The sun of the first of five days rose different, it swore by the dried salt of men, and cursed by their darker shades.
The roads impressed on their mother crust and they were all of them tilted uphill.
The procession of the industry-bound are led about their way by the taskmasters of necessity, neck threaded to neck, foot threaded to foot, their train trudges towards the daybreak.
Two slaves, master and servant; each, no better than the meals they earn, in grit and dig.
Nails of stubbed digits, shovels on withered limbs, pickaxes that outweigh the bearer, the search persists.
The Qwerty clicks of Fibre Speak. The Whippings Weary Weepings... @the first longing of the day fifth.
EXT. THE
A DOLLY
OLD MAN
The war was a restless sleep of over twenty years. Sometimes it woke, sometimes it slept… it was in one of these waking moments that Oba Adetoye the son of (@@@@@@), a formerly exiled prince now reigning on the throne of his fathers… it was then that he rose on the hill of Omiran to challenge Oba Oguntiade to mortal combat.
(beat)
In the wake of the events this would birth... the fate of the kingdoms of Ikaje and Afami moved from the hands of the two kings to its final delay... in the hands of their progeny.
FADE IN:
EXT. BAKED RED SOIL –DAY.
ISHOLA (VO)
My father never taught me how to use a hoe.
IMPACT! ISHOLA falls unto the ground in view. He writhes from the fall, arching his back. The lad is young and slightly pulped from the wear and tear of battle. He is dressed like a warrior, but hardly looks the part.
ISHOLA (VO)
Instead, he’d take me to the plantation and give me lessons on what it takes to be a good farmer.
Part of his assailant comes into view. We see enough of the man to see him draw his blade.
ISHOLA (VO)
And I’d say, “Father, when would these lessons ever stop?”
Ishola has recovered enough to know that this is the end of the line for him.
ISHOLA (VO)
And he’d say, “We never stop learning, my son…”
The assailant begins to advance onto him.
ISHOLA (VO)
“…Until the day we die.”
FADE TO BLACK
WHAM!
Everyone and everything about the firewood lit square seem to feel the impact of IRINLE ramming into the other wrestler…
Neither falls or budges. Each man’s legs strain as they push against one another, barrel chest to barrel chest…
Suddenly, Irinle, 38, pulls a move that has him looming over his BULKY OPPONENT, almost pinning him to the ground.
BULKY is able to swerve and spin away before, Irinle can hold him down.
Both men rise to their feet, panting. The crowd is chanting Irinle’s name. Irinle’s eyes moves over the head of the crowd to see JAGUNLAYE walking by. Jagunlaye, 43, walks on by, oblivious, and enters the Balogun’s hut.
Irinle’s eyes barely snap back in time to see the BULKY’s charge!
Head-down, BULKY rams into him so hard his eyes bulge from the impact!
The watching crowd gasp in shock as Irinle rocks hard.
Irinle’s feet struggles to regain some footing as his feet shuffle through the mud.
BULKY deepens his shove. Irinle is struggling.
With a grit of his teeth, Irinle stamps his feet down, one after the other. Finding his bearings, he brings both his arms up under the wrestler’s armpits. With a mighty heave, he sends the man sprawling hard on the ground unto his back.
Boniface Ubong was failing Pa Boniface’s sixth rule of commerce: Never make a customer in a suit have to repeat himself. But the man in the navy-blue, three-piece suit was not a customer at all; neither was he from these parts or he would have known better than to wear such an outfit at this time of the year. Still, the man hadn’t stammered and Boniface, better known as Pa Callistus, was not hard of hearing, yet… “Sorry Oga, can you repeat what you just said?”
The man in the suit looked rather bothered, although it was difficult to be sure what it is that he was more bothered about –the heat or Boniface’s response, “Are you not the father of Aniete Ubong?”
“Yes, oga; that is me.”
The man seemed to be looking about the counter for somewhere to place the package in his hand; he soon gave up and just extended it to Boniface. “Good afternoon to you, sir. I am Kunle Ojo.”
Boniface felt a little silly; he was holding out his hand and Mr. Ojo hadn’t noticed.
Mr. Ojo continued, “You are aware of the Mahmoud Seriki national essay competition for rural primary schools?”
“Yes, sir.” Boniface swallowed hard, “I know about the competition, sir.”
“Then you are aware that your daughter, Aniete, also sent an entry?”
Boniface swallowed again. He was not wearing a three-piece suit but he could feel sweat gathering onto his forehead. This and the swallowing were characteristic of him whenever he got nervous. Boniface was getting nervous.
“Yes, sir. All the children in the school write for the competition every year.”
The man managed a smile; then the hand finally came, “Congratulations to you, sir. Your daughter, Aniete, is this year’s winner. She has been awarded the first prize… scholarship… substantial… benefits…”
Everything else the man in the blue suit was saying was lost in the dizzying hurricane that had taken up the space in Boniface’s head. In fact, the dust of the man’s car was a forgotten cloud on the horizon for several minutes before Boniface would break from his trance into a sudden leap, a dance and “Woyo!”
He was soon dancing about his little fruit stall, shouting and singing. He had never been so happy.
It was now Five-thirty in the evening and Boniface was closing up his fruit stall like a man in mourning. His head ached from too much thinking. The dancing and euphoria of a few hours ago was long forgotten. Its place had been taken by the occasional sigh and groans of despair. He rolled up the gin bottle sitting on the table into the small cloth he’d produced it from and stuffed it back into its hiding place behind the little cupboard. The bottle was reserved for the celebration of those rare special occasions, but today its role was consolatory to Pa Callistus who to the neutral would seem to have the weight of the moon on his shoulders. The source of his incessant headache was on that little sheet among the documents Mr. Ojo had left him that afternoon. It was the photocopy of a page from a 2A exercise book. Its heading was in capital letters “What I would like to be when I grow up”; the second sentence after that was also written in the not particularly pleasant handwriting of a certain eight year old girl, “I would like to grow up to become an astronaut.”
Now, Boniface did not go past form six, but he did know what an astronaut was. He had even seen the picture of one in a book once. His hands lingered on the padlock by which he secures his little shop; he could almost taste the ridicule to come his way from the town people. The Mahmoud foundation offered a lifetime scholarship and many other wonderful benefits; Would Aniete really throw it all away, chasing such a foolish dream?
There were many wonderful professions; big, respectable but realistic professions –especially for a girl. What sort of father would he be to let her squander such a wonderful opportunity in her innocence? More worrying, what sort of father would he be to deny his own child the opportunity to dream? Maybe she would outgrow the fantasy. Maybe there was actually nothing here to worry about. After all, when he was a child, he had wanted to grow up to be a dancing masquerade. He almost laughed at the silliness of it. But, he couldn’t laugh, he was too worried to laugh.
Holding the documents Mr. Kunle had left him in his arm pits he decided to that he needed to talk to someone first. But not Esther. Not that he did not value her opinion, but he knew his wife -whenever it came to Aniete, she was like a Hawk protecting her nest. Not only was Aniete the youngest, she was the only girl out of their five children. Anything done or said that felt somehow to her about Aniete was automatically a plot against her baby and sometimes even the whole female gender. And heaven should know that there are few fates worse than falling into the laps of that woman when she is on fire. No, he would tell Esther later. First, he would talk to Paulinus. The man was quite sensible on those one-kind issues like this. Although Paulinus was known to have a rather leaky mouth, this once, the man will have to be discreet.
Everyone in the small stuffy room was talking at the same time. Boniface realised that he should have known better than to actually believe that anything could stay discreet once Paulinus was involved. The simple visit had now turned into a village council of elders’ meeting. At least they called themselves a council of elders, in truth they were a glorified gossip forum. And each of these old goats only opened their mouths to add some new kind of chaos to the innocent matter that they had now turned rather controversial.
“What this village needs is a Doctor not an astronomer!”
“Or a even teacher.”
“Sylvanus’ son says he wants to be a doctor, we should convince the scholarship people to give the prize to him instead?”
“If Sylvanus’ dunce of a son, wants a scholarship, he should read harder for the next competition!”
“If that Aniete-girl was my daughter, I would knock some hard sense into her head!”
“Sense? What is the sense in wasting this sort of opportunity on a girl?”
“Pa Uduak!”
“Don’t Pa Uduak me! I am merely saying what we are all already thinking. A woman’s place is in her husband’s home with the children. She should learn that early in life. Pa Callistus, you should take the prize from her and give it to one of your sons!”
“It seems that there is something that you are all forgetting.” Elder Ekom, the only one of the so-called council that was worthy of his grey hair, was finally contributing. “There are almost thirty children in this village, and countless children in the whole district and the country as a whole; but only Aniete won the prize. And she won the prize because of the very words that she wrote in that essay.”
His voice had invoked a silence on the room.
“None of us may believe that her dreams are achievable; and perhaps we are right, but all that really matters to the ones that have brought this wonderful opportunity is that Aniete believes her dreams are achievable.”
No other words were said after that.
Mma Callistus and Aniete were outside celebrating with the neighbours. There was talk already talk of an impromptu celebration with Idita Iwa, Ukot nsung, and even 404 pepper-soup. Boniface was feeling very confused even as he sat on a rather small stool away from the happy racket outside. His worries were his private matter now. He was glad that Elder Ekom had dimmed his pessimism. But he just couldn’t find it in himself to celebrate. Finally, he took out the photocopy of Aniete’s essay and began to read it.
“My name is Aniete Ubong. I want to be an astronaut when I grow up. When I was still a small girl, my father used to carry me on his shoulders when we are walking home. I used to wave at moon and say’ “Papa, see moon”. So, later on, everybody started calling me ‘See-moon’. One day Papa told me that the moon is a place outside on top of the sky. He told me that there are human beings that go to the moon, people call them astronauts. I want to be an astronaut so that one day I will go to the moon; and then I will say, “Papa, see moon. Moon, see Papa”.”
Boniface put the page away and began to cry. Whether it was tears of pride, joy or weariness, he could not tell.
It was on a Tuesday that I was to become “Kolo”, the hardened armed robber of renown. Yet at noon of the very day, I was unaware of the fact.
At noon, I was packing my backpack readying to leave campus. I was with Ogechi at the time. She was a girlfriend that I had the misfortune of knowing that I shared with several other guys on campus. She was your typical on-which-side-my-bread-is-buttered kind of chick. Sitting in the Police wagon, I watched an officer with brown teeth ‘recognize’ her on my phone’s photo gallery as Sade, some local prostitute they were seemingly all quite familiar with (apart from the name, some would commend their excellent detective work).
I was a little dizzy (many slaps had flashed by). My t-shirt was attached to me only by its collar. The shirt had cost me five ‘k’, (probably enough to buy their collective uniforms) but on sight of their automatic rifles I’d have helped them rip it up, given the chance. I counted my teeth with my tongue and wondered how many I would lose in my evolution into the notorious ‘Kolo’.
We were on our way to the dreaded Area J station; there I would confess to having been born by Immaculate Conception if that was what they required of me. I made a note to thank Sheriff, my best friend for showing me the shortcut that was to be an exclamation point in my life.
I had found the narrow alley he’d described to me as leading to the ‘Express’. On the other side, I’d found people a-running (lots of them). So, like any mother-born Negro, I bravely decided to run. Then someone had pointed at me in midflight; next thing, a mob came after me; next thing Kolo the Nefarious, I was. The stories say that Kolo is tall. I was tall. The stories say that Kolo is dark. I was dark. The stories said that Kolo had powerful native medicine and so could never be overpowered. Well, two out of three was enough.
In came the police. And the rest is history... my history.
I don’t know any important people. But I do have a lawyer uncle that I probably won’t get to call until ‘the investigation was concluded’. So, with no clout to speak for me, it’s fair to say that I am doomed.
I had heard so much about Area J’s interrogating techniques. A friend had told me that it had taken their houseboy six hours at Area J before realizing that he’d stolen Madam’s jewellery. The Six hour endurance is still reputedly the in-house record. I intend to hold out for maybe an hour or so... to salvage a little pride, before I confess in dust and ashes.
I was ‘shown’ into a dark room lit by a single bulb. The room was an oven saturated with the stink human sweat and marijuana. I needed no tour guide –I was in the interrogation room. So, here I sat, Kolo the notorious; formerly a student of Engineering struggling to make Second Class honours, now a candidate for the firing squad.
After a seventy-five minute wait I hoped would never end, a hulk called detective swung the door open. I think I screamed in Frigbo –an unorthodox mix of French and Igbo.
The detective looked at my crotch and laughed himself to tears. As he turned to leave, he barked in vernacular what I hoped meant: “You have brought the wrong person; this one has already urinated on himself!”
(this is my initial and preferred draft)
An angry little man found himself beaten to a pulp by a woman twice his size and only half his disposition . For two weeks after the fact, she nursed him back to health; then she proposed marriage; then he considered it for a week more; then they were married on the third month. The name of their only child was Chidi and they were to be known from then on as Mama and Papa Chidi. Little Chidi, though blessed with his mother’s temper was damned with his father’s frail stature. For this reason, his bold challenge one night of the new yam festival shook the entire village –some with fearful concern, others with fits of laughter.
It had been a night much better than was expected. The winds of the almost-rain had brought a refreshing coolness to the evening festivities. Nnamdi (the village trouble-maker)’s illness had also been a welcome relief –the whole village had wished him a speedy recovery, with a silent footnote to God to delay “speedy” till the three days of the festival had passed. The men had harvested the yams, the boys had peeled them, the girls had cooked them and the women were now pounding them. Mama Chidi had been in the company of the other women, applying her finesse to the making of the nni ji, oblivious and helpless to prevent her son’s ridiculous exertions.
Everyone at the village square had long anticipated the wrestling contest between Emeka and Obinna. Like most wrestling matches, the entire week leading to the contest had been an exciting series of boasts and taunts from each man and his company. No local would ever argue that these verbal exchanges were many times even more exciting than the face-off itself. And in further more enhancing the point, that night’s contest was hardly a contest at all. Alas, it wasn’t even fifteen minutes before Emeka lay flat on his back with Obinna’s foot firmly on his chest. Yet Obinna had barely hit the third verse in victory boast when Little Chidi’s voice was to rise above his, declaring:
“Give me Obinna or any other man in this village and I will feed him the red dust of the village square!”
Ewoooo-ee!
Perhaps he had been heard wrong. Perhaps his words had been misunderstood. That is what everyone wanted to believe. The old wanted to believe that. The young wanted to believe that. Even Obinna wanted to believe that. But so it was that their collective prayer was dashed in Little Chidi’s second rant.
“Obinna, I challenge you! Tomorrow, you shall eat red dust!”
Little Chidi was twenty-six years old, but little he was. The nickname, they claimed, was to distinguish him from the other Chidi in the village –Big Chidi. Big Chidi was the son of Okafor, the palm wine tapper; he was younger than his namesake by many years, but he was of a big-boned, broad-shouldered and leggy stance. Still, in spite of his impressive qualities, Big Chidi would not have dared to challenge Obinna.
All evening long, the exchange between those that had been present and the ones absent was in the same fashion: “Did you hear? Little Chidi challenged Obinna!” This was then followed by a terrified (or deeply tickled) gasp, then the incredulous question, “Which Chidi did you say?” Then tragic (or comic) toned reiteration, “Little Chidi.”
Many factors were to blame for this catastrophe. The first being that the parents of a pretty local girl, Amarachi, had made him repeat his age three times when he had asked for the girl’s hand in marriage. They had all the while been staring intently at his obstinately hairless chin. The second was an attempt at assistance that had been received as an insult –honestly, in the many sides of truth, it may well have been. The other men had sought to excuse him from the ‘rigorous’ task of harvesting yam to perhaps joining the boys in the less stressful task of peeling. This had invoked Little Chidi’s fury and pride, though not necessarily in that order. The third was a happenstance of watery pap.
It had been Baba Chidi’s turn at making breakfast. He had tried at making akamu with bean cakes, and failed at both miserably. The black, crispy, bean-things could not be eaten unaccompanied, and so Baba Chidi had ferried the pot back to the fire, with the hope that the pap might eventually thicken. It was during this frustrated wait that Mama Chidi had told Little Chidi the story of her grandfather, Ezugo the Great –the greatest ever wrestler in their parts… according to her. In all the twenty-one matches of his wrestling career, Ezugo the Great had never been defeated. She even went as far as saying that Ezugo’s blood still ran hot through her, and even through her Little Chidi also.
Had she the foresight of that night’s event, she would have ended her story decidedly differently.
However, the wrestling match was now set and there was no turning back. Most of the village was already given to a grave mood. They would miss the boy. He was very sensitive about his stature, true; but he had a way of humour that everyone enjoyed; and, unlike his father, he was a wonderful cook. Indeed, he had provided the spread for many a wedding ceremony in the village.
Amarachi had been the first in a line of many that tried to dissuade him.
“Please, Chidi, do not turn up for the match,” she had said. “Everyone would know that you have come back to your senses and leave the matter alone.”
“So that on top of being tagged ‘Little Chidi’ by these fools, I should now also be labeled a coward? No. The insults will all end tomorrow. When I feed Obinna to the soil, everyone will finally start according me some respect.”
Mama Chidi had been next.
“My son, biko, don’t let their taunts and nicknames push you into such a rash decision. We all had nicknames that we outgrew eventually.”
“Eventually? Mother, if I am still ‘Little Chidi’ as a grown man, when shall I outgrow it? If truly I the descendant of Ezugo the Great, then everyone shall know better than to taunt me from tomorrow.”
Papa Chidi had also tried.
“My son, our Christian religion says that we should let God judge those who have offended us. Forget this whole matter and let God avenge you instead.”
So said the man who had never won a fight to anyone’s memory. The sermon was ignored for this reason and not for any lack of merit.
The Day had followed the Night and the heavens had mourned till it was almost evening. It was just as everyone was about to cheer that the fight could be cancelled because of the downpour that the rain had stopped. Cheerful as a funeral procession, they had begun to gather at the square, young and old, men and women –Little Chidi’s anticipated heaven-call was to be well attended. The inevitable would now come to pass before a throng of many witnesses and before any of the new yam festivities shall continue. Nothing and no one could save Little Chidi now. It was said that the young men of the village had sought to kidnap him, and hold him till the time of the tournament had passed. But Little Chidi had caught wind of the plot and hidden himself the whole day till the final hour. During this time, Obinna had been loud with a single brag. That he shall floor and cripple Little Chidi with his dreaded leopard dash within the first few seconds of the contest. And, if nowhere else, Obinna always kept his promises in the wrestling arena.
Along with every other supplication uttered over the issue since the preceding evening, the prayer that Little Chidi might fail to turn up fell back from heaven ignored. Little Chidi strode into the arena with an obdurate determination set in his face. Obinna returned with the sneer of butcher attending to a prize kid. The demise of a young man named Little Chidi was soon to begin.
It seemed that forever passed before the referee walked apologetically into the arena and then swung the local primary school bell in an arc, high and overhead, so that the chime rung out across the square. The contest had begun!
Obinna wasted no time. The man who did not make empty promises in the ring had already started into his dreaded leopard charge! Obinna streaked across the square at his prey! And so he already found himself three bounds into his dash when he realized that the wet clay was too slippery to permit him a fourth. He then tried to halt, midway into his dash, only to realize that the wet clay was too slippery to forgive him his change in momentum. His leopard dash a forgotten promise, Obinna pressed forward with outstretched arms knowing that his footing was fast betraying him yet determined not to meet the soil alone. The wet clay would not give a third warning. Obinna saw his feet flying up at his eye level, just before his head went hurtling back into an explosion of darkness!
From the oblivion of unconsciousness, Obinna blinked enough sight to see Little Chidi standing over and upon him. He then blinked a little more sight, to see Little Chidi travelling from the village square on the shoulders of cheering villagers. Then, just before he succumbed back into the embrace of an impact-induced sleep, he had also summoned enough senses to taste the red earth in his mouth.
The impossible had happened and it was a victory –neither question nor excuse was permitted for it. The whole village and the many visitors who had flocked in to witness the travesty ate their pounded yam and egusi with relief. Little Chidi’s ‘feat’ would echo forever as a local legend. Plead all he might, Obinna would never get a rematch and Little Chidi, like his great grandfather long before him would retire undefeated. The whole village would now make it their special business to keep the boy sated so that the disturbing episode need not repeat itself.
Little Chidi would now and always be known as… Little Chidi the Great!
The no small matter was finally at rest… and thank goodness!
