The Madman's Recompense
26th August, 2014.
Lagos, Western Nigeria.
It was early Tuesday morning in
mad-traffic Lagos. Eneh was racing off the Third Mainland Bridge for Obalende in
Lagos Island. Sprawled on the bridge ahead of him was a parade of cars caught
in the traffic jam. An announcement on Rhythm 96.5 fm had earlier warned about that
unending jam, which was paradoxically caused by LASTMA- the city's traffic
monitoring agency tasked with preventing such gridlocks. It was senseless coming
that close, knowing he could easily be consumed by the hold-up and that would
be the end of a workday; but he had to, for Carter street- the shortcut he was
heading towards lay at the foot of the bridge.
He momentarily gazed at the digital quartz
piece on the dashboard of the 2005 model Honda Civic he was driving. It was a
minute to eight. He would have been driving calmly to wherever he was going to,
were it to be in other Nigerian cities, but this was Lagos. Here, you couldn't
beat the traffic if you came out by seven in the morning; by eight, you were
thoroughly done. He sighed as he negotiated a bend into Broad street and sped
away. He had to reach Obalende High School, meet the management, settle whatever
issue Toby might have been involved in this time and head back- before eight-thirty,
if he was to arrive at work early that morning.
Work started by nine at the beverage processing
plant where he worked. What would've been a thirty-five minute drive from his home
in mainland Surulere to the plant in Victoria Island usually took him one to
two hours as a result of the traffic jams. "Something must be done about
this city and the traffic lock- downs", he thought as he honked
ceaselessly to alert pedestrians darting across the street. As
he negotiated the last bend by the prestigious King's College, Eneh wondered
what could be the reason for his summon by the school authority. This was the
third time in a semester, he had been invited over concerning Toby; and he was not even his
biological child.
His
real name was Otobong Bassey. He had started calling him Toby from when they
came to Lagos. Eneh could not deny the fact that he was the boy's legitimate guardian.
He had been, for eight years since the boy's father died. Bassey Abang- the
boy's father had suffered from a terminal psychosis, for many years before he eventually
died. Nobody knew the whereabouts of the boy's mother. Monica Abang had left
immediately after her husband lost his sanity. She couldn't bear to be called
the wife of the village madman.
As
Eneh approached the school gate, the gate man peeped out of the security post,
scribbled something on a notepad- probably his car plate-number, before
proceeding to open the gate for him. Eneh drove in, parked and strode towards
the principal's office.
"I think your son deserves some
place better than here, Mr Bassey", the principal had said as soon as Eneh
had settled into a seat in her modestly furnished office.
She was a buxom woman, who wore a plaid
jacket over a flowered gown. Her hair was done in neat plaits- in the manner of
the Deeper Life Church born-agains and the rims of an ornate framed spectacle rested
on her broad nose.
"We moved him up by two classes as
we had recommended and you agreed to the last time we invited you here",
she continued.
"And?" Eneh asked, impatiently.
"Not only are his cognitive skills
very high and impressive, Mr Bassey; but recently we've discovered a shocking
and dangerous edge to it", the principal said cocking her head sideways.
"Madam, I must be frank with you.
I'm not Otobong's biological father, neither is my name Mr Bassey which you call
me. I am Eneh Etteh. As it is, the boy is bereft of both parents and my taking responsibility
of him is an act of charity. Moreover, I don't understand what you mean by a 'shocking
and dangerous edge'. If he has done something bad, go ahead and tell. It is
better to observe and correct a child while he is still young", Eneh had replied
her. He was displeased by the principal's mode of address. Toby was a brilliant
boy. He could be a scamp at times, but Eneh saw nothing wrong in the boy's character
that would warrant dragging him out from Surulere to Obalende all the time. Obalende
High School was a boarding school and that was the reason he sent the boy there
in the first place. He kept a very demanding job and living in Lagos was equally
stressful. He couldn't spare the time to cook and carter for the boy; neither
was there time to drop him off nor pick him up from school. Boarding was the best
option and he had chosen well.
"Yes sir, you've spoken well. It's
quite a revelation about his paternity, though", she had said, shifting
closer to the table and dropping her voice lower as if she wanted to say
something no one else needed to hear.
"You see, we're actually saying
the same thing. A child must be carefully observed and corrected". She moved
even closer, leaning on her side of the table. Her voice had dropped to a mere whisper.
"At first, we thought it was just
about his acute arithmetic quotient. His teacher accidentally found a Durer's Square
composed on the back page of his assignment book; did I tell you about that,
sir? I've got a PhD, but I cannot make a Durer's Square. Besides, he has taught
the students in the whole section Sudoku- a kind of number game I didn't even
know exists; but all of these, none as bone-chilling as our recent
findings", she breathed out heavily, looking ruffled with all the gesticulation.
Eneh had felt pride leap into his chest. His god-son was the talk of the
school, and in a positive light. He had felt pity for the woman. Her generation
had passed and living in today's computer age was enough to turned her into a paranoiac.
Sudoku is a widely known number game. Durer's Square is a tricky thing, though.
It is a mathematical square where the numbers are arranged in such a way that
all the rows, columns and diagonals add up to the same thing. The sixteenth
century German mathematician and painter Albrecht Durer was the first to
complete it and embed such in his paintings. The American mathematician and
mystic, Benjamin Franklin had completed a bigger 8 by 8 square. It was for genuises
and they had already agreed that Toby was one. The woman had tapped on the
table to draw his attention.
"Last weekend, we had scheduled football
matches between the senior secondary graduating class and the class below them;
same for their junior secondary counterparts and the class below them. At the end,
both senior and junior graduating classes emerged winners with different score-lines.
Instead of celebrating with the winners, the whole students were jubilating with
Otobong carried high in the air", she had paused, looked around for a brief
moment and continued.
"Do you believe that your boy had
predicted the scores ahead of the matches correctly? He even went ahead to write
them on each of the classroom blackboards that afternoon. Now, that is where
the problem is Mr Etteh, for both staff and students have started saying funny
things about that boy", she said, thumping the large table with her calloused
knuckles when she got to the end of her narrative.
As Eneh drove away from the school toward
his workplace that morning, he kept wondering about the revelations. He
recalled that morning, eight years ago, when Toby was handed over to him. The boy
was barely four years old then. They had moved to Lagos and lived together even
before he secured a
job as a quality control officer in the beverage processing plant he was presently
rushing to. Since when Toby enrolled in school, his academic performance had
always dwarfed those of his peers. He had taken the first school leaving
certificate examinations while he was in primary four, passed with distinctions
and proceeded to secondary school ahead of others. At Obanlede High school, he
had become the leader of the school Mathematics and Quiz clubs, just within
three years. There was more to it than ordinary brilliance. Toby was gradually
becoming his late father- even unto the mystical aspects. Eneh couldn't piece
it together, yet he knew he had to heed the principal's advice. The boy had to
be withdrawn from Obalende High School, to a school safer for genuises like
him.
17th
May, 2006
Uyo,
Southern Nigeria.
Eneh
was awakened by an eerie sound. He rolled over on the bed fumbling about the bedside
for his Nokia cell phone. The time on the phone screen was 6:05 a.m. He heard
the sound again, tiptoed to the window and peeped behind the curtain. He was
surprised to see a human form sitting atop the fence. It crossed over and
jumped into the compound. Eneh thought it was a thief and wanted to raise alarm
but abandoned the thought momentarily. It was already morning. What could a burglar
be doing in the morning? The human form sidled forward, mumbled and staggered as
it passed the window towards the door. Only then did Eneh realize who it was. Bassey
Abang, the village madman. What was Bassey doing scaling his fence, he thought?
And where was he going? The previous evening at Madam Black's joint, Bassey had
told him of a secret in his keeping. He wanted to reveal it to him only, he had
said. Eneh did not take it to heart. He thought that the drink he bought for the
man had loosened his tongue, or it was just madman talk. Now, as he stood
contemplating by the window, he realized the man must have been serious about
it.
It
all started at Madam Black's joint. Madam Black was the short, plump woman that
sold Ogogoro- a cheap locally brewed dry gin, along his street. In Uyo where he
came from- as it were in other riverine towns and cities of southern Nigeria, Ogogoro
was the opium of the poor masses. Ogogoro vending stalls were easy to set-up.
All that was required was a table, used Eva water bottles to stock diverse
herbs used to impact different flavours to the gin, an umbrella to shield the concoctions
from the direct heat of the tropical sun and a couple of benches for customers.
In most cases, cigarettes, kola-nuts and bitter-kolas, as well as mint chewing-gums
were sold as accompaniments. Eneh wasn't an alcoholic. He had drank the occasionally
beer or two in his university days. But the frustration of being unemployed, four
years after graduation had gotten to him. He had graduated as one of the top
ten in his class from the prestigious University of Nigeria, Nsukka in 2002. The
next year saw him successfully completing the National Youth Service Corps, a compulsory
cultural and socio-ethnic exchange programme established after the Nigeria-Biafran
civil war in 1973 to enhance ethnic re-integration and promote national unity.
Though the aim of the scheme has been defeated in contemporary Nigeria, fresh
university graduates still had to serve the country for a full year, in a state
different from ones' home state and located in a different cultural background from
the ones lived or schooled in. He had served as a chemistry teacher in a
secondary school in Zamfara, in far away northern Nigeria.
At
the end of the service year, the principal of the school had tried every means
within his reach to retain him- even giving him a calf which the students took
turns to rear, but he could not be persuaded to stay. He was a southerner- an Ibibio
who could neither understand the ways of the Hausas, the religious
intolerance in the north nor stand the extreme arid-weather. At the end, he had
packed up with one thing in mind- the southerner had no place in the north; for
he was not only a kafir, but also seen as a corruption to the culture, a
diluting factor to the sanctity of religion (Islam) and a sacrificial lamb whose
blood must be spilled sooner or later to quench the thirst of the parched land.
It was better before the advent of Boko-Haram; now, being a teacher
(someone viewed as an agent of western education) and living in the north is
like a cockroach living in a poultry farm. If it escapes being eaten for
breakfast, it may not escape supper. So, Eneh left the north and returned to his
village in Uyo.
At first, he
didn't associate with those Ogogoro drinkers. To him, they were dim wits staggering
up and down his street every evening. Soon his prejudice was cured and he was
lured- for it was not just the alcohol and cigarette odour that was oozing out from
there, but arguments in good grammar too. Most were graduates like him. Only a few
had no formal education at all. To them
all, as it came to be with him- Madam Black's was a school of thought were
ideas were freely exchanged. At Madam Black's, the failing polity, prevailing socio-economic
conditions as well as the new trend of islamized terrorism were discussed
freely. They were all united by the unemployment scourge.
Barely two weeks after
his acquaintance with the fold, on a fateful evening, Eneh had his encounter
with Bassey Abang, the village madman. Moments before Bassey had lifted the
lace-curtain on the door and strutted in, a strong stench different from that
of the alcohol and cigarette had wafted into the crowded joint from outside. It
was his body odour. The chattering had died down, as every boozer's attention
was drawn to the unexpected guest. The madman had walked up and spoken to him.
"Good people shouldn't mix up with these
retards". His English was impeccable. His remark had elicited a bout of laughter
from the customers in the joint. It was funny that of all the people there, it
was him Bassey had chosen to speak to. It was a bit embarrassing too, being addressed
that way by a madman. "Buy
me a drink, and I'll be your friend", Bassey continued. Eneh had signaled
Madam Black to give him a tot of the concoction.
"Madam Black,
I drink only monkey-tail. Let these eight weaklings drink lemon-grass and lime
and bitter-kola and what-have-you", the madman had said pointing at the
other boozers in the joint. He was referring to the herbal blend he preferred
his gin. Monkey-tail is the nickname of gin flavoured with marijuana leaves. It
is a very strong brew, infact two tot- fulls could knock one out in few minutes.
After he had taken a sip from his drink, he turned to Eneh again. "Come let's
talk outside. I have a secret to share and besides, these wretchs are smelling like
mice", as he said that, he had dragged Eneh with one hand while carefully
holding the drink in the other. The joint roared again with laughter. Once
outside, Bassey addressed him. "Now I've reduced the number of fools to
seven. I want to make you a rich man, just like me. Those idiots are jealous because
they know how rich I am. I am a guru too. I have worked out the hidden numbers;
and it is in here", the madman had said, tapping on his head and
momentarily pausing to gulp his brew. He continued. "I like you, so, I
will give you the key. When you become rich, you will take care of Otobong for
me. I'm not sure you even know Otobong...you must be a fool not to know my fine
son. But don't worry, I will not punish you for your foolishness; rather I'll
reward you for buying me this drink...your reward comes tomorrow, I'll meet you
early in the morning", He had kept on blabbing. Eneh stared in mock-bewilderment.
"Won't you say
thank you, for offering to help you out of your poverty?", the mad man had
asked him at the end. "Thank you, sir", Eneh had shouted, bursting
into uncontrollable laughter. The madman reminded him once again, that it was a
secret, emptied his tot, smiled in satisfaction and walked briskly away.
All these happened
the previous evening. Now, the madman was at his door. Eneh didn't want his neighbors'
attention to be drawn to the madman's visit; so he wore a shirt and opened the
door, even before the madman knocked. "Follow me", the madman
ordered. Eneh followed him to the gate,
unlocked it and walked out to the street. Bassey Abang- together with his son lived
in a shack located some few houses away from his. Eneh had thought they would
be going there. However, he was dismayed when he saw a boy of about four years
old standing adjacent to his gate. The boy was nodding and swaying
uncontrollably as if he was forcefully woken from sleep. Bassey walked to the
boy and dragged him towards Eneh. He held the boy's hand and placed it in Eneh's
own. The boy hand was thin and wrinkled. He further dug into one of his tattered
trouser pocket, brought out a rumpled piece of damp paper and handed it to him.
Eneh unfolded the paper; four numbers were scrawled on it. "It took me
five years to get those numbers straight. They are the draws for this week's
fixed odds. Bet with it and use the proceeds to take care of Otobong for
me", Bassey said and walked away without even looking back at his son.
Eneh led the boy inside.
Though he was unemployed, he made up his mind to take care of him. Two days
later, it was heard in the neighbourhood that Bassey Abang, the village madman
was dead. Eneh, who had forgotten the rumpled paper in the pocket of the red
and white checkered shirt he wore that morning the madman visited, retrieved it
and visited Edem's Success Pools office at Akpakpan street. He placed his two
thousand naira worth wager and by weekend he was five hundred thousand naira richer.
A week after the madman was interred, Eneh packed his few belongings and
together with the boy, boarded a bus to Lagos. There were plenty job
opportunities in Lagos, he had half a million naira in his pocket; he was going
to live well till he got a job.
29th August, 2014
Kaduna, Northern Nigeria.
The heat of the day couldn't faze him, neither
could the anticipation of attacks by extremists- which were common on these northern
roads nor even death. Uyo was on Eneh's mind. From Uyo- after he had spent few
days with family and discussed the recent happenings concerning Toby, he would
be going back to Lagos. He had taken two weeks casual leave from his workplace.
He wasn't ready for a query or deductions from his salary. He had to be back
before the permit expired.
They
had passed Zaria and the southern parts of Kaduna- with all its rustic looks. The
northern wasteland lay behind radiating a terrible heat that caused him to
perspire profusely. He could feel the sweat from his back trickling down the
cleft between his buttocks. Hope of lush vegetation lay ahead in Jos. The grasses
by the roadsides began to thicken and the sands receded a great deal. Brown mud
huts became more abundant and closer to the road from the bushes. Their bus had
turned off Manchok- Plateau road taking Kagoro- Jos road through Kachia. It was
farther, but more travel friendly in these days of bombs and Boko Haram insurgency.
The road lay over a stretch of seemingly unending tarmac, serpentine across the
savanna. Fulanis cattle herds-men, sticks flung behind their backs roamed the veld
with their humped herds. Natives gathered on mats beneath stunted trees. They
had to shade from the scorching sun. The weather suddenly changed; in few
minutes they had reached the coldest city in Nigeria. They were in Jos.
As
their bus drove through the acacia forest area of the plateau, Eneh felt an in-depth
joy knowing that in about an hour and a half, they would be crossing the great Benue
River and exiting Hausa-land with its attendant apprehensions. He also felt a sense
of loss. A deep-seated sadness over leaving Toby behind, in that arid savanna. Memories
of the last moments before he left the boy flooded his mind. The boy had only
asked if he will be visiting often. Eneh had nodded his agreements, though he
knew he was lying. He had lied even more- from when he went to take the boy away
from Obalende High School. He had told him he was transferred from Lagos to Kaduna.
That was the first time he saw the boy being depressed. He was going to lose the
few friends he had at Obalende High. Eneh pitied him, even as he went into the
hostel to pack his few belongings. But there was nothing he could do about it-
for the school authority had advised him to withdraw the boy. The principal had
further mentioned that there was a school she knew of in Kaduna state. A school
where such children with rare gifts were being sent.
"There
is a rumoured that the teachers engage magic to control the kids there; ain't
that weird...?", she had paused suddenly not wanting to offend him with her
small talk. Eneh had smiled. He was not offended by any of it. Toby was not weird.
He was just a chip off his father's block. He had a knack for numbers- there
was nothing unnatural about that. Others might term that whatever they wanted, not
him. He loved the boy. He recalled how the boy had calculated the change he was
supposed to be given by each of the conductors of the different buses they
boarded en route Kaduna.
After
being on the roads for two days, they'd reached Kaduna and were able to locate the
institution. It was a beautiful school with white washed walls. Its structures
contrasted with the mud huts that littered the northern country side. The
administrative block stood in front of other buildings. Toby was shown to his hostel
after the admission procedures. While he was away, the admission officer had
asked Eneh in a Hausa accented pidgin-english; "dis one, wetin be him own
witchcraft, kwo?"
"He
is not a wizard or any of such things, he is a gifted kid", Eneh had challenged
back furiously.
"If
he is gifted, why ai no allow am stay for ya house, kwo?", the man had queried.
Eneh ignored him.
Ever
since he was told of the boy's strange obsession with numbers and the discovery
of his predictive streak, he hadn't been himself. Though it was clear that he
inherited the trait from his late father, Eneh failed to understand how such an
inert character was transferable. Was it in their blood, or was there a
spiritual link? Eneh was afraid for him. He was too young and innocent. He was vulnerable
too, for this world had no place for his kind. "Who will guide him if his
gifts are discovered prematurely"? Eneh had asked himself. He remembered
the dirty kids that roamed the streets and ate out of waste-bins in Uyo and
Lagos. Those children were ostracized from their homes because they possessed uncommon
abilities. Little witches and wizards, they were called. They were stigmatized
for being born with rare talents. Most went through cruel and inhuman treatments
in the hands of prophets, native doctors and exorcists who claimed they could rid
the demons possessing them. To keep the extortions from these children's
parents coming, they would claim those children were so deeply rooted in witchcraft
that they dared not perform the exorcisms immediately- they needed time; otherwise,
they would demand more money to buy unbelievable ingredients for their impotent
potions. At such times, one began to wonder how those children became witches
and wizards while their parents are deacons and elders in churches. Are witches
not supposed to beget their kinds? If there were to be truths in those allegations,
are the blames and punishments not supposed to be visited on the adults that
initiated them? He couldn't imagine Toby living the life those kids lived. Toby
was a genius and he was going to ensure that nothing happened to him.
Eneh
peered out of the bus window. Rocks and boulders dotted both sides of the terrain.
Some formed mountainous silhouettes which blocked the sunlight; others crouched
in dramatic postures over the horizon. The road tunneled through some others dangerously
hanging as if they would cave-in and crush the passing vehicles within their core.
Such a captivating scenery it was. Nature must have rumbled the earth in Jos,
Eneh thought. God must have pelted the city with stones. An hour later, the bus
sped through Lafia and Akwanga. Eneh sighed with relief knowing that in few
hours, he would be on the other side of Benue. The bus would travel all evening
and through the night. It would make momentary stops at Ogbulafor and Onitsha
in eastern Nigeria. Come tomorrow morning, he would be home with his people in Uyo.
12th
September, 2014
Lagos,
Western Nigeria.
Eneh sat
resignedly in his 2005 model Honda Civic saloon car. The traffic on the bridge
was not moving any faster and the tropical heat of the day was replaced by engine
and exhaust heat emanating from the cars crawling fender to bumper across the Third
Mainland into both sides of the big city.It was a friday, two weeks after he had
placed Toby in the Gifted Children's School in Kaduna and a week after he returned
from Uyo. The digital quartz piece on his dashboard showed six fifteen p.m.
Night was approaching and Lagosians were getting ready to party. On friday nights
like this, public workers joined the partying frenzy. Theirs was to celebrate
the arrival of the weekend. "Eko oni'gbaje o! Thank God its friday",
they would often be heard saying. Some Lagosians would even have TGIF
emblazoned boldly on their tee shirts. Traffic usually was at a dead-lock. On
evenings like this, no radio station offered traffic warnings. They all played music-
and Lagos music was full of variety. Such a mad symphony it was hearing the mix
of diverse forms of music blaring from so many car stereos. Lagosians had a "mind-your-own-business"
mentality, so you could only listen to yours and ignore the noise from the
others. Ahead of Eneh's Honda Civic, Fela Kuti was croaking from a BMW X3- probably
an afroJuju fan heading to the New Afrika Shrine at Ikeja. Tuface Idibia
was crooning sweetly from another car behind. The yellow painted danfos and
molues (as commercial buses and taxis were called) played Garala-
the reggae flavored dancehall originating from the ghettos of Ajegunle. Daddy
Showkey was their maestro. Few conservative drivers tuned into stations that
played Yoruba high life music- if those ever ventured out on fridays, it would
be for an Owambe to Sir Victor Olaiye's record. Lagos was a land of mixed
cultures.
Traffic idled along
the bridge. The air had a faint smell of decaying reeds from the lagoons and
creeks. When Eneh went off the bridge, he headed towards Ikorodu road where he picked
up Cynthia at Commonwealth Avenue in Palm Groove Estate and headed back to his
house at Surulere. Cynthia had been his lover for two years now and they always
spent weekends together.
Eneh woke up from
a dream by seven in the morning on Saturday. As he sat on the bed rubbing his
eyes, an aroma of fresh cooking filled his nostril. Cynthia was already making breakfast,
he thought as he wobbled to the living room. Unlike other times, Eneh was not attracted
to the kitchen. His mind was focused on the dream he woke up from. It was about
Toby. In the dream, Toby was sitting on his iron school-box with his left hand hidden
behind his back. Eneh had asked him what he was hiding; at which Toby gave him a
smooth, brown pebble with numbers written on it. While Eneh was still turning
the pebble over in his palm, the boy had started crying. He said he was not done
with the pebble yet. Eneh had offered the pebble back, but just as the boy
stretched his hand to collect, he vanished into thin air.
As Eneh sat in the
living room struggling to interpret the dream, he was startled by a loud ring
from his cell phone. He answered at second ring. The call came from Kaduna. The
caller who identified himself as the principal of the Gifted Children's School sighed
mournfully over the crackling line. He began to narrate, stammering in-between
sobs.
"He-llo S-sir,
there is a problem here in Kaduna. O-our school was a-attacked...yes, attacked
at about two-thirty, this m-morning. Some gunmen- probably members of the Boko-Haram
militant sect came in the veil of darkness. It was terrible, walahi! M-many
children were taken; some tried to escape- they were shot", the voice broke
down and sobbed more; paused a moment as if to regain some control, and then continued.
"Please
s-sir, I am so-so sorry to inform you that Otobong was one of them. We saw his b-body
th-this morning. As I speak now, he has been placed in the city-morgue. I hope
you...you...", it trailed off and the line disconnected. The phone fell
from Eneh's hand. The call had ignited an inferno inside him. He was burning.
The information was too much for his mind to process. All he thought of was the
dream- the numbers on the smooth pebble. His breath shallowed, his knees buckled;
Eneh fainted.
Anny Justin Udofia, 28; is a Food Technologist and an African Poet/
Writer who hails from Akwa Ibom Stain Nigeria. His poems have
appeared in RedParrot Magazine in Owerri- so too has his articles. He
has also been published online on
www.kalaharireview.com;
www.poemhunters.com etc.
"The Metamorphosis and Other Poems' is his unpublished poetry collection.
Apart from this, he has a flair for flash fiction and short stories. He speaks Ibibio, Igbo and English. He writes under the name Poet Razon-Anny Justin too.
Phone: +2347036647700
Twitter: @Poet_Razon, @Razon_daPoet
