Clinton Ayabowei was a sickly child. He fell ill too often and his complaints were many. His mother almost gave up nursing him, so much so that when she lost one child after another, she expressed a wish that the sickly one should have died instead. But the spirit of the sickly child was on a mission, and Clinton overcame one adversity after another. In all, nine children were born to the woman.
Today, Clinton Ayabowei is the only surviving one among his nine siblings. He had an elder sister, Elvira, who kept him company until 15 years ago when she passed away in 2011. He also had a younger brother who died at the age of two. The sickly one outlived all of them, including his mother.
Clinton’s resolute spirit was at work even as a boy. He grew up to understand his environment as a territory covered by water. His father took him out fishing every other day. His mother got him a small paddle so he could join in the early morning row out to the river, sitting in the middle of the canoe.
His parents were also farmers, so Clinton learnt to till the ground, study the mood of the seasons, and to harvest what he had sown into the soil in the fullness of time. He helped carry the farming tools of his father, and he went swimming with other boys his age at the Otuan waterfront when he got back from the farm. He learnt to swing a machete as much as he learnt to cast a fishing net.
It did not take long before Clinton’s hunting skills began to manifest. He could stalk an animal with the care and caution of a marksman, and aim for target. He had often gone on hunting expeditions with John, his paternal cousin, who was known for his hunting fever. On one such outing, Clinton had confronted a bush pig, and wrestled it to the ground. He went on to kill two more bush pigs that day with his dane gun, and the family had a worthwhile feast of plantain porridge and pepper soup. The meat was dried on a bamboo rafter, and served his mother’s kitchen for weeks.
Like many boys his age, Clinton could climb trees, shake the branches till the fruits fell off, or simply stone mango fruits with sticks, standing at a safe distance from the tree. In the open spaces of Otuan, he ran around with his playmates, kicking a ball to and fro. He was good in short distance races even then. He could sprint across the length of the field with an amazing burst of energy in the hundred meter dash.
Clinton’s credentials as a young wrestler were even more impressive. He had the agility of a cat, the deft moves of a panther, and the grip of a puma. He was a wrestling champion in his weight category. Clinton, in short, epitomized everything about living in the jungle that was Otuan in the first half of the twentieth century.
Born into the family of Jeremiah Biekaton Ayabowei and Mrs. Okpan Ayabowei (nee Seyei) of Otuan, on 15 November 1942, the boy first sat in a classroom at the age of five in 1947. A teacher, Aaron Biriala from Ekeowei, was the first to discover his potential.
Clinton’s father, Jeremiah, was a fairly literate gentleman. In the early days of colonial rule, he had worked as a messenger at the Native Court in Amassoma, the equivalent of today’s bailiff. He worked with court clerks and the white District Officer. He was sent to many villages to dispatch summons to people, and became very well known in every neighbouring town and village.
Over time, he decided that the job was too hectic for him, so he resigned. He would rather remain in Otuan, concentrate on cultivating his camp at Otuowon-Kubu Bou, and be a fisherman and farmer to reckon with. Clinton was born after that, and no one knew that he would have anything to do with the court.
That fateful morning, like everybody else in Otuan, Aaron came to buy fish from Jeremiah Ayabowei, and saw Clinton for the first time.
‘This boy should be in school’, said the teacher.
The young boy and his father could only stare at him.
‘Put your right hand over your head’, said Aaron. ‘Let’s see whether you can touch your left ear’.
Clinton did as he was told, his right hand passing over his head and touching his left ear.
‘I said it’, said Aaron with apparent excitement. ‘The boy is old enough to go to school. Let him come with me today. I shall bring him back after classes’.
The father could not but agree. Clinton was, in fact, small for his age. He turned out to be the smallest boy in his class. There were other boys much bigger than him, but Clinton liked what he saw in school that day. He was given a slate and, with a chalk in hand, he was taught to spell out the letters of the English alphabet, and to count beyond his fingers. The teacher stood before the blackboard and taught him what he didn’t know. In the end, the bell sounded for end of classes at St Nathaniel’s Primary School, Otuan, and Aaron brought Clinton back to his father.
The next morning, Clinton was the first to get to school. His search for knowledge had begun. When the first examination was set and written, Clinton Ayabowei came first, followed by a boy called Wednesday Abidde. Clinton also found favour in the eyes of his teachers, and became the bell ringer. He virtually called the school to session every day, and his personal interest in school grew stronger from day to day. In the fullness of time, he would go from Standard One to Standard Four, and then proceed to Standard Five and Six at St Stephen’s School, Amassoma.
Clinton’s parents didn’t go to church. They qualified to be what the early Christian missionaries call pagans. They were traditional Africans who believed in the forces of nature. Clinton’s teacher, Aaron Biriala, introduced him to school, and therefore to church. The school and the church were one and the same. They came together with the white missionaries.
Teachers conducted service in those days. The primary text for school at the time was a booklet with the title: Titari Go Diri by a reverend gentleman called Daniel Ogiriki Ockiya.
On Sundays, the Nembe Bible came to hand along with the hymn book and Sankey, all translated from English into Nembe by the same reverend gentleman. As may be expected, Clinton speaks Nembe like any thoroughbred son of the soil.
‘The Nembe I speak today’, he says, ‘is from my primary school days. I never lived in any Nembe community even for one month’.
