JOKO

‘Daddy, where are we going to?’


‘I don’t know.’


‘Why don’t you know?’


Stony silence.


‘Daddy, I said wh-‘


‘Joko, quiet! Let me think!’


My father’s reaction stung me. Was it wrong to ask this kind of question again? I looked once more at my father... as if to confirm it was truly him. Daddy had been anything but normal these past few days. It was very unlike him to be so short- tempered with me. I was actually tired of walking around and moving from one hostile relative to another. It was too much for my little heart to bear.


I tripped over a stone and almost fell because daddy was dragging me with speed that my poor little legs could hardly match. He stopped to hold me from falling. I stood unsteadily, panting. He crouched in front of me and put up his big palms to frame my small face.


‘I’m so sorry darling.’ He murmured.


I looked deep into his brown eyes, suddenly noticing the bags under them. He had aged within such a short time. He gathered me in his arms, as if drawing strength from me; we remained there for some minutes.
Gently, he pulled away and stood. ‘We are going home.’


I wisely kept quiet as we kept walking though I was burning to ask the home he was referring to.
Home for me, was Fago, in Katsina. I didn’t like this place my father said was ‘home’ to him. The way he called Lagos home, was beginning to annoy me. I didn’t feel so homey here. I wished with all my heart that this was a nightmare that I would wake up from. Home was waking up in the morning, rushing through a bike and riding my bicycle with my friends to school. I had taken the peace for granted. My life in Fago was wonderful.


I was born in a community in Fago. According to the story, Asabe, our cook told me, my father, had come for his youth service in Fago, fallen in love with the place and simply stayed on. He had left only once to bury his parents. He loved the rural life there and being an only child did not have problems staying. It was a relief for his family members anyway, because they didn’t want to be saddled with additional responsibility. He was a teacher in the community school and had painstakingly learnt to speak the Hausa language because he was so in love with the people and the culture.


We couldn’t be called rich, but we were comfortable. The Northern life was such a beautiful and modest one; we were all contented with what we had, no matter how little. We were each other’s keeper in the community. I never knew my mother; neither had I ever seen her picture. I didn’t have the heart to ask daddy about her. Once I had asked and he had been looked so pained that I had silently vowed never to ask again; but from the little I heard while eavesdropping on Asabe and Rasheed, my father’s school assistant, she was a very beautiful woman whom my dad met during his youth service. She was also a ‘corper’ (as they were called) like my dad. My daddy so blinded with his love for her that he probably assumed she was going to stay back with him. My father did not notice or rather failed to notice that she didn’t like the village; she wanted a wider horizon and Fago was certainly not the place for her.
After hearing that conversation, I wondered why a woman would leave daddy. With pink lips that reminded me of ripe tomatoes, my father was a very handsome man. He was my gentle giant; standing at about six feet, daddy was one of the most handsome men in our neighbourhood; well, to me he was, though Asabe always disagreed with me on that. He had soft brown eyes and always helped out in any way he could. He was respected in our neighbourhood and consulted in matters pertaining to the welfare of the residents. He did a lot of charity work for the people of the community and was held in high regard.


Every evening, he would carry me on his broad shoulders and we would stroll through the ancient city of Daura with him pointing out different landmark of histories to me as we strolled. I could never forget those precious moments.
I was born six months after my parent’s service year ended. My father hadn’t wanted me born out of wedlock, so they had done a little traditional wedding ceremony, hoping that the bigger ceremony which would also involve the registry to legalise their union would come up later.


Being pregnant with me got my mother stuck in Daura and she stopped talking about leaving, so for a while, my father assumed my birth would change my mother’s mind about going away. His assumption and hope failed him when one day, he came home and found her gone. She left with some valuable assets my father’s parents willed to him and also the certificate of ownership papers of the land my father bought in Kano. She told him in a letter that she was tired of living frugally like a missionary and also said to desist from trying to look for her.
My father was devastated. He was left with a baby, (me) and no money as my mother took almost all he had. He managed to pull himself together and raise me alone. He had his fingers burnt so badly that he never thought to re-marry. I wasn’t starved of love though.


People who came around from Lagos always remarked about how I strongly my resembled my father’s mother. There were times I looked at my father and he would gasp and call me ‘Iyabo!’ He later explained that he called me that because he felt I was his mother who had been reincarnated. He told me that the Yorubas believed strongly in reincarnation and that was why he called me that name because he felt his mother had come back to the world as me. Perhaps, that was why daddy lavished so attention on me. We were so close that people in the Hausas in the neighbourhood referred to me as his ‘woligida’, his wife.


I attended the community school with the children from the village. Those days were wonderful days. We all rode on the smooth road to school in reckless abandon with our bicycles. We were always in race contests with one another and no matter how good I was, I could never beat my best friend Halima Ibrahim. She was the best cyclist among us. She was so good that she could ride without using the handle bars.
I tried that once; I knew I could never try it again when I bounced off my bicycle and landed on a big stone with bruises all over my legs; I decided to be contented to being the second best. On the way home, we met the boys from the neighbouring school who enjoyed teasing us. They only went as far as pulling our hairs and in any event of trouble protected us as much as their little strength could. It was a wonderful world; we were each other’s keepers.


I don’t know exactly what happened but we woke up to see everywhere in our community in flames. Later we heard that there was a political dispute between two communities. It was by divine providence that we didn’t get burnt up in our house. Daddy carried me out and we fled the community that same night. Thank God he kept some money at home. That got us seats on the night bus heading to Lagos. We left with nothing, except the clothes we had on us and the flip- flops on our feet.

Waiting...

We all have to wait for something at every point in time in life... you wait to get into school, you wait to get out; you wait for your turn on a queue; a bus; a life partner; a child; a job, a promotion...

What is important is, you learn to wait for and on God. Waiting, everybody does...but persevering... few people do.

Sometimes, it seems slow...

Sometimes, it seems God is not there...

Sometimes, it seems He has travelled and at other times, it seems He is just busy with the next person...

At the time of waiting, a virtue is born... that virtue is called PATIENCE. It doesn't get delivered easily but when it does, things change.

Not only do things change; EVERYTHING changes and while waiting, you see clearly and learn that in life;


1)You CANNOT accomplish EVERYTHING! Some things get accomplished while others are better, when left half done.

2)With God, ALL things are possible while with man, only some things are possible.

3)Whatever you think you can't 'wait' to have could end up killing you.

4)While waiting, you get to notice other things aroud you; your focus shifts and the available becomes even better than the preferable.


What do you do then?


Well, you wait. We can never stop waiting but we can stop waiting impatiently. At the appointed time, it will come. How do I know?

A couple waited for a baby for fifteen years...What do they call that?

A woman got married after praying for forty years...Wow!

Another woman got an American visa after ten years...


Patience is golden and he who finds it finds a good thing... Never stop waiting paitently. Don't worry, at the appointed time, it will get to you.

NIGERIA, THEN... AND NOW

Then....
Mum would say...'Lara switch off the refridgerator, I want it to defrost just a bit, the ice-block is a rock.'


Now

... in the middle of the night she comes into my room and says...'Lara, I just thought to ask again; did you switch on the fridge? I would do anything for chilled water'








Then...

A new couple would say...'We're visiting Jos, Yankari games Reserve Bauchi,and the whole of the North for our honeymoon.


Now...
'North ke? Abeg let us do our honeymoon in our house jare! It is better to see trouble and die in our home than to die in plane crash while travelling or be blown apart by Boko Haram in the North or Abducted on the way while travelling.








Then...

It was 'Children are leaders of tomorrow.'


Now...

'Children, abeg, chop wetin you fit chop today o! Nobody knows tomorrow!'








Then...
Mum would say... 'Read your books, so you will become either a Doctor, Lawyer or Engineer.



Now

'Education is not everything my dear, whatever your hands find to do, please do it. Have you considered music, dancing or football? Ebi o ni pa e, omo mi.'







Then...
Teachers were the most respected people. They were heroes.



Now...

They have been reduced to the level of begging to be paid their salaries





Then...
A man of seventy was too 'young' to die.



Now...

obituary would say...'He lived a full life, died at 57.'







Then...

Children would come out in crime- free streets and play 'Suwe'


Now...

Children are locked up in homes to play video games that does nothing to improve their intellect






Then...

Mum would call me around ten at night and say 'Lara, please get me a bottle of drink now, I really feel like having one now.'




Now...

'Please, lock the gates by eight p.m; I hope you have bought everything you need, nobody is going outside this house again.'







... WHICH WAY NIGERIA?