It’s
a cross that I must bear. The weight of which could sink a ship. The piece had
eaten deep into the fabrics of my life and things are no longer the same. Marking
the time, the desert foxes are ever hungry. The city hustlers barely had
enough. No one is safe. The hammer falls and the fly dies. The bell rings and
the old crone storms out of sleep.
You
can bruise her petals, eat her fruits but never take a loyal friend for a fool.
On a bright Friday morning, I woke up with a start. The cockerel had sounded it
was dawn. The rising sun was upon humanity, inflicting pain on some and sending
healing on others.
The
sun slowly crawled out of her abode and walked majestically to her esteemed seat
somewhere on the plains of the beautiful earth. Singing from the horizon, her voice
could be heard around the country. Men speak of her legendary. Men worship the
rising sun. Her eminence, her clemency were up in the air. She revealed herself
as soon as the moon drifted home to her holy interiors. It was a pretty price
to pay. Their paths are forged from infinite clays. The toughest of its kind. The
best from the corridors of heaven.
People
have identities. Tribes should live side by side. Not one trying to dominate
another. These bodies are a world of their own. Often they descent in humility
to spread love to the filth, the smelly feet and the dusty roads that lead to
nowhere.
I
was full of energy but when I remembered the challenges ahead of me, my
countenance fell. Disillusioned and frustrated that I was achieving so little
in the midst of plenty. So much on my table to handle and I had little time to
get the tasks done. The highway to underachievement is never to try. Driving on
the autobahn and still stumble makes no sense.
It’s
a cross that I must bear. The weight of which could sink a ship. The piece had
eaten deep into the fabrics of my life and things are no longer the same. Marking
the time, the desert foxes are ever hungry. The city hustlers barely had
enough. No one is safe. The hammer falls and the fly dies. The bell rings and
the old crone storms out of sleep.
 |
| Madness of a Gang by Omoruyi uwuigiaren |
My
courage have been tasted. Whether the challenges would kill me or not, was my
cup of tea. In this ever changing world, any man that fails to run through the
wall for his own good will suffer. Freedom cannot be chosen for another. The
price is costly and the road is narrow. No mortal man escapes the earth without
a taste of her bread of sorrow.
I was supposed to be at the office by
8 am, fix some things before leaving for an important meeting somewhere in the
heart of Lagos. Going to the office right away was a good idea. But there was
the likelihood that once I get there, the chance of going to the meeting would
be slim. The horrible traffic in Lagos have left many groveling at the feet of
despair. Those who could not stand the heat have walked into silence or
relocated completely out of the city. It is our charge to stay alive and hope
for a better life. If we don’t persevere, trouble times will free our wretched
head from our miserable shoulders.
After I had carefully analyzed my
schedule as I laid quietly on the bed, I elected against going to the office
first. It was going to set me back some hours and the meeting was slated for
1pm. Which means by the time I will be done at the office, the day would have
been far spent. I decided it was safer to head straight to the meeting at
Egbeda, Lagos. It was an emergency meeting of Indigenous Publishers Association
where I was the interim secretary. Once we end the meeting, I can return to the
office to work.
I rolled out of bed. My pair of legs carried
me to the bathroom where I washed my body clean. Not long after, I was back to
the room to dab my body dry and put myself in clean clothes. At this point, my
mind was made up. And I was happy that I had made the right decision.
I carried myself out of the house,
secured the door and descended down the old dusty road that leads to the bus
stop. The bizarre world, the noise, the rivalry and the misfortune that it
sometimes bring hardly go away. Some people walk to the grave with truck load
of misfortune. It is an essential part of human story. Like an umbilical cord
attached to the body from time immemorial. Only separated at the point where
the new born sets foot on the beautiful earth. Or when a man finally bade world
farewell. All men are going to die. Presumably, it is better to die in a battle
of your own choosing.
Humans
are free to choose their own fate. Some legs crush the face of the old earth,
others slowly maneuver their pair of legs around the corners. I was in my world,
dutifully coordinating myself. My legs were following a rhythm. I could hardly
hurt a fly as my feet barely touched the earth. I was winning and happy until
hunger struck with a dreadful sting.
It
was a call. Celestial as the windows of heaven. Breakfast cannot be chosen for
another. I decided to stop at a spot to catch a bit of breakfast from the
restaurant of the morning. I was already close to the bus stop. I raised my
head and glanced about. There were many food vendors around and I had the
luxury of choosing. I turned a corner and stumbled into one of the restaurants that
I felt was right for me. My ego was at work and had grown taller than the pair
of legs that carried me. Character defines a man.
There
were about three men or more seated in the little room where the aroma of the freshly
cooked meal filled the air. I settled into one of the seats in the extreme. The
man that sat before me had already been served his meal. He was quietly eating
when I walked in. My plan was to settle for rice, steamed fish and stew. But
when I sat next to the Igbo man eating “eba” and “egusi” soup, I could not help
but salivate. It was easy to change my mind and order for what had caught my
fancy.
The
carefully prepared “eba” was a mountain on the table. And the soup was steaming
like hell. I have seen enough and there was no going back. The rice and stew
was good. But it was hard to say no to the eba and egusi soup. The temptation
of a decent meal was tough. The weight of which could sink a large man. I was
drawn to the soup because its aroma filled the room and left me salivating.
What more can I ask for? I was starting the day the right way. The right food
and the right mindset are crucial to a good life.
I
turned to the young lady who stood at the door. The poor soul was nicely
dressed. She should be in her late twenties. Her skirt barely reached her knees
and the dark skin on her thigh was a constant distraction. Beauty is eternal. Staring
at her could ruin my day. This was an invitation that I was not ready to
accept. Her skin shone like the rising sun and her round ass filled the room. Her
look suggested that she had been expecting my call. She was on her duty post. I
don’t expect anything less. Before I could blink and signal her to come, she
was already by my side with a broad smile on her face. Her flirtation was going
to hurt me if I do not resist and mind my business.
I
raised my head briefly and bade her to give me her ears. She bent her body
over. Her blouse exposed what I had not prepared for see. Her boobs were
revealed. Even though her bra was in place and tightly fitted to her body. It
was easy to see that her bra was doing so much to keep the breasts in their
proper place. The breasts weighed a ton. I felt the large mass on her chest
were reason why men frequent the restaurant.
However,
it will be hard to stare at the lady and not worry about the pressure between
your legs. I had a bulge between my legs but my native attire meant that no
eyes would see the disturbance that the lady had caused. Pointing at the man’s
meal, I whispered that she should serve me exactly what the man was eating. It
was an honorable thing to do.
Without
hesitation, she rose to vertical and her boobs stumbled back to position. The
fountains were slightly sagged and the attraction was rife. She turned and walked away. My eyes followed
her to the corner where she disappeared into the kitchen. I breathed deeply and
sank into my seat. She was a distraction. However, I felt good about the whole
package. I was in the company of people who I think knew the worth of a good
life.
Soon,
she was back to my side with a plate of eba and egusi soup. Our plates of eba
were competing for space on the table. Each man was in his own world and could
barely see one another because the meals had become a fortress and mountain
between us.
I
requested for a bottle of water to drink and another to wash my hands since what
I was about to do will require the active participation of my hands. They were
duly served by the same lady.
Then
I washed my hands in the bowl of water and proceeded to dismantle the exotic
dish. The plate of eba was a monument and I could barely see the other side of
the table. Only proper execution would make it plain. As I ate quietly, two men
walked in. one sat next to me and the other sat at the other side of the table.
I
barely raised my head and glanced at them because the task have been made difficult
by the plate of eba. And it was my duty to bring it down to earth. It was an
uphill task. But the sweet taste of the meal had only made the job easier. I dug
deep and fought gallantly all the way.
The
man looked in my direction and spoke in Igbo. He mentioned a bank. I guess he
was trying to ask about a bank. Since I wasn’t an Igbo and could not understand
him, I ignored him completely and faced my meal.
The
man felt I did not hear him. He cleared his throat and decided to ask his
question again. Now he was staring at me. As was the first time, he spoke in
his Igbo dialect, expecting a response from me.
There
was no answer.
Then
I adjusted my frame and send some morsels of eba down my throat and pushed them
down with a glass of water.
Perhaps,
frustrated that I gave him no attention, he finally said in Pidgin English, “Oga,
na you I dey follow talk. Sebi bank dey this area?”
I
slowly raised my head, looked at him in the face and replied, “You are talking
to me and you are speaking Igbo language. You forgot this is a public place. Not
everybody that is light in complexion is an Igbo. Well, there is no bank here.
But there is an ATM at the other side.”
“But
you resemble Igbo man.”
“I
am not an Igbo man!” I sounded sternly.
“Where
you from?” he asked in Pidgin English. He masked his frustration with a smile.
Sensing
that if I say I am from Delta state that it could lead to a long argument over
where I belong because some people from the South East are of the opinion that
people of Delta state are Igbo, I decided to say something else so that I can
have my peace and be off his hook. However, my decision only made the matter
worse when I revealed to the man that I was from Edo state.
He
looked at me as if what I had just said was enough to send me to the gallows. “You
are Igbo!” The Igbo man said with the mere wave of the hand. “Oga, una be Igbo.
Period! Una dey under us! Una be Igbo!”
Red
with rage, I dropped the morsel of eba in my hand on the plate. I looked
angrily at him and said, “Oga, you are very funny. So every Nigerian that is
not Yoruba or Hausa is an Igbo?”
“Yes
na! When Biafra go, una go follow us.” Then he turned to his friend, “Johnny,
you no tell am?”
“In
Nigeria, na only Hausa, Yoruba and Igbo be the three major tribes. If Hausa and
Yoruba go, una go follow us. Na under old Eastern Region una dey. Una be Igbo!
Delta and Edo, na Igbo all of una be,” Johnny told me.
I
was angry as I swallowed hard and glanced at them coldly. Slowly, I said, “I
see your minds have been polluted. No matter how hard I try to explain that
Nigeria has over three hundred and seventy tribes, you won’t believe. Every one
of these indigenous people have their own identity. An Edo or Delta indigene is
never an Igbo man. They do not have the same culture and tradition. The earlier
you believe this, the better for you.”
They
looked at me and laughed aloud. “Oga, you no know wetin dey happen,” Johnny
stated in Pidgin English again. “Accept your fate say you be Igbo man.”
Sensing
this was going to degenerate into a problem, I stated, “I have heard enough.” I
belched. “If I say my mind, you will not like it,” I told them with a streak of
meanness. Then I washed my hands, rose to my feet and signaled the waitress to
come. Once she was by my side, I took out my wallet from my pocket, I paid for
the meal and walked away. I crossed the road to the other side and got into a
bus that was bound for Egbeda.
There
are many people out there who don’t respect you because you are an ethnic
minority. It is easy to wipe out minority tribes. For this not to happen, every
tribe, no matter how small must stand their ground, have a say in the national
discourse and resist any attempt to debase and trample on their rights.
It
is evil and wrong for an Igbo man to think other tribes from the Southern
region of Nigeria are under them or should identify with them. People who have
this mindset will hardly tolerate diversity. People should not be forced into any
union simply because they are next door neighbours.
If
you don’t respect people, their identity means nothing to you. It is dangerous
to dwell among people who are easily threatened by diversity. Some people don’t
believe in diversity that is why they can argue that an Urhobo or Itsekiri man
is Igbo. The earlier we see that unity does not mean there is no diversity, the
better for us all. There is strength in diversity.
About the Author
Omoruyi
Uwuigiaren is a former cartoonist turned writer. When he was a kid, he loved
music and composed songs for his high school band. After school, he wanted to
pursue a career in music. Instead he embraced writing and studied Mass
Communications. His literary works and books have appeared in Moronic Ox
Literary and Cultural Journal, Qwenu.com, Open Books, Urban News Express Online
and many more. He’s the owner of Ruyi’s
World of Books and Stories.
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