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.
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