Suki’s presence created a gulf between me and Obelawo. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Obelawo any more and it wasn’t that I liked Suki. It was just that Suki didn’t like him, especially his rough play. So, she told me she wanted us to avoid Obelawo. But the more we wanted to avoid him, the more Obelawo wanted to be with us. Whenever Suki and I sat together to escape into our world of tales of those faraway lands or railway towns up North, Obelawo joined us. Often, he sat without saying anything, as he listened attentively to Suki and gazed at her sparkling eyes. Suki told me she liked it when Obelawo just sat quietly without blurting out anything stupid.
One day, Obelawo broke his silence. Suki had just told us that one of her neighbors in Zungeru always beat his wife. Later, the man sent her away and married her best friend. As Suki narrated this tale, Obelawo interrupted her.
“That was very cruel,” Obelawo said. “You know what? I’ll never raise my hands to beat a woman. I have this one life to live; I’ll die for my best friend and live forever for my woman.”
Suki stared at him for about ten seconds, shook her head, and rolled her eyes in amazement at his passionate declaration. For the first time, she smiled at Obelawo.
“My Yanko, what do you think about my neighbor?” Suki ogled me playfully, then nudged me gently on the left shoulder. Suki was the only one who called me Yanko without my being angry. Maybe because she added “my” to it.
“A man should never beat his wife,” I said. “But why must a man leave his wife to marry another woman?”
“I don’t know either,” Suki said as she looked intensely into my eyes. I knew she was confused. Confused about what? Her look demanded a promise, a reassurance. A reassurance of what? I was too young to know.
Obelawo showed me his meaning of true and everlasting friendship one Tuesday, after lunch. Our teacher, Mr. Ladega, was writing on the blackboard when Shittu belched. Instantly, we all laughed. Mr. Ladega looked back. For whatever reason, he went to Suki’s chair, which she shared with Monisola. He asked Suki why she belched like a pig, thereby disturbing his teaching. Suki replied with a deep shake in her voice and vehemently proclaimed her innocence. Mr. Ladega stood his ground. He pulled Suki by the right ear and brought her to the front of the class. He went for his cane and whipped her backside with six strokes. As each stroke landed, she yelled, and tears flowed from her eyes. I cried. I looked at Obelawo. He didn’t cry, but just shook his head. His eyes were misty and red.
Obelawo didn’t talk to anybody for the rest of the day. He sulked. As we gathered at the close of the day, I knew he had something on his mind.
“I’ll teach Mr. Ladega a lesson,” Obelawo said as he patted the tattered rucksack that contained his books.
The following day, Mr. Ladega didn’t come to school, and the next day after. He appeared a week later with a bandage around his head, tied like a turban. What happened? We heard that he was hit by a stone on his way home as he passed by the motor junkyard at Odaliki Street. At lunch time, Suki, Obelawo and I sat under the breadfruit tree. Obelawo told us he wanted to make a confession.
“I was the one who injured Mr. Ladega with a stone,” Obelawo said. “I used a catapult.”
Suki and I listened in disbelief.
“I picked a very secluded spot behind a trailer and waited and waited. Then Mr. Ladega finally appeared. I aimed for his head; I hit him. Then I fled as he shouted and held his head in his hands,” Obelawo said gleefully.
“But why?” I asked.
“Because he beat Suki for what she didn’t do,” Obelawo said without remorse.
“But violence is bad,” Suki said as she winked at me.
“But the use of a cane is violence, too,” Obelawo said. “But I’m sorry now. I never intended to turn him into a Lemomu (Imam).”
And we laughed at this.
We kept the identity of the assailant secret among us. However, the new nickname for Mr. Ladega soon spread around the school. The students started to call him “Mr. Lemomu.” Suki was the broadcaster.
Twenty children cannot play for twenty years ─ Yoruba proverb
We graduated from the school in 1976. My family left the area and moved to another part of Lagos. I saw Suki and Obelawo no more.
I moved on with my life, grew up, went to higher schools, and got a very good job, with a promising career. But most of all, I married a loving woman. I minded my business, until a certain Saturday afternoon in July.
I was at the AP fuel station at Onipanu. I had just filled the tank of my brand new BMW. I was about to pull away from the station when I felt a sudden jolt in the seat. The sound created by the impact chilled my bones. My car was hit from behind. I got out and went to the backside. The bumper had sunken in, and the rear lights were shattered like a thousand strips of confetti. The driver of a commercial bus, also known as danfo, had hit me. He was stunned by the damage. I was furious.
“My father, please don’t be annoyed with your boy,” said the man, probably in his fifties, as he snorted and sweated profusely. He had copious gray hairs.
I didn’t respond, but my blood boiled.
“Ah father, I know it’s my fault, but I beg you in the name of God. We can get a panel beater nearby to push out the bumper. It’s only the rear light, oh. Ye, my God,” the man said as he gestured to the broken pieces of glass on the ground.
I still didn’t utter a word.
By that time, the bus passengers and passersby had started to gather around. Some begged that I should forgive the old man. I looked straight into his pleading eyes. He stared back, then closed his eyes. At that instant, the silly man unbuttoned his blue shirt and exposed a tennis ball-sized navel.
“Obelawo,” I shouted.
“Yanko, Ehn, our Yanko,” Obelawo screamed.
We embraced. It had been 36 years since we had seen each other. We held tightly for about 30 seconds, oblivious to the people around us. As we let go, the crowd looked at us in surprise. They were probably disappointed at how the story turned. Maybe they had expected a fight. In that case, it was an anticlimax. We moved our vehicles to the car park at the filling station to avoid obstructing the flow of traffic at the pumps.
Obelawo told me he lived close by, along Bajulaiye road and asked if I was free to come along to his home. I immediately said okay.
“I have a surprise for you,” Obelawo said.
“What surprise?” I asked.
“A man to whom we are bringing a new wife should not eagerly look through the window,” Obelawo said.
I wondered what the surprise was.
“Ehn, Ah, Kekere Ekun, take the bus to the car wash and bring it home,” Obelawo shouted at his conductor, as he threw the key to the young, scruffy chap. “I’m going home with my best friend in the whole wide world. And don’t use the bus to start picking up prostitutes. I don’t know whether you’ve been cursed with the curse of women. All your life is to chase women.”
“Ah Baba. It’s not like so, oh. They are the ones chasing me,” Kekere Ekun responded gleefully.
“I’m sorry for your family. That’s the trade you’ve chosen in your life,” Obelawo retorted. “Running after shameless young girls, and even old women who are old enough to be your mother. Just bring the bus home after the washing. I’m expecting it very soon oh, or I will whip your backside this evening.”
As we drove to Obelawo’s home in my car, he apologized for the harsh words he had used on his conductor. He noted that those garage boys needed strong hands or they could send the bus owner to an early grave.
Along the way, my mind was focused on the surprise Obelawo said he had for me. I also wanted to ask a few questions, and I wondered whether he had seen Suki since we left primary school.
Soon, we arrived at a self-contained, two-bedroom bungalow that belonged to Obelawo. His family lived in the front part of the building, a large compound with well-kept green lawns. Pawpaw trees dotted the landscape–all planted in a tidy row around the fence. Here and there, hibiscus flowers
were in bloom.
I entered the living room. The sweet smell of lemon air freshener caressed my nose as Obelawo offered me a seat on the double-seater sofa. Suddenly, I was struck by a 10- by 12–inch, black and white photo on the gray wall, displayed by the television set on a well-polished wooden cabinet. No doubt about it, that was Mrs. Obelawo in an attractive nurse’s uniform. I thought the white cap sat regally on her head. My eyes traveled to another black and white photograph about five inches away. I recognized Obelawo with eight young children; one of them sat on the lap of the wife. I wondered about the woman in the photographs—she looked familiar.
Obelawo seemed to have read my mind.
“Oh, those are the children,” Obelawo said. “Two are medical doctors, one is a lawyer, one an engineer. The others are schooling abroad.”
Although I was happy about the progress of the children, my interest at that moment was the woman in the photograph. “Could it be?” I thought. I was immersed in this thought when the door to the living room opened gently. A woman, about five feet eight inches tall entered. A white towel was tied firmly around her, from her chest to her knees. She had exited the bathroom and was walking across the flat. I stared, and my eyes landed on her well-chiseled face and then on to the neck. I looked again at the pointed nose.
She gazed at me with bright eyes.
“My Yanko,” Suki screamed
“Fulani Eko,” I yelled.
“How did you find me?” Suki asked, as she rushed into my spread arms. We embraced. She laid her head gently on my shoulder. I smelled the scent of baby lotion, which was her trademark from our primary school days. She held me so snugly that I felt the pulse of her heart. We stood there in warm embrace. When we let go, tears glided along her round cheeks. Why the tears? I thought. What caused the tears?
“Motherhood has not tainted your beauty,” I said.
“My Yanko,” Suki said coyly. She excused herself from the room and went to the bedroom which was to the right of the TV set.
Obelawo then filled me with the rest of the story.
After our primary school education, Obelawo’s father died, and he became a full-time bus conductor and later a driver since he had no one to sponsor his education. Shortly after, Suki’s family moved to Kano following her father’s job transfer to the area. Two years later, Monisola, Suki’s best friend in primary school who also then lived in Kano relocated to Lagos. One day, she boarded Obelawo’s bus. After the two chatted awhile, Monisola told him that Suki lived in Kano. Obelawo got Suki’s address and traveled to Kano the next day. Suki, who was a student at the Federal Government Girls’ Secondary School at the time, was quite surprised to see Obelawo. They renewed their friendship, and Obelawo visited frequently. However, when Suki’s father heard about the “rascal boy” from Lagos who was seeing his daughter, he opposed the friendship on the grounds that she was “too refined to be seen with a bus boy.” Not long after, Suki became pregnant by Obelawo. Her father was shocked. He disowned her and sent her out of the house. Obelawo gladly accepted the pregnancy and brought Suki to Lagos, where they have lived happily ever after. (Obelawo had since reconciled with his in-law.)
Momentarily, Suki ambled in wearing a white shirt and a blue skirt.
“So, Obelawo, you ran away with our boyhood trophy,” I said.
“It was dangerous to leave such a gem in the open for so long. Wolves would gorge her,” Obelawo said as Suki walked to him, sat on his lap, and kissed him passionately on the lips.
“And since we married, it’s been forever pleasurable,” Obelawo said. He looked into Suki’s eyes and their lips again entangled.
“And what’s more, he has never caused me a needless tear,” Suki said cheerfully. “And even when I cried, they were happy tears.”
As I drove home after the visit, I slotted a compact disc into the music player and found the track, “The Colour of My Love,” by Celine Dion. As Celine’s soft voice tickled my soul, I was elated that my dearest wife was also earnestly waiting for me at home. I listened to the song:
I’ll paint my mood in the shades of blue
Paint my soul to be with you
I’ll sketch your lips in shaded tones
Draw your mouth to my own
I’ll draw your arms around my waist
Then all doubt I shall erase
I’ll paint the rain that softly lands on
Your wind-blown hair
I’ll trace a hand to wipe your tears
A look to calm your fears
A silhouette of dark and light
While we hold each other oh so tight
I’ll paint a sun to warm your heart
Swearing that we’ll never part
That’s the colour of my love
I’ll paint the truth
Show how I feel
Try to make you completely real
I’ll use a brush so light and fine
To draw you close and make you mine
I’ll paint the sun to warm your heart
Swearing that we’ll never part
That’s the colour of my love
I’ll draw the years all passing by
So much to learn, so much to try
And with this ring, our lives will start
Swearing that we’ll never part
I offer what you cannot buy
Devoted love until we die
And I reflected on this thing called love. What is love? Is love an intangible field of energy that pulls you to your desire? How powerful is this force? Can you resist it? If yes, why yes? If no, why not? Is love a tyrant? If you cannot resist it, why is it that when you no longer love what you had loved, you are able to pull yourself away? Are there two forces pulling in both directions, allowing love to exist? In other words, for love to exist, as you pull toward your desire, your desire must also pull toward you. The point at which you both meet is the equilibrium of love.
At the primary school, ours was a triangle of relations, not love. We were too young for love and too naïve to understand its mysterious power. However, I now believe that there was a force that we couldn’t comprehend back then—a force that peered far into the future. A force that rewarded those who toiled, sweated and suffered for what they desired.
Suki knew who she wanted, and that was me. Obelawo yearned for no one else but Suki. I, whom Suki wanted, wasn’t sure what I wanted. Hence, I never pulled. Only Suki and Obelawo exerted the force and tapped into its potential. So, it’s only natural that Suki and Obelawo would be rewarded, for they allowed the unseen magnetism of love to pull them together. That same power turned a schoolyard bully into a tender husband. Love is a phantom.
It’s a Woman’s Thing
Character is beauty. And good character is the best adornment.
– Yoruba proverb
After 38 years of blissful marriage, Adesoji could no longer bear it. He finally snapped on that warm Saturday morning. He and his wife, Fadekemi, had a wedding to attend in Ibadan, Oyo State. Adesoji had awakened early to start preparing for the 90-kilometer journey to Ibadan from their home in Victoria Island, an affluent neighborhood in Lagos. As in the past, Fadekemi had been adorning herself—makeup, fine clothes, and elaborate jewelry—for the past 30 minutes. For Adesoji, this seemed like forever.
“Fadekeeeemiiiii,” shouted Adesoji, as his voice filled the big family sitting room.
“Darling, darling,” Fadekemi replied with a calm and playful tone.
“Woman!” Adesoji boomed in anger.
Instantly, Fadekemi knew something was wrong. Her husband wouldn’t call her by any other name, except Fadekemi or honey.
Adesoji is a simple-minded and reserved man. He is tall and heavyset with a broad face, and sprinkles of gray hairs. He generally arrays himself in a simple white guinea brocade robe and trousers, with a blue damask cap.
The Tale of the Cow Tail & Other Stories from the African Diaspora Page 6