January 27, 2024 NewsOrient
Books & Arts
By Dapo Thomas

Surulere was a bubbling area in the late 1960s and all through the 1970s. It was full of life and fun, sanity and morality, benevolence and communalism.

We were never short of fun. Sometimes, we looked for it. Sometimes, it looked for us. In the morning, we would go to school but once we returned from school and had our lunch, we would all troop out into different grades games.

The kind of entertainment we had was a bit rural but novel in terms of its urbanity. We hardly did “Boju, Boju” in the day time. It was a game that was best played in the dark. So, we did it in the night, mostly.

Since it was a game of hide and seek, if done in broad-daylight, the game would automatically lose its fun. It was a game for boys and girls.

The fun was in the ‘Oloro’ seeking to catch his victim that was hiding behind trees or under benches in the dark. The ‘Oloro’ would be blindfolded with this song:
“Boju, boju o. Oloro nbo. E paramo. Se ki sì? Si, sí, sí, enit’oloro ba mu, a pa je.”

Instead of killing his prey, the prey automatically becomes the new ‘Oloro’ to search for a prey.

It took me some time to know that every game has its own politics and dynamics despite our kindergarten status.

One day, while the game was on, we all dispersed into different directions to avoid being caught by the “Oloro”.

As the “Oloro”, began his frantic search in the dark, I noticed that the “Oloro” was going to where my friend, Kola Noibi was hiding. But from where I was, I could see him pointing in my direction. Suddenly, the “Oloro” started pursuing me. I was caught eventually but I had learned my lesson.

So, some days later when we were doing “Boju, boju”, again, I stayed away from others by isolating myself completely in “Iya Oko’s” compound. We were doing the game in Ilelogo Street, I went to hide in the compound of a house in Ibukun street. Iya Oko was the major gari seller that was servicing about ten streets with people coming from Onitana Street, Iyun street and partly from Aralile Street and Asopọ street as well as Ajogbe street to patronize her. In those days, only few people (mostly, the aged women) engaged in retail merchandise.

From Iya Oko’s compound, I could see what was going on but nobody could see me because I didn’t let anybody know where I was hiding because of what happened some days back.

“What is happening here?” From where I was, I saw the “Oloro” and his victim hugging and clasping with frenetic agreement. Though I couldn’t see if they were kissing, even if I did, would I have been able to interpret it correctly since I never saw anything like that before?

In my house, I was the only one living with Iya Ibadan before my brother and my mother came. Nobody ever kissed me before nor did I ever see people kissing before.

Iya Ibadan was 86, I was about 10. Obviously, Iya Ibadan knew what kissing was (she had four children who did not fall from heaven) but at my age, I didn’t have any idea of what kissing was let alone the impression.

I was taught in my Philosophy class that idea is the antecedent of impression. The hugging and clasping that I saw was like “two fighting”. However, when I looked at the two of them critically again, I could tell from their shinning teeth in the dark that they both took sweet advantage of darkness to attain kindergarten enjoyment.

They were not fighting. There was no fight in the dark that will end with smiles and expressive satisfaction.

After this brief romantic episode, the “Oloro” still presented the girl as his prey. Hmmm. She was indeed a prey.

Since that day, my brain had been disturbing me about how to experience what my friend experienced. The imaginations and imagery of fantasy my brain was concocting were too strong to dismiss.

Everyday, I would be wrestling with flesh, blood, principalities and powers. “Gbogbo è ló bá mi” meaning I was wrestling with both the spiritual and the physical analogue of my entire anatomy.

I didn’t get myself again. What kind of evil discovery was this that had unsettled my emotional and physical stability both in frame and in spirit. All my internal mechanics had been awaken by the misdemeanor of two children who used the cover of darkness to indulge in amorous alchemy.

I waited patiently for my time to come and it came. Who says opportunity once lost can never be regained? Error. Somebody suggested that we should do a playlet. It was known as “Ere iya ati Bàbá”. Before now, we used to do it but not the way it had been suggested now. This was going to be an elaborate drama.

In my street alone we had beautiful girls that were my age mates. Some of them included Ronke Smith, Sunkanmi Palmer, Toyin Ogunbiyi, Saro Sulaimon, Sidi Raji, Simbi Raji, Raliat Raji, Amina omo iya Laisi, Safu Kareem, Risi Pupa, Risi Dudu, Ngozí Anyiam, Vero, etc. Their male counterparts were Dapo Adekoje, Femi Smith, Gbolahan Adéwálé, Taju Raji, Gbenro, Kolawole Noibi, Taye Sapara, Tunde and Ganiu Ajikanle, Nde Anyiam, Sunday Amosu.

We now had the younger ones like Ahmed Sulaimon, Suru and Folarin, Ismaila Kareem, Kunle Smith, Bunmi Adekoje, Sogodo Amosu, Fatima Raji, Kafaya Adewale, Kúdí Sulaimon, Nurata Raji, Safu ọmọ ìyá Láìsí,

I was to play the role of baba with Risi Pupa (Ajikanle) playing the role of Iya. We had two children, one girl and one boy. I can’t recollect who played the boy child but I remember that Fatima Raji was the girl child. As the father, my role was to take my children to school in the morning and go and bring them back from school. Risi’s role was to prepare food for the family . I was a good tailor to the community. I handled all their torn and new clothes. Everything we were doing was a dramatic mimicry of what our parents were doing in the home.

When the children came back from school, their mother (Risi Pupa) served them their lunch. What was the lunch? Sand and leaves in some small De Rica tins. We were not to eat the food since it was not real. We were to scoop the “food” with some pieces of wood improvised as spoons to touch our chins like someone doing ritual. At the end of the meal and other things that dragged the time to about 8pm. It was time to sleep. The two of us, myself and Risi, were meant to sleep together on the mat.

It was night time in our drama but evening time in the real world. This was the time I had been waiting for. It was my own opportunity to experience the “Oloro’s” cuddle. Though, my action would be dictated by the “production team”, it was only natural for “Baba and Iya” to sleep together and do some other lovely things that would show the affection between the parents.

Fortunately, one of the ‘producers’ said in Yoruba: ” E sun mo ara yin, ke wa fi ọwọ kan ara yin.” The instruction was clear enough. We were to move close to each other on the mat and strech our hands across our bodies. This sweetened me as I smiled sheepishly.

As I was about to strech my right hand across Risi’s body, I heard my mother’s voice: “Dapoooo, wa ba mi gbe eru mi dé bus stop.” What kind of cruel interruption was this? Why should my mother suddenly terminate the actualization of an imagination that had hibernated inside of me with patience since the “Oloro’s” episode ? Why should I be carrying load to the bus stop at a time I was playing the role of a father in a drama.

This paradox presents drama as a slavish surrogate of reality. I couldn’t understand why my mother should unceremoniously terminate a process that was to help me in discovering my potential in romantic ecstasy?

As a father, I had taken my two children to school. I had gone to pick them from school. We had eaten as a family. When it was time to now test the viability and efficacy of my “Adam’s Instrument”, that was when my mother decided to turn me to a porter; a whole me, father of two.

It was so painful because it was a lost opportunity for me to experience “Childish” fatherhood.

She left with my brother, Late-tua. She was going to her house in Ramoni Street, Itire, Lawanson, while Late-tua was going back to Ajegunle to continue with his abandoned education since they couldn’t find another school for him in Surulere.

In view of my condition and mission, I carried her “burden” ahead of her with rebellious reluctance and wasteful murmuring, walking towards Barracks bus-stop with giant strides that my mother did not appreciate as she screamed on me: “Nibo lo nsare lo ? Sa ma da eru mi nu”. I got to Barracks bus-stop waiting for my mother not knowing that she was busy doing door to door departure funfare telling everybody: “Mo nko lo sí Lawanson” meaning I am relocating to Lawanson. Meanwhile, she is the one that would be telling you: “Gbogbo aso ko la n sáà sorun” literally meaning you don’t share your secrets with every Tom, Dick and Harry.”

After about 30 minutes, my mother got to the bus stop only to tell me that buses going to Lawanson had their Park at Ojuelegba. Needless to say that by the time I got back home from Ojuelegba there was no sign of humanity at the drama location. There was no Risi Dudu let alone Risi Pupa. There was no house let alone the mat of baba and mama. There was no one to ask who played my part or who inherited Risi Pupa, my wife in drama.

For few minutes, I stood at the location thinking about life and the vanity of human aspirations. That phase was gone. I decided to move on with my life, erasing the shadows of illusion by constructing a new concept of hope that would take me away from the pursuit of my fantasy.

Before entering my house, I wiped off the remnants of the “Oloro episode” and the imagery of Risi Pupa mirage from my memory to avoid addictive reminiscences.

I was now alone with my sweet great-grandmother, my “Childhood Indulgence” who was the only one that understood that Word is the only content that can revive the mind of the degenerate and the only opium that can rejuvenate the soul of the reprobate.

I remember an incident. Iya Ibadan never missed fasting for one day out of the 30 days of the Ramadan Kareem. She would wake up to prepare the Suhoor (the meal eaten early in the morning before dawn by Muslims during fasting) but she would never eat out of it which suggested that she was doing everything just for me.

Suhoor is popularly called “Sari”. While she would be doing her prayer, fajr, a two Rakat Salaah the Moslems do early in the morning, I would be eating the suhoor.

This had been going on for some years and nothing went wrong. Someday, I returned from school during Ramadan. Definitely, there was no lunch because of the fasting that was on. I was so hungry that I went into the kitchen with my school bag to eat the sweet potatoes that were inside it.

I was on the third one when Iya Ibadan walked into the kitchen, caught me red handed “breaking” my fast at 3pm despite eating the suhoor.

I stood speechless with my mouth and hand full of evidence of fasting rules violation. My great-grandmother didn’t know what to say. That was very discomforting for me because to chew the one in my mouth became a problem; to throw the one in my hand away became a task; to drink water to wash down the one already swallowed was a major challenge.

Her standing there and looking at me as if I had committed a serious crime was becoming a kind of “Oju ole re” punishment whereas it was not like that. It was my food I was eating at the time I found it convenient to eat.

I continued to look at the floor as if it had a redemptive intervention. After about 5 minutes of pausal harassment and optical contempt, Iya Ibadan, as usual, relapsed into moral interrogation: “why are you doing this, you this Alalubarika child .Who do you think you are deceiving?

Is the fasting meant for me or for GOD. So, if I had not seen you, you would still eat with us in the evening and pretend as if you were just breaking your fast?

By the way, have you not been taught in school that GOD is a Spirit, if you can’t see HIM, HE can see you. So, who are you deceiving?”

She had said her own. She left me in the kitchen without touching me. She did not attempt to enforce the contravention of a spiritual obligation that is within the purview of a Divine Authority whose discretion it is to “reward every man according to his work shall be.”

Trust my mother. If she was the one that caught me in that state, she would talk like GOD, act like GOD, talk for GOD and she would still go ahead to beat me.

Despite Iya Ibadan’s sermon, I still went ahead to eat the sweet potato in my mouth and the one in my hand so that I could complete the cycle of my sin. That was the way it seemed to me after iya Ibadan’s rhetorical interrogation.

For the rest of the day, what I regarded as an insignificant incident, imposed on me an eternal moral challenge on the reasonableness of fearing a GOD one cannot see.

It is the search for this connectivity that eventually set a moral agenda for a life that was sliding into the captivity of depravity.

TO BE CONTINUED

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

~ NewsOrient