I hated the rain until I danced with her in it;
I started liking it that moment, then I slipped and fell;
That same moment was about the time I started falling for her. So I love the rain: Heavy, torrential with stormy wind accompanied with claps of thunder and lightning, a rainstorm.
My house has a balcony, not a rooftop balcony, the verandah type. The balcony overlook the town Northwest ward. Sitting on my balcony, you could see the tall stature at ife east, and the Lagere tower, and the Ife Hills range, the green caped hills. I usually look forward to evenings because the sight of the sun westering in the western horizon over brown rooftop and green caped hills is just breath-taking, not like the Caribbean sunset, a Modakeke sunset. But this evening, the sky decided to rain instead. There wasn't a Modakeke sunset, but it rained; heavy and torrential with claps of thunder, just the way I like it.

It started as a light drizzle then it became torrential. I was on my balcony, enjoying the scent of the rain while polishing the boot for the last parade, and reminiscing on the past 11 months. The end of a story is the beginning of another, the end of one phase brings another into play.

If I were to write a book about my NYSC, I would write the dedication last, on the very last page, and It will be to Modakeke.

Modakeke is not just the town, the little sprawling town in Ife-east area named after the raucous sound of a certain specie of stork, and occupied originally by old Oyo empire natives who fled the empire.

Modakeke to me is the little kids, teenagers in the same cream and brown uniforms, despite being students of different public schools. At the beginning of my primary assignment, I was in a dilemma whether to tell them or not that osun state and Nigeria as a whole is a state, the same state as the Nigerian and omoluabi rags (flags) mounted in their school compound. I did not tell them, I guess I was busy minding my business. O Lord forgive me for being busy minding my business. Anyway, I don't think it would have made any difference if I had told them. Because they know as much as I do that the country is in a filth, that the country has refused to leave the filth, that the filth has become the country. I believe that they know as much as I do that the Nigerian and Omoluabi rags (flags) could be changed into something cleaner, fresher, newer, better. But the same cannot be said for the so called omoluabi state (the state of virtue) and Nigeria as a whole. I'm actually impressed that they know all this, and even more; that Nigeria isn't made to work for them just like the òpòn imò. It's all a scam.

At the beginning of my primary assignment, I wondered what they would do when they eventually realise all these, but they have realised already and have began to take steps to give themselves a life in the filth. That's why most of them in addition to going to school are also learning a skill; part-time students, part-time apprentices of different trades: Tailoring, Shoe-making, Motocycle repair, hairdressing, vulcanizer, even vulcanizer. In fact school to most of them have become just a place to learn how to read, and write. Nothing more. Imagine such a misplaced priority, imagine the consequences of that: SHOP owners. Do you know the meaning of SHOP?. I'll tell you. "Sit Here Operate Poverty". That's the kind of Life they are building for themselves, in the filth.

Modakeke to me is the woman next door who gets angry anytime I take 3 oranges out of the 9 or more she sends her son to give me, or a bunch of banana instead of the two she brings.

Modakeke is the other neighbours who talks about me all the time in Yoruba, in my presence laughing while doing that, not knowing that I understand all what there were saying. Just imagine the look of shock on their faces the day I spoke Yoruba to them

Modakeke to me is the woman in better-life market who reserves different kinds of fruits; avocado, pineapple, banana, coconut, oranges, plantain, mangoes, African cherry fruit for me. Because I told her the first day I went to her stall that I love fruits a lot. Imagine a petty fruit seller reserving her goods (perishable goods o) instead of selling them because Corper likes fruit and would come to her stall to buy.. Such faith! I won't forget the look of guilt on her face any time I visit her stall and she doesn't have a particular fruit I wanted, the look stays even if I buy some other thing instead. It happened again two weeks ago when I went to her stall for fresh corn, and she doesn't sell corn.

Modakeke is the deaf and dumb guys that frequent the bet 9ja shop I usually charge my phone on days when electricity is scarce; four of them, anytime they see me they would throw their two hands up in the air, raise one foot and stomp it on the ground_ in the twale style, the street style of salutation of respect. Once, one of them made a sign language I couldn't understand, then he pointed to the army green cap I was wearing, that was how I knew he wanted it.

Modakeke is my students, the little noisy ones in grade 5 who begged me to teach them with Yoruba, the much older grade 6 students who offered to teach me Yoruba (because I told them I can't speak their language) in exchange for teaching them info tech. The triplets and many twins in the school that makes it a habit confusing me and sees that confusion as entertainment. Those triplets in grade 5 especially. But eventually I was able to tell them apart, thanks to Omirin Tokunbo.

Modakeke is freedom from Lagos traffic, and general stress.
Modakeke is climbing elevated landmasses and descending to lower grounds, stopping from time to time to catch my breathe and appreciate the beautiful landscape of the town, as I do my Johnny Walker thing to bible study and other fellowship activities.
Modakeke is not worrying about school; lectures and semester GPA.
Modakeke is not minding time because you know you would get to wherever you want to go in no time.
Modakeke is not worrying about making it to the BRT terminal on time so I won't have to wait for long for the bus.
Modakeke is complete self-dependence 100%. The spacious and well arranged room makes me miss home. The electric bill that comes at the middle of every month and the account balance that keeps depleting by thousands of naira weekly despite the mostly-rice meals keep telling me "you are on your own". I call home every Sunday evenings and when asked if everything is fine, the response is always the same "everything is fine" even when I'm worried, or afraid of the uncertainties of tomorrow.
Modakeke is the sometimes-annoying teachers and principal of Saint stephens middle school.
Modakeke is the acrid smell of locust beans everywhere and in everything.
Modakeke is the ignoramus okada men that would want to charge you 3x the normal fare, because you are a Corper and they believe corpers are very rich.
Modakeke is looking forward to the end of the service and when it eventually comes, feeling reluctant to leave. Because you have met such wonderful and awesome people and saying goodbye to them isn't easy.
Modakeke is asking yourself "where does time go? "where has the past 11 months gone?"
Modakeke is postponing goodbye by a day every day.

Great and beautiful

that's really touching my town modakeke akoraye

Goodbye is inevitable. No matter how long you put it off, the time to say goodbye will eventually come. When that time comes, you will need all the courage you could get.

Is there ever a right time to say goodbye? Especially when it is so final. You see, A wife and her husband can say goodbye to each other as one of them goes off on a short trip, they could also also say goodbye every morning as each goes off to their different workplace. A parent can say goodbye to their child(ren) at the front of the house as the child(ren) heads off to join others in the school bus; or in front of the school before the child(ren) enters the school premises. But it is only temporary, because they will all return home latter in the day, that same day.

A person can say goodbye to friends, family members, relatives after a visit or a gathering but it is temporary, because they are going to see each other again soon, definitely.

A father can say goodbye to his daughter after walking her down the aisle to the arms of the man she would spend the remaining of her days on earth with. The mother would cry after the solemnisation, tears spilling from her eyes like water from a kettle, rolls down her cheeks, spoiling her mascara or eyeshadow and blush and all. The tears would collect at her red painted lips. She would open the lips to say goodbye and she would taste her make up, she would also taste the tears of goodbye. But the goodbye is temporary because she may be leaving their house to begin making her own home, but she is not leaving their lives. She would return from time to time to report her husband, or to seek advice, and all whatnot.

But when goodbye is so final, when you know that saying goodbye is also saying "it's unlikely we'll see again". When is the right time to say it? Is there even a right time to say it?

At dawn yesterday morning, Modakeke came to see me. We sat on my balcony and talked for long. We talked about the town and its so many associations, senseless associations; imagine Roasted corn sellers association of Nigeria, Modakeke branch. What in God's own earth is that. We talked about how these numerous and senseless associations is slowing the progress of the people. If the people do not progress, how will the town progress?

We talked about the new ọba Adedoyin market and how it could bring the people of Ife and Modakeke together after decades of hatred, malice, and war.

We talk about Modakeke youths, the boys are venturing into societal vices, Yahoo plus, substance abuse and the likes. And the girls, especially the teenagers getting pregnant even while in school. So many "After one girls".

We talked about the fine SUBEB school (Aregbe schools as they are called), new modern school but old teachers, old both in age and in mentality.

We also talked about the part-time students, part-time apprentices of different trades: Tailoring, hairdressing, motorcycle repair, woodwork, vulcaniser, even vulcaniser!

As we talked about these, Modakeke became sad. Then to cheer her up I teased her about her food. Locust beans everywhere and in everything. From common vegetable soup to jollof rice to (I heard) pepper soup, even pepper soup! I told Modakeke that I won't be surprised to see locust beans in white rice and boiling water. And we laughed, long and hard.

As the sun began to seep out of the heavy clouds, it's crimson rays bathing us, Modakeke stood up to leave. It's Wednesday, Adedoyin market day and she had to go get her wares ready. Then I said my goodbye, Modakeke did not respond. As I saw her off, I told her she and I may have so many differences but we have one thing in common. We both have the vitality of youth, and the potential to be great but it's up to us to decide to be great or not. Circumstances, or environment, even the Nigerian situation cannot hold us back. If we did not not eventually become great, it is because we chose not to. We got to the Junction where we will part ways, Modakeke said to me "You can stay if you want to. There are lands everywhere, you could build. I still have fair maidens regardless of the many after-one girls, you could marry. My environment is clean, and conducive, the weather is great, you said so yourself, and is not over polulated like the Lagos you are so much in a hurry to return to. "I cannot stay, even if I wanted to" I replied her. "There is a big world outside here and it's waiting for me. I must go on, I am not like the green hills of Ife that remains in a place. I am the oshimili; the great river that must keep moving."
After a brief moment of silence, Modakeke said "Everything inside of me is reluctant to accept your goodbye".

We parted ways at the junction where four roads meet, each going to different directions. One going westward towards Lagos (the path I will take in a matter of hours), one going eastward towards Ondo, one going to Modakeke township, one going towards Famia. There, we parted.

About the time the sun began its journey in the distant horizon, casting a russet glow on everything around it was when I came to sit on my balcony, one last time. All across the evening sky, the birds were leaving, making their way from God-know-where eastward to God-know-where westward. How could they know when it was time to go, how could they tell time?

Where does time go, where has the past 11 months gone?
We often lose track of time. Despite knowing that certain things are inevitable and it is best to get ready for it but still we'd say we lost track of time. Maybe because instead of getting ready for the inevitable, we chose rather to enjoy everyday, every moment, with those people around us that life has blessed us with and making it count. These people, without them it would be like you're in on a deserted shore. And you all know the time will come when we'll all have to go on. Well, now is that time.

I'll tell tell you where the past 11 months has gone. Time is a continuum, an endless continuum, so it never goes away.
Every event has its own portion in time, and when it ends another event begins. All those moments we cherish so much are like those events, and they are engraved in the tablet of our hearts where neither seasons, nor circumstances could erase them. The past 11 months is going to be an erasable memory engraved in my heart, and from time to time I will choose a particular memory and relive it.

Midway in its journey beyond the green hills of Ife, i looked up and felt like the sun stood still. I check wrist watch to be sure time hasn't stopped also, and I saw the second hand ticking. I looked up again, then it dawned on me that the sun was reluctant to set on a little town that is reluctant to accept the goodbye of a man who has to go.