January 6, 2024 NewsOrient
Books
By Dapo Thomas

Iya Ibadan had not gone to Alagomeji in the last three years. Neither had Baba Alogemeji visited Surulere in the last one year. He was so called because he stayed in Akinwunmi street, somewhere in Alagomeji.

Both mother and son were senior citizens. They hardly went out. So, how did Baba Alagomeji get to know that “awọn ọmọ Fausa fe pa iya yin”. At a time when there was no GSM, somebody somewhere had gone to inform him that if he wanted his mother to live long, he should go and send us away from the house.

As at 1970 when this incident happened, iya Ibadan was 86 and somebody was saying we didn’t want her to live long. Ironically, in most of her homilies to me, iya Ibadan was always talking about meeting her MAKER as soon as possible because her eyes had seen enough iniquities and misconducts in this world.

Contrary to what the gossips and whistleblowers told Baba Alagomeji about us, it was not our malfeasance that wanted to kill Iya Ibadan. It was government. Yes, government.

Let me explain. There was a popular Yoruba movie then titled “Wole, Wole Arufin…… ” by Ayinla Olumegbon. It was about a council’s environmental health officer who went around the locality terrorizing innocent food vendors and fleecing them of their meager profits. Those who didn’t have money to give him were forced to give certain rations of their food to the officer in lieu of bribe. It didn’t end well for him as he was disgraced by angry and frustrated vendors who could no longer tolerate his excesses. He lost his sanity to the greed of his vanity.

In that state of madness, children composed a scintillating song for him to dance to. The song, “Wol,e, Wole, ki lo ri, tanwiji, yanmuyanmu…” became so popular that Health officers in all Lagos Councils had to change their uniforms to mufti at the close of work to escape harassment by children who instantly sang the song on sighting them on the streets.

We thought the drama would end in the cockpit of entertainment until one day when about twelve Environmental Health officers were deployed to our area by the Town Council.

It was one of them that now came to harass my great-grandmother when she was cooking her favourite “ẹfọ gbure”. He was extremely rude to iya Ibadan.

Rudeness by some government officials is not a new development. “Iya, ṣe é rí pé gutter yin dótì ni? E nṣe obe nibi gutter ti o dótì.” What kind of mannerless fellow would be talking like that to an octogenarian simply because she was cooking close to an unclean gutter?

If you were going to blame an old woman for doing her cooking close to a dirty gutter, couldn’t you have asked her two children that were with her? My great-grandmother was even very apologetic and told him that the gutter was still going to be washed by her two great-grandsons but that we had many house chores to do.

This was the truth because my brother and I were washing clothes when he came. This officer insisted that he was going to “seize” iya Ibadan’s pot of fresh soup. Despite the fact that this was a common practice at that time, it was an act of wickedness to do this to an 86 year old woman who already spent one hour cooking the soup.

We thought the man was just blabbing and that no action was likely to be taken. But we were mistaken. The man quenched the fire with water causing a big ball of ash from the earthenware fire-pot (Adogan).

In the midst of these smoke and ashes, I ran in with the pot of soup that was under the threat of being confiscated.

I didn’t know when the hot pot touched my skin leaving a slight skin-peel that caused a scar on my tummy which I still carry till today as a memorabilia of Wole- Wole excesses.

I successfully piloted the pot to safety in the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine an Environmental Health officer seizing the soup that me and my brother had planned for after washing the clothes.

From our backyard, we could see that a lot of controversies had developed around “Gutter dótì”. This Yoruba phrase whose etymology is unknown could have come into use in the 1960s and early 1970s when environmental health officers were fond of complaining of dirty gutters.

As usual, neighbours had gathered in our backyard ready to mob all the health officers should they do anything to Iya Ibadan or her pot of soup. Perceiving the inherent danger awaiting them should they sanction my great-grandmother in anyway for this contravention, the leader of the team beckoned to his subordinates to leave our house immediately and move to the office.

By the time they left, Iya Ibadan went straight to the bed after going through a stressful scene. My brother and I made sure that we cleaned up the gutter that caused the crisis.

We tidied up everywhere since we knew that the expended energy would be replenished with anticipated strength from the eba that would serve as our brunch.

The “gutter dótì ‘ incident started around 10 in the morning and ended by the noon time. Excited about this brunch prospect, we asked iya Ibadan what next we should do.

We boiled the water as directed and she made the eba for us. She couldn’t go to the kitchen to dish the soup, so she asked me to fetch the soup. As soon as I entered the kitchen, I knew tragedy had struck.

The pot cover was some distance away from the pot it was meant to protect, the pot was miserably empty, there was no single fish left in the pot. No Titus, no tilapia, no gbure, no shawa (dry fish).

I was the one that carried the pot inside. I knew there was something inside the pot. Iya Ibadan normally cooked soup that we would eat for 2 days but this one did not last two hours.

I quickly called my brother to come and see the “eemo” (mystery) that I saw in the kitchen. Late-tua followed me with fits of fury. He thought I was pranking until he saw it himself. The two of us were transfixed. We didn’t know what to do.

Influenced by the mystical powers usually displayed in most of the Yoruba movies by people like Hubert Ogunde, Duro Ladipo and Eda Onile Ola, my mind went straight to the Wole-Wole guy. I was thinking the soup had disappeared.

We heard iya Ibadan’s cough in the room and we pondered how to break this “culinary tragedy” to her. We went inside to see if she was fully awake so we could brief her. We were going to her room when our cat ran from under the cupboard in the kitchen straight to the frontage. Ahhhhhhhhh, could it be the cat that devoured the soup and all its fishy contents.? I quickly went on the floor to see what was under the cupboard. Alas, it was the cat that did it. Every evidence we needed to indict and prosecute the cat for “soup pot theft” was under the cupboard.

It was needless to ask what would happen to our eba. Two options: throw it away and/or eat it like that. I couldn’t eat mine with water but I drank water after eating it just like that. This was just to prove to Baba Alagomeji that it was not me and my brother that wanted to kill his mother.

What the Wole-Wole did and what the cat did were sufficient enough to include them on the culpability list. This time around, it was an indoor affair. There was no externalization of our domestic problems.

Baba Alagbomeji’s mission to Surulere was to inform my mother of the family decision to banish me and my brother from Iya Ibadan’s house so that we would not kill their mother.

My mother’s response to the decision was very emotional. She begged Baba Alagomeji to show some compassion to her plight. As at early 1970, she had six and a half children to nurture. The first two just lost their father. The father of the third (my own father) had two wives and six children and my mother was not ready to abandon me in “Ile olorogun” (polygamous home.)

The father of the other three children was reclining into multiple matrimonies with children from here and there. That was why she was divorcing him and relocating to Number 20 Ramoni Street, Lawanson with a new man.

The half child was the pregnancy she was carrying for the new man. However, the Family final decision, which they claimed was based on compassionate ground, was that I should follow my mother to Ramoni Street while Late-tua should stay since he had lost his own father.

Please, what was compassionate in throwing out a little boy who had suffered with his great-grandmother for some years. I was the one going to both Tejuoso and Gbaja markets to buy the primary and secondary ingredients of soup for iya Ibadan. I was the one carrying her “apamọwọ” (purse) for all her outings. I was the one washing her clothes with “kongi” soap every weekend. I was the one cleaning the house and running errands for her. I was the one fetching ablution water during the fasting period. I was the one going to Aralile Street every Friday to buy the “mosa” for the friday “Sara”. I was the one helping her whenever she was cooking in the kitchen. I was the one hawking mosquito coils for her around and about Surulere. I was the one hawking wrapped old newspapers for her all over Surulere. I was the one sitting down in front of the house selling ogun efu (white tongue syrup) to customers. I was the one following her to Abebe Mosque on Akerele Extension for Jumat Services. I was the only great-grandchild who had stayed most with her in her old age. I could interprete all her gestures and signs.

Such is life. The profile of my good deeds to my great-grandmother was abandoned for the file on my rascality on a day the former should count for me. On a day when my good side should avail for me, my adversaries within the family decided to give attention to the one that would not plead for me.

Besides, the smoking drama that led to this banishment was not my making. The master that was teaching me how to smoke was spared and allowed to stay with Iya Ibadan on compassionate ground. And what was it? He had lost his father. Should I go and kill my own father because I wanted to stay with Iya Ibadan? Why should the death of one’s father be a consideration in matters that simply required achievements based on self-recognition? Why should compassion and sentiments take precedence over antecedents in matters that required diligence?

The way and manner Baba Alagomeji supervised my banishment convinced me that my next diary would be written from Ramoni Street.

I could see that my great-grandmother’s eyes were teary. I was crying already but not too loudly because, according to Late-tua, ọmọta does not cry. In order to have an excuse to still see iya Ibadan once more, I deliberately left my crayons under her bed. It would be a justified reason for me to violate the banishment order imposed on me.

I picked my bag to leave with my mother for my new home in Lawanson when someone walked in to change the narrative. (TO BE CONTINUED)

Dr Dapo Thomas’ ‘From Primary To Tertiary: Here Is My Diary’ Is Serialized Here Weekly Every Saturday

~ NewsOrient