Immediately Iya Ibadan opened the door, my brother wanted to bring out the perfume from his pocket. For what? I didn’t know. It was a reflex action by a child that was dazed by the truncation of his routine plan- smoke the cigarette, finish up and spray your location with a perfume whose fragrance would mask the odour of your “crime”.
With Iya Ibadan, we could always lie. We were both good in that department. The first thing a headstrong child does is to devise an auxiliary accessory that will go with his trade. If you are a serial offender and you are not good at lying, your chances of succeeding in the crime industry are not bright at all. Crime is not an associate of honesty. When my great-grandmother opened the door widely, we discovered that the game was up. Whatever lie or drama we wanted to come up with was an exercise in futility. She did not come alone. Convinced that my brother and I were smoking in the toilet, Iya Ibadan had sneaked outside to mobilize the informal “Street Crime Police” for this special operation. Who were the members of this group? Their leader was Alhaji Raji. I earlier mentioned him as one of the eminent personalities that followed me to school during my suspension saga. He was a very kind man, a generous giver, the man who, for so many years, organized “Gada” for the entire constituents of Surulere during the fasting period and, unquestionably, a disciplinarian. He was very strict with his children and even his four wives- Iya Fausa, Iya Sidi, Iya Waidi and Iya Labisi. Three of his children, Taju, Simbi and Sidi were my classmates in primary school. They were all disciplined children. It was this domestic pedigree that shored up Alhaji Raji’s external influence in matters relating to discipline in the neighbourhood. Parents who couldn’t flog their children because of their “strong bones”, would go and hire Alhaji Raji to help in “beating the children properly”. It was a popular practice in those days.
Neighbours helped to beat neighbours’ children if they couldn’t handle them well. Nothing like that again. The spirit of communal training of the child died with the vice of envy and evil that pervades our society today. Besides, all the values that can promote love and care for one another vanished with our self-centeredness and egotism. Distrust has destroyed our unity and traditional moral code. It may seem like we are still living together like one family but the truth is, we are no longer living for one another. Is anyone still watching your back for you in these evil days? How can we do that again when we have fenced ourselves up with walls of Animus? Who do you want to blame? My great-grandmother never beat us before, not because she did not want to, but because our bones were too strong for her fragile and frail body.
The trouble we (myself and my brother) caused on a daily basis both at school and in the street was enough to get an angel angry. Iya Ibadan’s anger was, in all honesty, justified. Other members of the team were Brother Laisi, the firstborn of the legendary Iya Láìsí, Brother Sule, another son of Iya Laisi and Brother Rashidi, the first son of Mr Sulaimon. These were all good and disciplined people who merited their membership of the squad. Without any form of ceremony, they had lifted me up like “eran ileya”. Despite their goodness, these people were ruthless when at work. One held my right hand, another held my left hand while one held my two legs leaving me floating in the air with Alhaji Raji applying the “àtòrì” (cane) with calculated precision to do (in)justice to my soft bum bum. My scream for mercy only attracted “gbe mi” from Alhaji Raji. Can you imagine the wickedness of a supposed good man. He was lacerating my buttocks with his cane and he was still telling me “gbe mi” meaning that I should keep quiet. Why should I keep quiet when I am not Abiku that is excited when being tortured. If Alfa Ligali called me Abiku and I pretended to be one, I was faking it just to scare him. By the time they finished with my bumbum, I started walking like a woman just coming out of the labour room. With tears flowing all over my face, everyone of them that I called good now appeared in my tears of agony as wicked men. It’s now my brother’s turn. He was carried the same way I was carried. Alhaji Raji started beating him as usual. He was not counting, he was just beating him. The same way he did to me. He had spent about 4 to 5 minutes beating my brother yet there was no screaming, no crying and no moaning. His face was dry. Looking at him properly, it was as if he was even smiling. I didn’t know when I started laughing sarcastically but quietly, despite the pains I was going through. I was telling myself that “this is the real Abiku”. I was about advising my brother to cry so that they would let him go when Alhaji Raji exclaimed in Yoruba: “Iya wa, ọmọ asetani ni eleyi. Gbere la o sin fun” meaning that my brother was Satan’s son. His case required incisions not caning. As soon as they left, after finishing with my brother, the crowd that came to witness this spectacle that took place in our backyard, started hailing him: “Late-tua”, “Late-tua”, “Late-tua”. They neck-lifted him all over the neighborhood shouting his name as they moved around the streets. Nobody neck-lifted me.
They were only greeting me: “Pele Dapo”. Even if they wanted to neck-lift me, where is the bumbum to sit on the neck? That was how my brother came from Ajegunle to become a hero in Surulere. I was happy that he came to stay with us. He was such a good guy, a benevolent terror that was loved by all. He was an amazing enigma with unpredictable dramas. He hated injustice but wouldn’t mind getting justice unjustly. For instance, there was a day I went to Stadium Hotel, three buildings away from our house. Their weekend disco night was called JOF. I was desperate to go into the dancing hall without paying a dime. Their main bouncer was deaf and dumb. As I was trying to gatecrash into the hall, he caught me and gave me an alabaster slap. I started crying until someone advised me to go and tell my brother. I was about telling the guy that I didn’t know his whereabouts when he grabbed my right hand and dragged me to where my brother was enjoying himself. I covered my nostrils because of the odour of their “implement”. “Kilo ṣe é?” was his first question. I now told him that the deaf and dumb bouncer at JOF slapped me. My brother just shouted with anger: “Eni lódì ma soro. Odi gba àbúrò mi leti”. He was so furious that a deaf and dumb bouncer had the guts to slap his brother. How he would make the deaf to talk was not clear to me. He rushed to Stadium Hotel ahead of me, and punched the bouncer several times. The poor guy was just shouting; “bebewu, bebewu”. I liked the retaliation but I didn’t like the way my brother punched him without allowing him to give his own side of the story. Possibly, he didn’t want to waste time asking the dumb to narrate what happened. But I thought he said he would make the dumb to talk. Latua was a funny fellow. This is only a digression of a later incident.
Back to the Alhaji Raji’s beating. After his victory parade over Alhaji Raji’s cane, we came back home to assess the damage done to our bodies. I was still wondering how he managed to receive such thrashing without crying when he gave me a quick lecture on street life. “Omo’ta o gbọdọ sunkun”. That is true. It’s very difficult to find these street urchins crying. Since that day, I decided not to cry again anytime I was being beaten. We had not gotten over the beating of the last lecture, my brother had already fixed the venue for the next lecture. He said we would go to the back of Biney Centre by 6 pm later that day. At exactly 6 pm, we both went out together without telling Iyá Ibadan where we were going. Our new venue was terrific. We didn’t need to fear anybody. It was indeed a training ground for those who wanted to learn how to smoke cigarettes and “Igbo” (cannabis). That was my first time of having a physical encounter with cannabis. The skunky odour of it irritated me. Ew, it was repulsive. Some of the boys in my area who I could never have imagined would smoke cigarettes were there, puffing the flame of Sodomy. We were about 8 boys and two men at the training ground. People were passing through the narrow space between the wide gutter beside the Biney Centre that flowed through Hogan Bassey and the narrow alley between Stadium Hotel and the Macaulays and the Adekojes. People saw us but they preferred to mind their own business. Of all the people there, my case was the funniest.
As soon as we arrived, I looked around me, all of them were smoking cigarettes or cannabis. When I brought out my newspaper, ready to wrap it for my lecture, one of them was about to put some weed in the newspaper, and I quickly withdrew it. I could see my age mates there but I didn’t see anyone of them with ordinary newspaper. There was none of them that looked like a trainee. My brother came to my side, whispered some words into my ear, I nodded in approval. The guy selling the weed collected the old newspaper from me, scooped some weed into it and gave it to my brother. There was another white paper with Latua. In exchange, my brother gave me his own cigarette. It was the Gold Leaf brand. I had never smoked a real cigarette before but today I had to do it because of what my brother said to me. I must not let them know that I was an “Ote” (novice). As soon as my brother lit it for me, a strange sweat came over me. The time was around 6 in the evening yet the sweating did not stop. I mimicked one of them by hanging the cigarette between my index and the middle finger. I didn’t know there was difference between smoking ordinary paper and smoking the real cigarette. As soon as I put it in my mouth, I inhaled it with some swagger by squeezing my cheeks beyond normal. The next thing I could remember was that I felt a hot fire, something like a dynamite, about to blow off my head. My head was hot. My eyes were teary. Then, I started coughing uncontrollably. Everybody started laughing while I continued coughing. I was not crying because my brother had told me that “Omo’ta does not cry”. Suddenly, my eyes were bloodshot. The inside of my head was hotter than the outside of my head. I didn’t even know if I was the one moving around or if the things around me were the ones moving. Everything was just doing “Eye melo tòlóngo wale…..” I was telling myself: “Talo ran e nise?” (Who sent you?). Somehow, my brother packaged me home.
On getting home, I ate my food and I slept off. Throughout the night, I was just watching documentary on different kinds of dreams in my sleep. From my sleep, I just shouted: “Who is beating me now?”. When I opened my eyes, it was Baba Alagomeji, iya Ibadan first born that I saw. Ahhhhhhhhhhh, what have I done again? It was only when I had done something wrong that people would come early in the morning, especially Saturday mornings. When would I rest now?
To be continued
