This is one of the short stories I wrote in my hometown, Abiriba, last week. It is to mark the wonderful vacation I had; where I hoped to find some romance for my dour life, but could not.
Dedicated to all wonderful Literature Section followers.
Happy New Year and I hope you enjoy this one.
MY TOWN BOY



I know how town boys behave, especially the ones from close nzus like Aba, Lagos and Port. They are proud and at the same time stupid; trying to show off their fine fine clothes and jeans everywhere they go, even when they escort their grandmothers to farms. The girls are worse: the artificial town water and food makes them ugly and upon that they paint their faces with original Saclux paint; a bright red on their cheeks and lips, gold or yellow on their eyelids just above their eyes and an upside down Nike symbol where their eyebrows used to be.


Town people have one thing in common which they show off whenever they come to Abiriba for Christmas: their big phones and their bad grammar. As soon as they begin to arrive from the twentieth of each December each year, normal English mutates into sentences like “Come on, come and let us go and fetch water in the stream”, or “Grandma, hungry is catching me; please give me soup” (and when they are served vegetable soup with asusu they squeeze their powdered faces with disgust).


They all change, these town people; the towns change them: the bright lights at nights, cartoons from loud televisions, colourful clothes and big cars and houses with tiled floors. Even my own sister, Aluba, changed when she returned last week from Port, common Port Harcourt. I noticed from the moment I saw her at Oriakwa Park where I went to get her bags. Her breasts were a lot bigger after just a year; I could tell she had been touched so many times from her gait, her legs wide apart while she walked. She was wearing tight jeans and big black sunglasses with D&G written ornately on one side. And she replied my greetings in English!


When we got home, she made the face when I offered her asusu, and Mama almost slapped the makeup on her face off while screaming like a mad woman in Abiriba “I am still your mother! You loved asusu, what is your problem? Is it the township that made you this foolish?” I had held laughter back, only so pepper would not go the wrong side (not because I was afraid to laugh, for the records). It served her right, if only every mother yelled at her wayward daughter, the world will be a better place.


Only one person went to town and did not change; he is my town boy – my only boy, Abosi, and as we sit beside Nche pond washing clothes, I am content. All that changed from the last time I saw him is his height and his clothes. He has also started saying ‘shit’ every now and then like Commando does when he discovers a bomb has just thirty seconds left.


‘Stop saying “shit” everytime,’ I tell him with a half smile.


He twists his lips in reply, making a funny face at me. I laugh a little too loud. The cool water slaps against my knees. It feels good.


It was in this same pond that I met him three years ago. He was a town boy obviously from his bright clothes and slippers, and his arms and face were white, the Abiriba harmattan had been merciless that year. He was bent trying to collect water from in his pail without using a plate. That alone could dirty the water by disturbing the red sand and mud underneath.


‘Bia[/i]Town Boy, don’t spoil our water,’ I had said. I was still recovering from a scolding I received at home for adding water while warming the soup without asking questions. When he looked up at me, he looked startled at my coldness.


‘[i]Ka, I’m sorry,’ he apologised. He stepped out of the water and sat at the bank watching me use my plate to fill my pail with great interest.


‘Biko, let me use your plate to fill my own,” he said - My turn to get startled, at his politeness. He even used ‘biko’, please, and he spoke Abiriba to me with a pure accent, stressing the right tones and syllables.


I had waited for him to finish so that I could take my plate. He said "ka, thanks” when he was done and I noticed the water he collected was too dirty. He was inexperienced in collecting water from the pond, yet he tried to. I thought I spooked him from my last outburst and that was why he did not ask for help.


‘It’s not like that, Town Boy,’ I had told him. I brought my pail side by side with his and said “ngwa, see it?” while he compared them.


‘Ngwa, help me fetch now’.


'Say “please” first’.


‘I said “please” the first time. One “please” is enough for today, let’s save some for tomorrow.’


I laughed by reflex, he laughed louder. A boy tending waterleaves by the bank looked up with a smile.
I had helped him fill his pail, and fold the cloth he put on his head before the pail, he had helped lift mine to my head and when the boy tending waterleaves helped him lift his, I called him Okporoko because of the way he bent his neck under the weight. He insisted we poured the water into the ite in Mama’s kitchen first, then we go to his. When we finally got to the house he stayed in, I was surprised, not just because it was close to mine, but because they had borehole water and a tank.


‘You have a tank!’


‘Ehenn,’ he said. ‘Yes we do.’


‘Then why do you come to the pond for water?’


‘Because I like it, and after all, this tap water is what we drink in Nzu all year round’.
I liked the way he had said ‘‘Nzu’’.


The next day we met at Nche again and fetched water for Mama’s kitchen alone. He said his people do not need the water, but he needed the pond: that he loved watching the dragonflies that mated there and the tadpoles and water insects that thrived on the tall grasses beside it. I showed him around Abiriba, the streams and ponds, the major buildings and tombo bars. When we went to see the Tower Clock in Agbo Court, he insisted it was more beautiful than the one in London.


‘And for your notice,’ he would say to me over Abiriba’s “Small London” nickname. ‘This is not Small London. Maybe London’s nickname is “Small Abiriba”, but this is Abiriba, my dear – Abiriba; and it is beautiful, not small.’


Now as I watch him wash his clothes, bare feet with legs deep inside the cool water like me, I wonder if there is any other person like him in Abiriba, in any Nzu, in the whole discovered world. There actually is none. He is my boy, my town boy, my only boy.


‘So if you leave on the fourth of January,’ I begin, avoiding his eyes, ‘then I will not see you again until December.’


‘Maybe,’ he replies, then quickly adds: ‘I don’t know. There might be a funeral we have to attend, or an emergency family meeting which my dad might let me attend – I may even come for Iri Amah Festival by September.’


I mumble something in displeasure. He says “shit” again, and I splash water on him.


‘Maybe you should come to town one day. Abuja is fine to an extent, even though Abiriba is finer.’ He pauses. ‘Then maybe you could swim in a real swimming pool.’


I laugh at the polite insult. If he were chatting on his big phone, he would have typed LOL to show he was laughing (even when he really was not). Once, he let me chat with one of his contacts when I had insisted I wanted to chat even if I had no one to do it with. He even wanted to dash me the big phone; but Mama will kill me twice and dance on my shallow grave if I accepted such a gift.


‘I bet your Abuja swimming pool is not as cool as the one you’re enjoying now,’ I replied, my laughter was raucous and seemed to cause ripples on the water.


‘It’s true,’ he said, then looked at me with the face he made when he wanted to do something mischievous like when we stole coconut from the kitchen when Mama was not looking. ‘In Abuja, I like them hot, and you - my dear, is the only hot thing around here. And you too slim sha; go chop sardine.’


I splash more water on him.

**** **** ****

I hope u complete dis one

Too long... And boring

Queening:
I hope u complete dis one

Dear, it haf finish like that o

Abosi, you dey try.
Na you talk dat "nne onye ara" story abi?
I like your flow.

ruffhandu:
Abosi, you dey try.
Na you talk dat "nne onye ara" story abi?
I like your flow.

thank you ruffhandu, na me write am oh! I am thankful.