He fidgeted with the car key, and left the room for the car park downstairs. As he descended the spiral staircase in the duplex home, his mind went back to 40 years ago when he returned from England to Nigeria after graduating from the medical school. He had gone to see his friend, Omobolaji, at Sandgross, in Lagos Island. Omobolaji had invited him to his birthday celebration. At the party, Adesoji spotted this young woman, probably in her early twenties, seated alone about 30 feet away. She sported a well-plaited “shuku” hairstyle and wore a congenial smile. Her soft countenance and angelic eyes captivated Adesoji.
As the music of I. K. Dairo from the track “Salome” boomed from the loud speaker, Adesoji approached the charming woman. The song was a love ballad in praise of Salome, a beautiful, alluring, ebony woman with a regal presence. Adesoji asked her for a dance. She accepted. Two years later, he married her.
Fadekemi loved to look good, well-kept and groomed. For her, beauty was both internal and external, and she wasn’t about to allow old age to lead her to a sloppy appearance. Although she wasn’t an extravagant spender, she had a very good sense of style, and always took her time to ensure she looked her best for any outing. And that had been the cause of the minor argument with Adesoji.
Adesoji opened the door to his Mercedes—one of the four cars in the garage. He switched on the engine. Still very angry, he left the key in the ignition and went back into the house. Fadekemi was still in the bedroom.
Adesoji looked at the gold Rolex watch on his wrist, and his eyes traveled to the wall clock. He became more agitated.
“Womannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn,” Adesoji shouted in a deeper timbre voice.
“Olowo ori mi (my master); I’m on the way,” Fadekemi said softly and apologetically as she stepped into the sitting room. She looked taller than her five feet nine inches because of her good carriage. Her head, shoulders and back were upright, and she walked with the grace of a ballet dancer. She held a brown leather Gucci handbag, and the smell of her Chanel No. 5 perfume filled the room.
Adesoji looked at her with a stern face.
“Ah darling, how do I look?” Fadekemi said. Her cheeks and chin glowed, and she looked lovingly at Adesoji. “Is the headgear well tied? I thought I couldn’t get the right twist that I wanted.”
Adesoji said nothing.
“Darling, wouldn’t you say something?” Fadekemi said affectionately.
Adesoji was silent.
“Okay, I’ll go and tie it the way you’d like it,” Fadekemi said, as she looked toward the master bedroom.
“Woman!” Adesoji hollered as he looked at her, then dropped the car key on the ornate wooden stool to his right. His cap followed, and he sat down on the three-seater sofa.
“Aha, darling, are we not going again,” Fadekemi inquired. She couldn’t understand why Adesoji took his seat. She started to praise Adesoji, extolling his family’s ancestral values and power.
“You are the son of the elephant who inherited his grandeur
In your great-grandfather’s home, slaves never slept on mats
The servants of your ancestors slept on beds stuffed with fine ostrich feathers
Your father never coveted honour
But prosperity flung itself on his footstool
It begged to be courted in your household.”
Adesoji didn’t respond as he remained transfixed on the settee with a melancholy look that Fadekemi had never seen him wear. His eyes traveled to the family group photograph on the wall. It was taken about 27 years earlier, shortly after the birth of their first child—a girl, who inherited her beauty from Fadekemi. Another photograph was close by. It showed Adesoji, Fadekemi, Aderonke, then 10 years old, and her young brother, Aderinkomi, and sister, Aderiyibi.
Fadekemi jolted him back to the present.
“What’s the matter, my prince?” she asked soothingly. “Is it because I had taken long to dress up for this event? Is it?”
Adesoji didn’t allow her to finish. “A farmer who doesn’t want his farmland to be used as a thoroughfare must one day stop the trespassing,” he said. “Look, I don’t understand these unnecessary delays. I mean, who are you really trying to impress, or whose attention do you crave? Who’s interested in the charm of a 58-year-old grandmother?”
“Aha,” Fadekemi replied sucking a fresh breath of air as she stared devotedly at Adesoji. “Today is the harvest of words. The reply is ripe today.”
“Eeehn,” a surprised Adesoji said.
“Now you asked, after nearly turning me into an old cargo, though I’ve refused to be made so, who am I trying to charm?” Fadekemi said, as she dropped her clutch bag on the center table.
Adesoji cringed and removed his shoes from his feet.
“Okay, you want to know,” Fadekemi continued. “Dressing well makes me feel good. It brings an inner joy that words alone cannot express. It gives me that kick of life. It’s all about the dignity of womanhood. Taking time to dress well is a women’s thing and men don’t seem to get it.”
“Hunnnnnn,” Adesoji muttered in a soft, excited tone.
“But most of all, it’s all for you, my prince,” Fadekemi said. “It’s the best way for me to show the world that you have a very good taste for beauty; that you know how to take care of your wife, and that I continue to blossom graciously in your house.”
Adesoji exhaled softly, and he felt the anger evaporate from within. But he was still speechless.
“My Darling with a capital D, my everlasting. The ground on which I stand is yours. The grass on which my horse grazes and tumbles is also yours, ” said Fadekemi tenderly as she knelt down in front of Adesoji.
“Alright,” Adesoji said. He embraced her, but didn’t make any move to get up.
“I think we can go now before the heavy traffic at Oworonsoki starts,” Fadekemi said.
Adesoji ogled her in disbelief. “We are no longer going. But I’ve forgiven you, and I’m no longer angry. Okay?” Adesoji said calmly.
“Forgiven me?” confused Fadekemi said. “And yet you don’t want us to go out. So, I’ve wasted the 50,000 naira for this aso oke (garment) and the new bag to match.”
Silence.
“So, we will stay at home to do what?” Fadekemi said with teary eyes.
“Oh, we’ll stay at home to do nothing,” Adesoji said imperiously, waving his hands in the air.
“Then we will turn that nothing to something,” said Fadekemi, as she grabbed his flowing robe.
“What?” Adesoji said, as he didn’t anticipate her bold reaction.
“Maybe today is when you will give me what I last demanded from you about 27 years ago,” Fadekemi said with smile.
“What gift?” a confused Adesoji asked.
“What gift? Okay, let’s go inside the bedroom. That’s where we can begin to make the child of my old age,” Fadekemi said. “A child that I can talk to and play with since I no longer deserve your attention.”
Fadekemi stood up and planted a warm kiss on Adesoji’s lips. They embraced, and he felt the tenderness and touch that could melt even a stone heart. Fadekemi gently placed her head on his broad shoulder and found peace. She wouldn’t let go as Adesoji tried to free himself from her.
“Aha, you want the whole world to accuse a virile 68-year-old man of lovingly killing a 58-year-old grandmother?” Adesoji said, as he dislodged himself from Fadekemi.
“That’s not a new tale in the world,” Fadekemi said seductively, as she tried to wrap her arms around him.
Adesoji moved nimbly to the left.
“Where did I put the car key, oh the car key,” Adesoji thought aloud, slipping on his black Geoffrey Bailey shoes. “Please, let’s go to the party.”
Fadekemi stood, arms akimbo, and pretended that she didn’t hear what her husband had just said.
“What about a sweet kiss for the road,” Fadekemi said teasingly through half-parted lips.
“Fadekemiiiiiiii,” Adesoji said, as he grabbed his cap, picked up the car key, and ran to
ward the door. Fadekemi followed on his heels.
Palm Wine, Women and Gossips
It walks into the village silently at sunrise, and there is wild jubilation at sunset (A praise to palm wine)
At Biyan village, people still wake up to the call of the cock crow. Dogs still wander around with their puppies, hens still roam with their broods, birds still chirp gleefully on trees, and little boys and girls still saunter around naked. The women joyfully fry garri at courtyards, while the men cherish the farm or the hunt for game in the thick forest.
Biyan is close to Abalabi village on the east and Eiye Fo’do on the west, in the Omi Adio area of Ogun State. It’s a settlement where everyone knows everyone. The houses are built of dull, red mud with thatched roofs. A long footpath runs along the village leading steeply down to the slow, noiseless Ibere River.
At Biyan, humor or rumor help to maintain harmony, and the friendly banter at the palm wine bar have kept the people together for ages. In the morning, the village is quiet and serene—a contrast to the boisterous evening when everyone returns home. Close to the baobab tree in the center of the village is a bamboo shed with a thatched palm frond roof. The shed is located along a narrow sandy path surrounded on both sides by guava trees.
This evening, as it’s been for so many years, the men gather at the shed, owned by Lugo, the palm wine tapper. After the day’s work, they often come to enjoy fresh palm wine, the mildly intoxicating and sweet liquid whose sap is collected from the cut flower of a palm tree. They sit in a circle on the knee high bamboo log placed on bifurcated trees. As the men enjoy the drink, they joke and gossip about everything under the earth.
Balu, a burly man with a melancholy look, is in his early sixties. He is, undeniably, a happy man. Life at the palm wine shed revolves around him because he has many tales to tell. He has traveled far and wide, enjoys good music and his home is full of troublesome women. He has five wives and enjoys nothing better than collecting women as trophies. People say he has been adequately compensated by the gods because he has fifteen children—all female. Two of the girls by Ariyike, his fourth wife, neither resemble Balu nor Ariyike. Why? Balu and Ariyike are not gap-toothed. The rumor is that the children belong to Obojo, the only gap-toothed man in Biyan.
Oreke, the wife of Lugo, pours palm wine into the calabashes. Oreke is tall, stoutly built, with a rising and falling backside. She has flashing, black eyes and a charming, broad smile. She also has a caustic tongue and her raw talk has endeared her to the men, especially when she takes on Balu. Oreke has eight children, and nobody has ever doubted their fatherhood.
Balu pulls the tip of Oreke’s wrapper, drawing her to his side as if he wants her to pour some palm wine into his cup. His eyes travel to the U-shape neck of Oreke’s native attire which reveals her well-rounded bust. Balu launches into the song of Ayinla Omowura and how the Apala music maestro seduced a married woman who had a beer bar in Abeokuta. In a bluesy voice, Omowura admonished the husband for allowing his beautiful wife to sell beer.
Eni fe iyawo arewa
To gba fun koma ta oti
Chorus
Maigida oh, Maigida oh
Iyawo t’aba fi si’po aye jije e je o ja’ye
E fi faari si won nigba
E fi oyaya si won lorun
E tun nga’run, e tun nga’mu
Chorus
Maigida oh, Maigida oh
Iyawo t’aba fi si’po aye jije e je o ja’ye
A man who marries a beautiful woman
And allows her to own a beer parlor
Chorus
Master of the house, master of the house
A wife whom you placed in the midst of pleasure
Should be allowed to indulge herself
You put pride into her stock
And cheerfulness on her neck
Yet you are watching her every step
Chorus
Master of the house, master of the house
A wife whom you placed in the midst of pleasure
Should be allowed to indulge herself
All other patrons know that Balu always refers to this song to irk Lugo, who watches the action going on through the window of the bar from where Balu flirts with his wife. Lugo is bow-legged and the joke around the village is that the legs are good gift from the gods to enable Lugo to conveniently wrap his body around a palm tree and easily tap palm wine. Indeed, he can climb a palm tree faster than he can walk on land.
Lugo was born in Biyan village, but when he wanted to marry, he went to Ayede village, about 70 miles away. He married Oreke, one of the most beautiful girls in the province. The rumor is that Lugo used juju to marry Oreke because there was no way a beautiful girl like her would willfully marry a “crooked-leg,” palm wine tapper. Another rumor was that Lugo had laced Oreke with evil charms known as magun to ensure that she would remain faithful to him.
Balu lifts his calabash tenderly and spills a small amount on the ground as a sign of respect to the ancestors. He then touches the spilled liquid on the ground, touches his forehead and mutters some prayers. Everybody say Amen.
“I’ll tell you the secret of a successful polygamist,” Balu says, as he sips some palm wine and swirls it in his mouth. “All the wives must hate one another. And with that they will crave the love of the man.” He sips more foamy liquid from the calabash.
“For what does a man need many wives?” Obojo interjects. He is the same age as Balu. The talk in the village is that he has been cursed by the god that no woman should ever live with him. He has been married thrice, and his three wives from another village visit him occasionally.
“Well, you will know in old age why a man needs many wives,” Balu responds with an antagonistic glare. “And you may want to know why I’m more prosperous than you. You, a wretched hunter.”
“What has my wretchedness got to do with a man who cannot get peace in his home?” Obojo replies. “Rather than an abatement of her viciousness, a witch gives birth to only female children and witchcraft multiplies.”
“Today, I will tell you what you don’t know,” Balu says with an earnest face.
“What message can we get from the son of a poor wood hacker who books an appointment with a white man for three o’clock?” Obojo says.
“When the guinea pig is old, it suckles the breasts of its children,” Balu says, provoking a wild laughter from the patron. “These daughters will provide money for me through dowries in my old age. And what will you fall on Obojo? What will you fall on but wretchedness and loneliness?”
“You may as well start sucking them right now,” Obojo says. Then he waits for some moments in deep thought as he reflects on what he just said. “Ehn, Ehn, don’t tell me you are even sleeping with—abomination.”
All along, Ashafa who sits across them has been quiet, but he cannot take it any longer. He is a sincere, calm, and introspective man. Ashafa, Balu’s best friend, has been happily married to Abebi for about 35 years. Ashafa is also blessed with prosperous children—two sons and a daughter. Akobi, his first son, is a successful cocoa trader in Abeokuta. The second son is a banker in Lagos, while his daughter is the wife of the richest timber merchant in Sokori village, about 100 miles from Biyan.
The villagers are proud of him and always remark that his association with Balu has torn apart the wise saying that a bad company corrupts good manners. He is noted for his native sagacity and witty sayings. One of his favorites is: “A man who marries one wife marries one pleasure, when he marries two that becomes double problems.”
“You don’t appreciate a woman’s beautiful hair by the eyes, but by word,” he often says. “In other words, compliment a woman who has taken the time to put on a beautiful hairdo.”
And another is, “On the day your wife cooks a new soup, you must have an appetite to eat. This is to appreciate her efforts in preparing the food.”
The Tale of the Cow Tail & Other Stories from the African Diaspora Page 7