Those mornings, I’d wake up to the
sound of BoneyM classics and
perhaps some extra gbedu music
from our neighbour’s apartment.
Without brushing or attempting to
wipe off the dried saliva that lined
my mouth, I’d dash out of my room.
My dad would be in the living room
by his precious turntable, churning
out music through four ancient
Kenwood speakers strategically
positioned in the living room. And I’d
wonder how he got the turntable
working again, seeing as I spoilt it (at
least I thought I did) the last time I
went solo trying to find out exactly
where the music came from, whether
from the slim record plate or from
the spindle. After a brief greeting
and a pat on my head, I’d race against
my record time for the backyard.
The heat wave from the crackling
firewood mingled with the haze of
the harmattan morning wind would
embrace me and send me spiralling
beyond known electron orbitals. The
songs of birds on the Papaya trees
would hit seconds later, and when I
opened my eyes, tiny snails would be
picking their way back to their abode
beyond the mossy, abandoned
concrete blocks.
There, by the fireplace, my mom
would be seated on a stool, peeling
yams; yams that turned red as soon
as the knife cut it. It usually reminded
me of tales of people who turned
into tubers of yam after picking up
some forbidden money, and I kept
wondering whether these yams were
people also.
There would usually be a chicken or
two in one corner of the yard, plump
and indifferent-looking. Indifferent,
because they either did not know
what lay ahead of them or because
they had accepted their fate,
perhaps after having heard death
squeals of their mates days before.
Usually, when the time came for them
to die, I’d grow sober because I had
developed a fondness for them. My
dad did the killing, whistling tunes as
he did so. Each time I tried to talk
him out of it, he’d smile and say: one
day, fox told cocks that wonders will
never cease. And he’d go back to his
whistling and throat-slitting. I never
understood if this was one of his
mini stories, or an adage.
My siblings were specialists at
knowing the precise moment to walk
in. It’s a happy season, so all sins
were forgiven. And while I salivated
over the aroma of the Ishapa soup,
my mom would call me to take some
food to our friends, some of whose
houses were a bit far. The only
reason I liked this part was because I
knew that along the line, some of
these people would give me some
money that could buy me a packet or
two of banger at the end of the day.
Afterwards, wraps of pounded yam
would flow and we’d stare at the
blank TV screen as we ate, because
nobody remembered to take the TV
for repairs, or the fuel stations were
hoarding fuel or NEPA chose the day
before to cut our lines. But we did
not care much; lunch was like a
sedative, some people even slept off
with their hands still messy.
It was this Christmas season that my
dad arranged for my eldest brother
to take me to LTV children Christmas
funfair. Excitement coursed through
my veins that night, I was going
appear on TV and yes, I was going to
see Father Christmas. I remember
waking up at some point to check
whether it was time to leave only to
find that it was just past 2am.
He was seated in a poorly lit hut: a
short wiry man in red flowing robe,
and a sash around his flat middle. His
beard was oversize; it looked like the
vocal sac under a frog’s chin. He
certainly was not as good-looking as
the Father Christmas I had seen on
Christmas cards, the one with the
pleasant grin and flush nose.
Suddenly, the hut felt like
bogeyman’s hideout and I could have
fled, but someone at the door was
prodding me into the man’s gloved
hands. Go, go, he won’t bite you.
The man scooped me into his arms.
Then ‘bite’ registered. That was when
I bared it all, my mouth wide open
like a yawning hippo’s.
My friends in class used to say I
sounded like a generator whenever I
cried, but this time I must have
sounded like a long-distance train
because the director had to come
and get me himself, and with my gift
in his other hand, he handed me to
my brother with a nervous smile. This
your brother dey vex o…
I did not stop howling even after we
left the hut and as we strolled past
the toy stores, I stood still and
howled some more, pointing at a toy
in one of the stores. My brother
snorted and said he did not have
money, that he’d had to supplement
the gate fee with his own money. I
kept my howl steady, and when
glances began to turn in our
direction, he squirmed and led me to
the store. When he squatted and
handed me the toy gun minutes later,
his looks said he had plans for me.
He warned me not to open the
wrapper until we got home. I stopped
crying.
At home, without taking off my
clothes, I went brandishing my gun
before our neighbour’s kids. They
were impressed until I pointed the
gun and it did not fire. Their mom
called and they had to leave. I stood
there, alone, disappointed. I held up
the nozzle against my face. Why is
this thing not working? I asked
myself. Click, click, and ka-pow! The
nozzle exploded right in my face and
pain shot through my left eye. That
led to a series of events that wiped
away all my appetite. My eldest
brother made sure all my food
disappeared.
The next Christmas, holes popped up
in two molars on either side of my
mouth and I couldn’t chew. I evolved
and began gulping down bowls of
Jollof rice, and whole meat that I
stowed away after it was fried. But at
night, I’d spend hours on the toilet
seat, whimpering and wishing the
hole in my teeth away. Another day, a
half grain of rice slipped into the hole
and my mouth went wild, animating
itself. That day, my dad ate my meat.
And the day after. And the days that
followed. And while he crunched the
bones, he would wink and whisper;
remember what fox told the cocks?
Years later, while we were putting
away the Christmas decorations, he
reluctantly told me about the fox and
the cocks after I coaxed him.
One winter, a fox happened upon a
brood of fowls housed in a steel wire
cage. He boasted about his stash of
food supplies and ended with the
statement, wonders will never cease.
He kept happening by and each time,
made the same statement after his
winding speeches. One day the
cocks, curious, asked what he meant
by it. He told them to let him in and
he would tell them; that it was
something that could only be
whispered into their ears. The cocks
secured their own food supplies and
opened the door, and the fox made
off with their heads.
I did not share my dad’s laughter
because I did not understand. Truth
is I still don’t understand.
And as I sit here watching these two
cocks peck at grains of corn, I’m
wondering what the cocks had really
thought the fox was up to.

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