The Tale of the Cow Tail & Other Stories from the African Diaspora

by Lanre Ogundimu

  “What, tear gas?” someone shouted.

  There is no need to tell a blind man that the market has closed. The absence of the usual noise will pass the message. The police had fired tear gas canisters in many directions. We scampered as the sound of gunfire boomed in the air. I couldn’t remember how many rows of stairs I jumped at once. And I have not run like that in my life again, never since then.

  From a safe distance in a shop, some of my colleagues and I watched the policemen with horsewhips beat the unlucky students who couldn’t escape. Most of the victims were ladies. And they received some very fine beatings.

  About ten minutes later, the police retreated. Cautiously, we descended from our safe haven.

  “Where are our leaders,” a student asked in a cosmetic bravado. “Whey dem? Whey the policemen?” We just ignored the spineless rascal.

  Our worry was how to get back to campus because we were tired and not ready to trek. And we got bad news that a student had been shot. As this story filtered around, we were as angry as a rain-beaten cat. There was commotion on the street when we got to the TBS bus stop at the West pavilion. Buses went in the wrong direction; cars hooted uncontrollably; mothers and children wailed. Momentarily, some students hijacked the Lagos State Transport Corporation’s (LSTC as it was then known) buses. Some of the drivers had abandoned their buses and fled.

  So, I rode in a bus driven by a student. We sat down quietly, tired as we journeyed back to the campus. Frightened primary and secondary schools students and other passengers joined in the free ride.

  We heard the good news when we got to the campus. The person shot by the police was not a student. He was a hoodlum and he belonged to a gang that was smashing car widescreens and snatching handbags from women. And he didn’t die—the bullet had grazed his buttock.

  For several days, my friends and I discussed this episode. Not the riot; but the vagabond whom the police hit on the butt. Why the buttock? Why not his leg? After all, hitting him on the leg would have demobilized him for that moment or for many months in the hospital thus preventing him from joining a fray to which he was not invited.

  A friend conjectured that probably the police aimed at the leg but missed—an indication of a poor marksmanship.

  Another surmised that maybe the police wanted to have a pound of flesh, adding that the best part of the body for such a robust meat was the behind.

  We all agreed that hitting him in the leg would have been better. With a sore bum, the fellow would not be able to sit or lie on his back comfortably; he would probably have to remain on his feet. And you can’t achieve perfect rest standing on your feet for long. This leads to restlessness. And restlessness begets more mischief.

  The Tale of the Cow Tail

  This is a story that my father once told. The purpose of the story is not to mock any church priest or pastor or man of God, but to show how greed has crept into the church and that the lofty office no longer gets the respect it deserves. It goes thusly:

  Once upon a time, there was a big crisis in our church parish. The majority of the congregation no longer trusted the parish priest. His integrity was questioned as a result of his profligacy. In addition, members were uncomfortable with the manner in which his wife wielded power. They said she was arrogant and too flamboyant, as shown by her bleached skin.

  So, the congregation mandated the parochial committee to visit the zonal headquarters and request the Zonal Vicar to remove our parish priest. Although my father was a member of the parochial committee, he didn’t like this request, not because he supported the priest, but because he detested the schism and mischief in the parish.

  Anyway, they went to Isolo in Lagos to see the Zonal Vicar—an old, witty septuagenarian, with a soft voice but firm resolve.

  After referring to some verses in the bible, the Vicar spoke about the day the world would end. He also talked about the problems caused by man’s obsession with money. He said he was neither surprised about what was happening in our parish nor in the entire sect. What surprised him, he said, was the extent of the greed, and the resulting moral and spiritual decadence in the church.

  The Vicar said that the previous week, members of one of the parishes brought a very dispiriting case to him. The parish members were preparing for their yearly harvest celebration. As expected, members contributed money to cook food for the occasion, to provide a sumptuous feast for the entire church and guests. On the eve of the harvest, the church premises bustled with activities as caterers prepared elaborate meals and people moved soft drinks in crates, and crates into drums containing ice blocks.

  In the evening, when the first batch of the food was ready, two women took some portions, neatly served in two beautiful porcelain plates, to the vicarage. They also took along some soft drinks. They met the priest, who sat majestically on a sofa in the living room.

  The women placed the plates on the center table.

  “Open the plates,” the priest said, with a frown in his eyes, as he gazed into the dishes.

  The women opened the lids of the white plates.

  “And where is the cow tail?” he asked anxiously.

  “Which cow tail sir?” the two women responded in quivering unison.

  The women knew that cow tail was a popular delicacy. Although it is mainly soft bones, it also contains muscles, tissue and skin. For some people, the cow tail is the most flavorful part of the beef stock. A long, slow cooking makes it tender and brings out the jelly like viscous liquid. Cow tail connoisseurs enjoy this culinary delicacy when prepared as spicy pepper soup. The tastiness evolves when the teeth crush the soft, bony meat into fine particles. The released juice swims on the tongue and tickles the palate. From there, it’s a smooth journey through the throat.

  As the frightened women stood in front of the angry priest, they thought they had given him enough food; a full plate of jollof rice, and another plate filled to the brim with assorted parts of cow—fleshy thigh, tripe, neck, liver, among others.

  Besides, the two visibly embarrassed women never knew the priest liked cow tail. The women were dismayed that the man didn’t even say thank you for what they brought and didn’t appreciate the painstaking efforts they had put into preparing the meal.

  “This food is incomplete without the cow tail,” the priest said gloomily, pointing to the plates as the aroma of curry seasoning wafted through the room.

  The women left. They told the chairwoman of the harvest committee what happened and the priest’s query about the cow tail. The chairwoman was furious. With a stern look, she dragged her heavy frame toward the vicarage. Everyone’s eyes followed her direction, and people wondered what she was up to. They knew her as a tough, firm woman—a character trait she developed through her military training. She was a senior soldier.

  She swaggered into the sitting room and met the priest.

  “Sir, I was told you wanted cow tail,” she asked with pretentious calmness, as she hid her two hands behind her back.

  “Yes, oh yes,” said the priest dryly, reclining and readjusting himself on the sofa.

  While he responded, the chairwoman flung a cow tail from behind. She swiped the priest’s cheeks with the cow tail from the right to the left, then from left to right.

  “And this is your cow tail, and this is your cow tail,” the chairwoman said angrily.

  The priest was stunned. He couldn’t speak or didn’t want to speak because something grayish, the size of a cashew nut had fallen from his mouth. It was a tooth.

  My New York Experience:

  How I Ate Like a King for $10

  If we live long, we may eat an animal bigger than an elephant.

  – Yoruba proverb

  It was the year 2003. Coming from Nigeria where the per capita income was $25 a month, I thought that spending $20.03 for a lunch in a New York restaurant was scandalous. But $20.03 was the cost of a three-course “track lunch” at Michael Jordan’s (a restaurant owned by the basketball star) at the Grand Central Terminal in
New York City. By adding $5 to that amount, I could buy a 50 kg bag of rice in my home country. If my family of three ate rice once every day, the grain would last more than a month.

  I entered the Grand Central Terminal for the first time in January. I was on my way to New Haven, Connecticut, U.S.A., to register at Quinnipiac University for a master’s program in journalism.

  I was impressed by the grandeur of the eight-story terminal building. At the Park Avenue and 42nd Street entrance, a 50-foot high, group statue of Roman gods occupied the top of the terminal. Mercury stood in front of an eagle, flanked by Minerva and Hercules. The group statue, called Transportation, was designed by the French artist Jules-Alex Coutane. A 13-foot diameter clock, nestled among the figures, is the largest Tiffany glass clock face in the world.

  Inside the terminal, the majestic 470-foot-long and 160-foot-wide Main Concourse was beautiful. Ten giant chandeliers dangled from the olive green, 125-foot arched ceiling. The ceiling, painted by the French artist Paul Helleu, shimmered with zodiacal constellations. The floor was Tennessee marble and the walls Caen stones. Two twisting marble stairways stood on the west and east wings of the hall. A giant opal face brass clock, which hovered above the information booth, stood at the center of the hall, while a huge American flag soared motionless at the center of the ceiling. The clock has been in continuous operation since the terminal was opened in 1913.

  The constant flow of commuters and the cacophony of their voices, which turned into murmurs, were fascinating. Occasionally, a female voice sifted from the public address system.

  “Attention please. Never leave packages unattended. Unattended items may be removed by the MTA police department. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  I loved the interplay of nature and architecture as the sun pierced through three 75-foot arched windows at the east balcony. The rays of sunlight illuminated the floor, lighting up a stream of gray dust as the particles waltzed in harmony.

  “If you want to have a good view of this area, you have to stay at either the east or west balcony where people are standing to take photographs,” said a black lady at the booth. I had asked her about the free tour of the Grand Central Terminal organized by the Guide Association of New York City.

  As I moved from the information booth, an elderly white man in a blue, turtleneck shirt approached the cubicle. He asked the information officer about the track for the train to North White Plains. She replied that it was Track 42 and departure was 11 a.m.

  I climbed the twisting, marble stairs to the west balcony. A young man focused a camera on the center of the hall, pressed the shutter, and paused as the flash bounced off the walls in the hall. He smiled and took another shot. This time, flashes from other cameras sparkled around. I looked to my left and saw the shocking menu board at Michael Jordan’s - $20.03 for lunch. I reflected on this for some moments. If Cornelius Vanderbilt, founder of the Grand Central Railroad, had been extravagant, he might not have started his business empire at 16 years old.

  Vanderbilt got $100 from his mother to start the Staten Island Ferry in 1810. From his successful ferry business, a steamship line followed. At 70, Vanderbilt started investing in railroads and bought up small railroad companies in the New York area. He consolidated 35 of them into the New York Central Railroad. This terminal was the product of that $100 empire.

  I decided that I would not eat at Michael Jordan’s unless I hit a jackpot. Not that I couldn’t afford the lunch. It’s just that I had a moral qualm and no strong justification for spending such an outrageous amount on a lunch. But the more I wanted to discipline myself, the more I yearned and longed to eat at that restaurant. So, it became an obsession because I had never craved for any food like that in my life. Furthermore, it turned into a tormenting experience because I traveled to Connecticut three times a week to attend lectures at school, and I had to pass through the Grand Central Terminal. But fate, in the form of an anniversary, had another plan for me.

  In October 2003, the terminal was 90 years old. The occasion was celebrated for five days from October 22 to 26. I was at the Vanderbilt Hall on October 25 for an exhibition on the historic terminal. The Vanderbilt Hall served as the main waiting room during the early days of the terminal. The hall and the main concourse were adjacent, both connected by a wide, arched passageway. Just like the Main Concourse, the floors of Vanderbilt Hall were Tennessee marble. Six gold and nickel-plated chandeliers hung from the ceiling.

  A large-sized black and white cardboard effigy of Cornelius Vanderbilt and a friend stood at the entrance of the exhibition space. Fifteen blue cardboard posters, each about seven-feet high, were arranged in a semi-circle close to the lady’s bathroom. Each poster had between six to nine photographs of the Grand Central Terminal. Some were in black and white, and some were in full color. Visitors silently moved around and gazed at the posters as if in a funeral procession. A Chinese man in a blue suit with red necktie crouched down in front of one poster and pulled out a camera from a black rucksack.

  Click.

  As I moved from one poster to another, the captions under each picture offered me insight and a clear understanding of the building’s history, design and special features.

  “Why are sculptures of rats prominent in the Grand Central terminal?” said one caption.

  The answer: “Rats are symbols of efficient transportation.”

  “What does the statue at the entrance of the terminal depict?” asked another caption.

  “Mercury, the Roman god of speed, represents transportation and industry. Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, holds a globe, a scroll, a scribe (pen) and a book. She signifies knowledge and wisdom. Hercules symbolizes hard work and strength. He is surrounded by a sickle, sheaves and wheat, a beehive (the cog of industry), and a ship’s anchor.”

  And so it went, caption by caption.

  “Why are acorns and oak leaves etched at several places in the terminal?”

  “Vanderbilt came from a poor family. In the past, wealthy people had a family crest. So, when Vanderbilt became rich, he made the acorn and oak leaves his family’s coat of arms to show a humble background.”

  “How many commuters use the terminal every day?”

  “About half a million people.”

  “How many clocks are in the terminal?”

  “A hundred and sixty clocks – seventy-five are in the public, while the rest are in various places away from public glare.”

  A young Chinese girl, about 10 years old, brought my mind back to the scene. She pulled her mother along to a poster fitted with a television screen.

  “Hey, they are showing the Secrets of Grand Central,” she shouted in excitement.

  “How do you know it is the secrets of the terminal?” asked an elderly lady nearby. “We have the video at home,” she replied. “And, hey, that’s the …”

  “We learn something new every day,” said the elderly lady as she faced the girl’s mother.

  “It’s quite an experience. The Grand Central means different things to different people,” said the girl’s mother.

  Silently, I agreed with her comment.

  That day, I also finally tasted steak at Michael Jordan’s.

  As part of the celebration, 18 restaurants in the Terminal gave visitors a special treat by allowing people to sample various foods and beverages with a $10 ticket. By 1 p.m., the lower level Dining Concourse was packed. An estimated 2,000 people crowded the area. The seats in the restaurants were filled and people had to stand to enjoy their meals. Many of them carried disposable trays as they moved from one restaurant to another. I flowed with the tide.