues to iron out flat." He rubbed his fingers on her lips saying a hush tone of harmattan curses and then his hands suddenly cupped her breasts fully. She flinched, he didn't. He held on firmer this time and squeezed. She remained still unsure if she could move, if she was allowed to move, so she stayed, she stayed still as tears ran down her face.

His grips hurt. They still do.

Can you spell Diarrhoea?

I have learnt a million times how to spell diarrhoea and yet every time I get it wrong. If I am grateful for anything, I am grateful for spell check.

There are many things we may not achieve or do as perfectly as we truly wish we could. Often, we conclude that it is better to accept defeat and give up or in our egoism pretend that if we can't do it, it therefore cannot be done. I have come to realise that just because I can't do it doesn't mean it is impossible. What I ought to do is to find an alternative solution; just like spell check and diarrhoea and haemorrhage and gonorrhoea and rhythm and whatever else. I figured out I have a problem with 'rh, rrh' and possibly other unfavourable combinations of the English Language because apparently I can spell fine in Bulgarian.

Nevertheless, here is my point whatever the question is there is an answer and therefore whatever the problem is there is a solution regardless of its simplicity or its complexity.

Our task isn't necessarily to find answer from within ourselves but to be ready to to look further than our intuition and intellect, to look to others, to novel ways of thinking. To humility. To vulnerability.

Music makes me loose Control

There are three women that are often on repeat

Asa

http://youtu.be/5fTJNDK8oDE 

Ayo

http://youtu.be/0jZ63-c41Ws

Nneka 

http://youtu.be/9AFjJrj86Qo

Our Sister's Husband

My eldest sister Rike has always been the centre of attention in our house and how we all love her. She could have been my mother because by the time I was 10, she was at her national service. She would come home wearing her NYSC* uniform and I'd look at her thinking "soon that uniform will be mine and I can wear those brown boots too!".

Rike is strong and determined so no matter what was going on in the family, Rike was the one that solved it all and our parents relied on her in every way possible. Each morning, we must go to greet our parents and when papa sees Rike, he would smile and say "my daughter, may your days be long, you are more than a thousand sons to me"or something else just like that. One morning, mama cried after one of those pleasantries. She had bore no sons and for years, that was her sole worry. The universe as though to say her that her worries could solve nothing provided 6 daughters and her fears of being forcefully removed from her husband's house were never appeased until my father, tall and towering had told his sisters and mother to leave his house if they had no other business than his lack of sons. Story goes that mama spent days thanking father for his love. Rike says mama cooked efo riro elemi meje** for him and knelt every time she gave him his food. After a while she stopped but once in a while she would ask father if he wanted her to cook fresh catfish and he would never decline often he would say jokingly "did my mother come to visit?" and she would glare at him. When they argued, and it seemed like they were never going to see reason, Rike reminded mama of all father had done and reminded father of all he had sacrificed on account of mama; would they let it all go to waste?

Now that Rike had finished university, served and found a decent job, there was only one thing left to do; bring home a man that wanted to marry her. Once, during another of mama's marry so you can give us grandchildren talk Rike stomped out of the house crying, threatening never to return with shouts of "am I supposed to go chasing men here and there or shall I compromise and lose myself in order to please you and find a husband? The fate of the universe is not dependent on me procreating!" But I knew she would return, she is the chord that holds us together. When quarrels would rise even between papa and his sisters, none of them could resist Rike's smile and gentle words. Rike comforts and encourages. She is the strongest woman I know.

One day after Rike had returned and mama was worried that bringing up marriage would really push Rike away, mama called me to the kitchen. Mama's kitchen chatter were either secrets or chastisement, she would often pull the hem of your blouse and drag you silently with her swinging waist. "I don't know why you are so stupid in your life" she would start as though your crime was unforgivable, crimes that ranged from not doing the dishes to being caught all caked up in her make up at 13. This time, I wasn't the culprit, this time I was privileged with a secret.

"I have found your sister a husband" she whispered.

I thought she was joking only to turn around to a stone cold face; she was serious. She pulled my blouse tighter "I have found your sister a husband and you must not tell her", she could read the question in my eyes. "I'm only telling you because I can't bear the burden alone, please my daughter, don't look at me like that, you don't know how it feels to have your friends laugh behind your back, they don't know but I see them mocking me and I had to take action". She began to cry and even though I didn't pity her I put my arms round her. Perhaps I understood what societal obligations she felt she had towards her community of women for she had also participated in the whispers that surrounded other scandals.

Nine weeks later when Rike came home with Fola, I could barely contain my angst. I was cold towards Fola  even though he smiled cheek to cheek obviously trying to please the family. Papa reached out his hand to shake him but he responded by prostrating flat on the floor. He rose as Papa placed his hands on his back all 6 foot 4 of him. Papa's contentment could not be hidden for he is a proud Yoruba man and culture is his first love. Rike had been wise to arm her man. After we ate, Papa asked that he and mama speak to Fola alone, Rike was all too glad to drag me into my room. She gazed around at the posters of Beautiful Nubia, Fela and AdeSiji. " you really are like Papa, even though you deny it, I can see it, just like I see that something isn't right. Do you not like Fola?"

******

Church bells, ostentatious head ties, matching multicoloured accessories and the continuous yells of " a ma ku orire o" seemed to me the makings of a nightmare. I just wished it was over, I wish I had had the guts to tell her or to even just tell Papa but every time I tried, all I felt was a lump in my throat. As I sat in the pew waiting for the dreaded question I began to wonder exactly why Fola would have agreed to such a grandiose plan of deceit. Why didn't he just find another woman? Why our Rike? I thought of how much Rike seems to want him, didn't that mean other women flocked too? Even the adoration I had for Rike couldn't convince me that she was such a catch that this ruse was what it would take to marry her. I was jolted back to reality at the loud piercing scream of mama's cry and the gasps of the crowd present. I looked up to find that Fola, Fola had raised his hand and confidently said "I object".

As though he had prepared his words, Fola proceeded to explain himself. Mama was still wailing like a widow at the wake of her husband and threatening to jump in his grave. Papa tried but failed to comfort her, patting her second by second. Rike stood, frozen. Defeated. To the shock of the congregation, he shares the details of the past months, his deep love and respect for Rike, his promise to protect her and shield her from all hurt and as such could not marry her at that point unless she knew the truth. Murmurs ran the room; questions as to why he waited this long, couldn't he have told her after the wedding and how did a mother even consider such things. No one noticed Rike walk away from the church. I ran after her leaving my sisters as they had gathered round Fola. Papa trying to resuscitate mama who had fainted before the end of Fola's monologue.

Outside, Rike sat on the muddy grass wiping her tears with her veil. I sat with her in a trance like manner.

" I waited, I was patient"
"I thought...." she sighed
"what shall I do now?"

I had no words, I was as guilty as Fola. Probably more. What would become of our relationship if Rike were to find out I knew all along. That I had betrayed her like everyone else. I cursed mama and bit my lip. "why did she drag me into all this" I cursed my weakness and the days I could have told her. Moments lost in breaths of fear and bridled tongue.

Rike pulled my dress calling my attention. I looked up at her my eyes blood red filled with tears that refused to fall. I couldn't hold her gaze. "You knew didn't you?, YOU KNEW!" the thunder of her voice was only surpassed by the strike of her palm across my face, before I could try for escape she drags me by the sleeve of my dress to my feet. There was no more barrier to my tears. They flowed; but their rivers could not cleanse me of my woes. "Sister Rike please, am sorry please, please" my pleadings were barely audible hidden by continuous whimpers. Hers, and mine. If they were heard, it wouldn't have helped; Rike was relentless. I stopped struggling, stopped weeping and took my beating in quietness; there was no salvation to come, the spectacle in the church allowed no witnesses.

When her strength was gone, she paused, raised her hands once again only to lower them to her sides. After what seemed like years of her peering at me feeling all but her agony and hate, she looked into the distance and then back to me. "Stand up" she said, I did fearing more fists if I declined. I wanted her to love me again. I would do anything she asked. she held to her waist and she sobbed, bawling as I had never seen her before, I was helpless and confused I felt insignificant, unworthy to even attempt to console her. She begins to walk away still fits of tearing barely stopping for air and I plodding along behind her, leaving behind the wedding party.

What will become of us?

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* NYSC: National youth service corps
** Efo riro: a rich vegetable soup, native to the Yoruba people