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?
