Random Musing

When we were kids, our father ruled us like a royal despot. His words
became law to all of us without exception but I knew otherwise. I received
great pleasure then to know that Dad’s bravado did not extend to our
delectable mother.
An attack of small pox in his youth that left his face with permanent scars
marred my father’s handsomeness. The story behind that attack made him
one of the few survivors of the small pox epidemic that nearly wiped out our
village in those days.
The severance of the epidemic reached an alarming proportion when people
died in hundreds in our town and the surrounding villages. Grandfather
Giwa and his family bared the brunt of the epidemic in the Giwa’s
compound. One sad day, he lost five children. Grandfather had fifteen wives
and many concubines. He could have married more if he wanted. His friends
literally begged him to marry their daughters. He alone owned five houses
in the Giwa’s compound; each consisted of twelve rooms. He had so many
children that I don’t know the actual numbers of my uncles and aunts.
Many families fled their home for their farmhouses. When the epidemic
became uncontrollable, the British District Officer in charge of our area sets
up a commission of inquiry to unearth the remote cause of the epidemic,
arrests its spread, and if possible eradicates it.
They discovered that the worshipers of Sanponna (the Yoruba malevolent
god of small pox) facilitated the spread of the disease.
As custom demanded, the family of anyone who died of smallpox must notify
a Sanponna priest who would bury the dead.
The priests would carry the dead body to the evil forest. In addition, the
priests would carry away every earthy possession of the deceased. No family
member dared touched anything belonging to the deceased for fear of
affliction by the dreaded decease.
This practice made the priests greedy. The more people died the more loot to
share. Since they could not rely on the god to kill people fast enough, they
devised a way to help the god.
They would collect the water used to wash the body of a deceased person.
This they would use broomsticks to spray during the night into any area
where they wanted the decease to break out. Since small pox is an air borne
decease, it would infect anybody that inhaled the dust-infected air during
the day.
The fact that the country lacked the knowledge to tackle the decease at that
time made the inhuman act a big business for the Sanponna worshippers.
The livid District Officer swore to deal with the priests when they intimated
him of this fact. He ordered an outright ban on the worshiping of the god.
The government arrested and sent to prison anybody found to be a priest of
the deity.
The priest because of the easy wealth they acquired at the expense of
unsuspecting populace defiled the order of the District Officer. Not until he
sent many of them to prison before they could bring down the epidemic.
While Dad remained the engine that kept the family going, Mum represented
the oil that kept the engine in good working condition. Dad’s incurable
optimism contradicted mum’s realism. Dad never learned from his mistakes.
On several occasions, he escaped making disastrous investment on the
express advice of our mother.
I will never forget one particular investment that nearly brought us to ruin.
My father sauntered into the living room one afternoon with Uncle Philip in
tow bubbling with excitement. “Mama Moses, where are you? We have
arrived. We just cut a sweet deal with some farmers to supply us with as
many tons of cocoa as we can pay at half the price we buy now. Where the
heck are you?”
My father kicked Alice who rested her head while watching television out of
his way when he noticed the absence of mother in the dinning room.
“Where is everybody?” inquired Uncle Philip.
“Where is everybody Moses,” my father repeated the question when he saw
me reading a book in the sitting room. His speech was impaired. He must
have taken some palm wine or beer.
Dad being a social drinker could not hold his drink; unlike Uncle Philip
who someone said could drink a brewery to bankruptcy! Mother detested
Uncle Philip because of his drinking habit. Anytime Dad came home tipsy,
Uncle Philip would be there to tag along. Mum suspected he induces Dad to
drink.
Uncle Philip dropped with a loud thud into one of the padded chairs, my
Dad’s favourite. My Dad segregated his own favourite everything that only
he must use as a rule. He owned his favourite chair, plate, spoon, cup etc.
that are exclusively his. No one must use them as a rule except Mum who
chooses to disregard such rules.
“Philip, will you move to the other chair?” said Dad thickly, “I feel as if
someone is singing ‘Arise O compatriot’ in my brain, the only problem is
that I cannot rise right now talk less of being a patriot.”
“Dad, why you drink when you know you cannot hold your drink like Uncle
Philip?” I asked moving out of Dad’s arm reach.
“What right have you to query me about anything?,” Dad asked his eyes
looking for the nearest object to throw at me. The nearest object was his
favourite jug, which he looked at with regret. I moved out of his reach in a
moment. “My Sango strike you down dead,” he swore.
Dad with his exposure is an archetypal Shaile man who would rain curses
and abuses on anybody without battling an eye. People said that a Shaile
man’s curse is as effective as water on the back of a duck. If the Shaile man’s
curse is ineffective, what does that make his prayer?
One day Dad cursed a man he had an argument with in annoyance that the
man would not live to see the next three days. The man died two days later.
Those present informed the wife of the deceased who reasoned that if a
witch cried yesterday and a child dies today, definitely yesterday’s witch
must be responsible.
The police promptly arrested dad. Before they discovered he knew nothing
about the man’s death, he spent three weeks in police custody.
One would think Dad would learn from that incidence, he never did. It is too
deep in his Shaile blood. Is it not a marvel that someone would invoke
Sango the god of thunder to shrike his only son dead?
“Welcome Joe. Did you just come in?” Mum greeted my Dad with a smile as
she emerged from the kitchen with Aunty Taiye. Only mum dared calls Dad
by the abbreviation of his name. Dad detested the abbreviation of his name,
but mum cared less. Whatever mum wanted, she gets. Nobody can dissuade
her from doing anything she wanted no matter the consequence.
“Hi Papa Faith, how is your family?” We have not seen you these past three
days. Hope all is well,” Mum asked Uncle Philip in a tone that clearly said,
‘I don’t care what happen to you and your lousy family, you servant of
Bacchus’ but she kept on smiling.
“They are all well thank you,” Uncle Philip answered
He knew Mum was just trying to make conversation. He was aware that she
cared less if he and his family fried in the deepest part of hell. In fact, she
would love that to happen. This did not stop Uncle Philip coming to our
house as often as he likes, sometimes at the most ungodly hour of the day to
see Dad concerning one business deal or the other, most of which turns out
bad.
Dad told Mum about his new deal. He lowered his gaze unable to meet
mum’s eyes. He waited for a reply. Mum face was blank
“How much are they asking in advance?”
I had come to know that tone of voice. Anytime Mum speaks in that tone, I
wanted to be somewhere else because a storm would brew. Aunty Taiye
would rather to be somewhere else too. She took my hand and led me out of
the sitting room.
I did not know what transpired later but contrary to mother’s wise counsel,
Dad went ahead and does the deal. He lost one hundred and twenty
thousand Naira to the farmers. The farmers because he paid them in
advance, packed the cocoa beans into bags before they were dried. This
made them go bad after sometime in the warehouse where the Dad stored
preparatory to shipment. My gullible Dad sent them to his overseas buyers.
The importer sent them back two months later.
Dad fled to Togo where he spent three months before he came back to
Nigeria by which time Mum’s anger had subsided. As for Uncle Philip, we
did not see him until the following year.
My Dad was the favourite child of his mother who sent him to school at an
age people his mates were not old enough for school. His school was only
two blocks of classroom with six classes. All the student and teachers
dreaded a single block attached to the first building. This was the
headmaster’s office. He was next to god. He was accountable to no one, so
the students thought. They call him Mr. Cane because his hands were never
empty of at least two canes.
Two other smaller buildings consisting of the toilets for the teachers and the
students sat at the extreme end of the football field.
Father told us one day they caught him playing father and mother’s game
with Aunt Deborah-one of our beautiful maternal aunt. Dad was six years
old then. A teacher marched them straight to the headmaster’s office. That
was the first time Dad would be in the office.
Books of various sizes covered the four walls of the headmaster’s office from
bottom to the top. Mr. Cane sat behind a table so long and wide it occupied
half of the room. He was writing when dad, Aunty and the teacher came in.
He did not look up or give any indication that he saw them. They stood in
front of his long table. Maybe he would ask them to get out of his office. He
went on writing. The teacher cleared his throat to draw the attention of the
headmaster.
“Yes,” the headmaster barked at them.
Hot water flowed all over dad’s legs. The front of his short was all wet. Dad
had never been more afraid in his life. Though he did not see what they did
wrong, their presence in the headmaster’s office brought him to the reality of
being in more trouble than he imagined.
“Sir, I caught these two in the toilet lying on top of each other.” The teacher
replied as if he was the accused rather than the complainant.
Mr. Cane sat up straight in his chair with interest. He closed the book on
which he was writing.
“Is that so?” he twisted his cane round and round in his hand. Dad stomach
turned to jelly. His legs shook. His intestine contracted in his belly. His
heartbeat increased like a locomotive engine gone berserk.
“What have you to say for yourself young man?” The headmaster asked
looking at Father. Dad searched his mind for a lie; he could not think of any
that Mr. Cane would accept. He kept quiet.
“So it is so.” Mr. Cane’s eyes seem to be shining. The man smiled as if he
secretly amused.
“Were you trying to play Mum and Dad’s game?”
That is it. Why did he not think of that before? That was exactly what they
were doing. Maybe Mr. Cane would let them go after all. Dad opened his
mouth to answer but no word came out. His eyes moved down to the front of
his short. He looked up and caught the principal looking straight into his
face. He quickly averted his eyes. For an unexplainable reason, he blushed.
“You two have been bad children,” Mr. Cane said looking at Dad and his
cousin. My Dad nodded in agreement even though he did not have the
slightest idea why playing Mum and Dad game could be bad. After all, his
Mum and Dad play it all the time. Could it be because they were playing it
in the wrong place at the wrong time?
It took the patient explanation of grandmother Ibidun to make Dad
understood that what they attempted doing was wrong. I sometimes
wondered how dad could remember that incident since he was too young
then.