Dad’s driver brought us from school to dad’s office. There we played jigsaw while dad signed and stamped papers. If we played roughly, he would say, “Stop playing. This is not your house.” Or, “Stop spoiling government property. It’s for your own future.” We ate fruits and drank mineral water from the refrigerator. This is not the old refrigerator, dad said. This one was brought from England as soon as he resumed work as a boss. The old one was auctioned.

Dad’s driver took dad and us home after work. Nany bathed us, cooked for us, monitored us, told us c o c k and bull stories and reminded us of last summer. He was very hardworking, dad said. But he was not our first nany. The first nany was a female and hardworking too but mum told dad to bring a male. Mum worked in the FCT but came home on weekends.

After bath and an hour rest dad took us to the near-by restaurant for dinner. His favorite was pounded yam while ours was rice with fried plantain. Other times we ate semo. After dinner dad would call a taxi to take us home while he would remain there with the woman, the owner of the restaurant. We were never happy to leave like that.

We would do school assignments before going to sleep.

Our life was in school, home and dad’s office, except on weekends and holidays. At all seasons we went no where alone. Even in school we were under parents. I was in basic four, my sister was in basic three. We loved walking about while eating cheese and chocolate, disliked any bitter thing, talked about movies and played football during break. All children hate bitter things, our dad said because we hated medicines. In our school when our maths teacher said children who avoid excessive sweet things were her friends, I said I could avoid them, my friend Danny too said he could avoid them, then all the class said they could avoid them. Our maths teacher replied: “It’s easier said than done.”

Since before imitation was a hobby to almost all my classmates. I couldn't do something to end up being the only one who did it in the history of our class--3 or 4 others must do it sooner or later. One day I said I would keep my eyebrows raised. Throughout the day I did. After the long break, all my mates kept their eyebrows raised and we looked like other human species. The next day I kept my tongue out and they all did same like fools. Later I almost believed I was a model although I was not a first-class pupil. In second term first class pupils of our class hated me because they were not loved more than I was, most especially when most pupils showered me with gifts that I was their favorite in our class. One day one of them slapped me just like that and my nose bleed began. Suddenly, our teacher beat the hell of him blue and black.

Maren John Mafuyai

Bad people never die.

We all agree that it's never good to speak ill of the dead...

Matawal A. Maren returned home from UK wearing a wool overcoat, skinny jeans and a pair of cosy leather boots, bagpack hung upon his shoulder.

His walk that obviously stemmed from the colonial masters drew a reasonable attention today. Some neighbours looked delighted, some looked outraged and some glanced remarkably and greedily at his sparkling beautiful wrist-watch. They noticed huge changes in the way he pronounced English words. They said he spoke through the nose as if he was born in England. They said he didn't reply any greeting or question in Ron. That he said je ne sais quoi, c'est bon, raison d'etre and l'espirit bourgeois. Some people were heard talking about him:

"I swear by my ancestors UK pollutes Matawal's ability to speak his mother tongue."

"No", the eldest disagree, "UK has no power to do such thing. It is Matawal has gone off."

"Yes, Matawal has gone off. You're right. He has gone off off off."

"By virture of ever being to England, Matawal could go about doing his things unstoppably as long as he doesn't tamper with Nigerian constitution or military decree."

"But this is insanity."

"No. They say civilization."

"You're wrong."

"Can't you see some of us imitating Arabs even to the point of entirely becoming terrorists?"

While they were whispering, Matawal refused to speak his mother tongue even to the 100 years old, his grandma, who couldn't understand any English word.

The news of his arrival had reached everywhere including the ears of the gossips who were playing cards under the tree near the road that snaked up to Butura Company.

"They said Matawal couldn't speak our native language, his native language", they said.

"How many years did he spend in England?"

"Just 10 years he spent."

"Foolishness. This is ridiculous. Did he understand his native language?"

"He did since he replied in English."

"He has gone off indeed."

There was a pause.

Breeze blew through the leaves above. Three leaves zigzagly floated, swam and made a haste toward the road. One slightly thudded over someone's baldhead. Unhealthy sound of a car flickered and a sepulchral voice (of one of the sententious) was hazy. A carpenter said with reverence:

"I love being under this tree, a centre of truth where the knavish and the gullible and the guttersnipe and the horrible are being exposed on daily basis. I volunteer to buy a new set of cards."

A clap of appreciation followed.

Three days later in winter dress, Matawal sauntered on the busy street, clamoring for the same respect blacks accorded to whites. Some western culture lovers praised him while African culture lovers criticized him. But he didn't bother whether he was loved or loathed, criticized or praised. He sauntered close to Chief Mafai Matom and two other prominent Chiefs and said 'Helo' in English without bowing.

A custodian of Ron cultural values and a discipline master, Chief Mafai stared at him from head to toes. The other two prominent Chiefs spat.

"Is he not the second son of Chief Abraham Maren?"

"Is he not the one who just returned from London?"

"Is this how London people behave? Mr. Malo went to London and came back respectfully."

Eventhough they were all communicant members, they mourned as they walked. At one point, they separated and each walked to his residence.

"Mr. Matawal's behavior is outrageous even to the English themselves", another Chief whose left leg was amputated said.

Mr. Matawal had planned to live with aristocrats in a planned neighbourhood in Jos city where the colonial behavior practice was cherished.

Chief Mafai, addressing traditional council members in the palace of Saf Ron, said:

"I always have a new found appreciation for all those who speak Ron in Government offices, hospitals, churches and classrooms. Our motto is 'We are Africans.' Being Africans, we're perfect to some extent."

Everyone gave a nod and a thumb leading to more contributions. The first contributor was a chief whose left leg was amputated. He stood supported by crutches saying with cordiality:

"It's imbecility to say someone is highly intelligent just because he behaves like Europeans and utter illiterate just because he practises his African culture. Obviously this is what happens today in Africa. Matawal's outrageous behavior is highly recommended by aristocrats and academicians in this country...."

"Hold on!" another chief ordered. "Our people say any good parlance can be regarded as paroxysm. Another man's food is another man's poison. I mean what you've just said is good to us but it won't be good to Matawal or his family. You would have sounded cleverer if you avoid name-calling altogether."

"We have to be punctilious", another chief said. "We need red, blue and brown liquid or powder to make puce. Whether we like it or not, once we're talking of this subject this period, our fellow people will know the boy but let's avoid cross-purposes."

Some chiefs put down their faces. What he said could ignite a quarrel. Something similar ever stimulated a burst of confusion that bore whacks in the Traditional Council meeting. But the second to the last speaker handled the slapdash response with maturity by being silent.

When temporary, grave-yard quietness set in, the cemented walls of the mini town hall were still white like snow. The wooden windows were still too dried and too slender. The roof of the hall would barely escape two approaching raining seasons. There was a smell of stored maize and of burning cowdung. When silence diminished, the subject was not about Matawal's outrageous behaviour. It was about turpitude and twilight zone. The chiefs took to talking and laughing louder as if they were becoming drunk minute by minute to find trouble.

Time went by but Matawal didn't stop behaving like the whites. He had earned a sobriquet Duke of Sussex. More people praised him with enthusiasm in Jos. But here once or twice everyday, one or two of the chiefs would spit against him and someone would say:

"Look at how they are bawling in praise of the beast. Look at the kind of people that are hoisted in African society. It is all about hoodwinking, hoodwinking, hoodwinking wallabies."

Under the tree near the road that snaked up to Butura Company, card players would look at one another and shook their head surprised at how he was praised in the city despite his outrageous behavior. The issue seemed to cause argument when someone, after attending an urgent youth council meeting, concluded that whites are the inventors of the kind of a city found in Jos. The players returned to their game and guessed that Matawal chose arrogant behavior to become a city champion--only in the city were people like him praised.

The sun settled near the center of the sky like the wicked security lamp of the temporary military headquarters.



source: https://static.standard.co.uk/


source: https://generisonline.com/wp-content/


source: https://www.sciencenewsforstudents.org/wp-content

TESTING

My Cover Letter to Mosquitoes in My Nigerian Apartment

Hi dear!

I'm writing this from Kumasi while watching coconut trees through a scientific window. Though I'm still a shameless carrier of plasmodium parasites, I maintain a sitting position as King James under the influence of alco (if you say hol, na you sabi). Beside me is a mosquito-netted hospital bed of the 21st century.

I'm a pathological liar if I say I don't know you're dying of hunger in my medieval apartment in Nigeria. Am I not educated enough to know you can't get nectar, plant sap, honeydew and blood in that sealed shelter?

I remember, passing a night you usually sucked my blood till morning once I focused on Netflix. I usually lost my proud self to The Game of Thrones till sleep did us part. I'm fully aware that your aha moment was while I was snoring.

Now you've dropped plasmodium parasites in the form of sporozoites into my blood stream. The sporozoites passed quickly like Boko Haram sect into my liver and asexually multiplied in my liver cells. To cut-short the story, the sporozoites became merozoites, journeyed through my heart to the lungs and settled in the lung capillaries before ending up in the blood phase of their development. They never give up since they have assurance if they die they'll go to Heaven.

You can't imagine how frustrating malaria is for me. Once I focused on Netflix, you counted it a privilege to perch on my unclad arm, quadriceps femoris, gastrocnemius or tibialis anterior. You're more selfish than an antiquated anti-hero of Star Trek, more dangerous than an instantaneous killer, motherf-ucker.

I can't help but leave the country for medical tourism.

Best regards,
Olododo

My worse experience in Life


I write to define diverse kinds of less privilege Nigerians.


1

I never slept well since I came to Jos. I was the last to sleep and the first to wake up. Everyday, from 5pm to 9pm or beyond, I must have something doing. If I wasn't doing dishes, I was washing cloths. If not washing cloths, ironing them. I might be in the kitchen slicing vegetables, or outside slaughtering chicken. I might be sent to grind grains, buy grains, buy things.

I ever lost N100 and my uncle's wife almost killed me with a heavy wooden rod but left me with a tattoo-like scar on my left shoulder.

I never ate well except on Christmas day. Although my uncle with whom I lived was rich, I looked malnourished and ever heard some people complain about my unusual look, leading to someone, who knew the cause of my trouble, cursing my uncle with his wife and going as far as giving me money.

I enjoyed the money but that was only for a very short time.

When one woman saw me eating in a restaurant one day, she reported me to my uncle's wife and my uncle's wife tortured and starved me that I collected money from a stranger. When I mentioned the man who gave me the money, she tortured and starved me the more after which I could feel a sign of kwashiorkor in my body.

Going to school, I fell and fainted. When I woke up I saw a brown ceiling fan, a stained white ceiling and the man who gave me the money standing over me. A syringe attached to a transparent rubber pipe was attached to one of my wrist veins. A fair-looking young nurse entered the room. Nevertheless it took me an hour to believe I was in the hospital.

The man exited with the nurse, returned alone and told me if a policeman asked to know how I was treated in my uncle's residence, I should narrate exactly what happened.

"Do you understand?" he asked.

I said yes.

After a few minutes, two men entered the ward, their faces shining of sweat, one receiving a phone call.

I told him exactly how I was treated.




My uncle with his wife visited the hospital in the evening after searching for me and were told I was here. They entered my ward after speaking in the reception, with the impression all over their body that they owned me. Followed by a dark-looking male doctor, the man who gave me the money, whom I could now called my savior, entered too. The doctor examined me and said I could be discharged to continue the treatment at home. But looking at the ceiling fan, I began to sob like a toddler. When the doctor asked me what was wrong, I said I had no any place to go. The police man and the human right activist entered the ward and the police man said to my uncle and his wife: "Both of you are under arrest for maltreating a minor."

The police push them to the police station while my savior and I remained in the ward. I began to think of where I would go from here.

But there was a tendency I must return to the village where I came from. I began to think of how I fared in the village before even dreaming of coming to Jos. I remembered although I lost my mother, I had freedom like every child under full parentage. I remembered I was being honored as one of the fewest male children in our clan, and I was about to be given a farm when my wicked uncle detached me.

That was bygone.




From the hospital I passed a night with my savior in his bungalow lying in a new mattress with a new betsheet uncomparable to my urine-smelling mattress with a torn bedsheet in my wicked uncle's house. I lied like a prince for the first time in my life though I knew my being here was temporary. I let pride slip into my head. In the morning, I had thick tea with bread and butter followed by beans porridge. After that, I did the dishes and watched TV. A house help, probably in her 60s, said I looked stronger than yesterday. And when my saviour phoned from his office to know how I was, she gave me the phone to hear from the horse's mouth. I said I was better than ever.