OI had two elder brothers that I never knew so well until I was about 10 years old. It’s possible we had met or seen when we were toddlers, but we never knew we were brothers because we never lived together for one day to really bond like siblings. My first two brothers were shuttling between Lagos Island, Ajegunle and Surulere while I was living in Surulere permanently. My mother’s marital life was a stirring conundrum.
She must have been so beautiful that her first man, Sikiru Alli-Balogun, couldn’t wait for her to mature before making her a mother at the age of 14. According to her own account, she was a typist trainee in 1956 at Holloway’s Typing School on Martins Street, Lagos, when Sikiru tampered with her “enticing endowment”. Though she claimed she played hard to get when I asked her why she didn’t face her typing career, the pregnancy and the baby were not convincing evidence of a girl who played hard to get at all. Instead, I saw a girl who willingly and experimentally decided to discover the truism in the saying; “the taste of the pudding is in the eating”. A girl who gave birth to three bouncing sons on three different occasions within four years for two men who were 13 years older than her cannot in any way win any litigation on “Sexual Harassment” or write a book with the title “Not My Will”. Ko possible. Besides, there was nothing in the family records to show that there was controversy over the first pregnancy.
There was naming ceremony and another pregnancy two years after to consolidate the relationship and erase any iota of doubt that the first pregnancy was a mistake. And to further show that the discovery had been a “sweet sensation”, my mother didn’t wait to see if the dispute between her and her husband would be quickly resolved before she had another consensual “meeting” with my father who didn’t waste time to exploit the short interregnum to full advantage. Here I am, the product of the short interregnum. Well, the three bouncing boys had finally met. My eldest brother, Sehinde Alli-Balogun, a complete gentle boy didn’t stay with us for so long. He returned to the Alli-Balogun family house in Ajegunle after the vacation. But Lateef Alli-Balogun, popularly called Latua (pronounced Late-tua) stayed behind. Now that my elder brother was around, I needed to do character re-evaluation and behavioural appraisal in order to avoid “Big Brother harassment”.
Though he was just a year and some months older, some brothers and sisters will always want to flex. All you will be hearing is: “Se mo nṣe egbe e ni?” They just want you to know that they are not your mates, even if it is only one day that separates the two of you. Anyway, I pretended as if I was a good boy. I woke up early. I washed clothes with diligence. I washed plates timeously and meticulously. I swept the house and surroundings with borrowed efficiency. I didn’t know whether to use “E” or “O” for him when talking to him. In some Yoruba homes, they expect you to use “e” for your older siblings. “E” is a sign of respect and “O” is used for those who are your mates. The way he was always looking was “one kind”. His voice was rough. He looked rough and tough.
His movements were soldier-like. He walked as if he was on parade ground. There was nothing about him that was friendly. His reticence was the only thing about him that was sober. I thought I was smart in reading people within a short timeframe. I was wrong. “Late-tua” was a complicated person to understand. He was just eleven years old but he behaved like a twenty-year-old. In no time, he turned himself to Ilelogo Garrison Commander. Everybody in the neighbourhood knew right away that there was a new Sheriff in town. He was a friendly terror in the community. It was inconceivable to the neighbours that just one house in the Street had produced two brothers with apparent potential and indisputable credentials for trouble. I must admit, except I want to delude myself, that I had met my match. His eating habit was monstrous. He could eat five times a day. Sometimes, I wondered where he was getting the money from. I knew he was from a popular and wealthy family but there was no proof to suggest that he was getting the money from his family members. My brother was a luggage of mystery and a baggage of shocks. We seemed to be getting on well. In any case, did I have any option? Before his coming, I was behaving as if there was nobody like me but now, simple common sense should tell me that voluntary surrender and sensible submission to superior power was the best strategy for my survival if I had to avoid a disastrous collision with a higher authority. In short, I had to urgently and compulsorily look for humility wherever it was hiding before it would be forced on me by this new entity.
In the house, he only showed reverence to Iya Ibadan. In this instance, he too had no choice because Iya Ibadan was a human being manifesting the traits of an angel that was suffused with Celestial charm. Anyone who fought with a person like Iya Ibadan must be in deficit of some mental faculties. For the 14 years I lived with her, she had no single or multiple quarrels nor fights with any neighbour or any individual. It was therefore so disarranging and worrisome to see her in an angry mood for the first time in my life. I was going to the backyard and I passed through the toilet only to perceive a strange odour coming from the toilet. I was knocked senseless. A rage came over me and I opened the toilet door with the surge of rage only to find my 11-year-old brother smoking cigarette with the inscription 555. I shouted in Yoruba: “Kini eleyii, o nmu siga?” What kind of depravity is this? At your age, you are smoking cigarette. He pulled me inside the toilet and covered my mouth with his left hand. The response that came from him was a blistering challenge to repentance He told me that I shouldn’t get worried that he was going to teach me how to smoke and act tough. I wanted to tell him to stop talking nonsense when I remembered that I had an on-going battle with Henry Nwosu who was my junior in primary school and I needed every tool of terror to fortify me for the battle ahead. I knew people were smoking cigarettes but I never knew its relevance to terror enhancement until “Late-tua” told me about it.
He said I needed to smoke so that I can look wild and tough and that everybody would be afraid of me when they see that I smoke. Wily-nilly, I had to calm down. But I wanted to know how he was going to get rid of the odour as it had spread beyond the toilet when I opened the door unexpectedly on him. He assured me that that was not a problem. He got up from the “Wash-down closet” (Now called Water-Closet or WC) and brought out a small bottle from his pocket. There was no odour of stool in the toilet, just that of the cigarette. This meant that he only came to smoke in the toilet and not to expel any faeces. All the while, Iya Ibadan was sleeping. “Late-tua” sprayed whatever was in the bottle here and there and the atmosphere changed dramatically. Honestly, this guy was something else. He had answer to everything. Somehow, I was happy that he was going to teach me how to smoke. I thought I knew rascality. I didn’t know rascality had grades. Let’s call his own “Ajegunle rascality” or Grade A and call my own “Surulere rascality” or “Grade S”. I decided to pocket my own rascality and learn from my new Master and his new manual. After about an hour later, Iya Ibadan woke up to go to the toilet. Immediately she came out of her room, she said in Yoruba: “Talo fin lofinda kiri ile?” She wanted to know who sprayed perfume all over the house. I was about to say “Latifu ni” when my brother interrupted me: “Iya mi, there was a foul smell from my stool when I used the toilet so, I had to spray the perfume”. Pray, what kind of unpleasant odour of stool would make a person spray a 25ml bottle of perfume all over the house? The following day, having processed the previous day’s incident, I asked him when I would start my own smoking lesson. He said now. I was wondering who would be financing the programme. He said I should look for an old newspaper or mat straws. I didn’t know what he wanted to use them for until I brought them.
He said I would start from there before I could graduate to cigarettes. While he was rolling the paper into shape, my mind just went to some male adults in our street who used to send me to Iya Deola’s shop to buy cigarettes like “White SM”, Benson and Hedges, St.Moritz, Gold Leaf, Marlboro, Rothmans, Consulate, Embassy etc. I was animated that I was going to join their group. Unfortunately for us, we had to keep using the toilet as our classroom because there was no hiding place at that time. Nobody built any fence round their house. From my house in number 18, I could see what was going on in house number 2. It was good for “Sara Monitoring” as we could see those who were killing fowls and hens. We would be watching the preparations from the beginning to the end. Then, off you go once you hear the Sara call: “Eyin ọmọ kekeke, e wa je sara”. Lesson one was thrilling. My brother would light the paper after wrapping it professionally. I would inhale, iI would hold my breath and I would puff. As I was doing it, I was smiling. Latua said we were going to have 4 or 5 lessons. I was already dreaming of smoking the real cigarette. On getting to school, I went in search of Henry Nwosu just to swagger ahead of my challenge to him. He was a proud small boy who had talent in football. He was in Primary two when I was in Primary four. His class was full of good ball jugglers with whom I played “set” in Paddington, Elelubo, Milo and Love Garden. I remember Sammy Ogunbiyi, Emeka Igbo, Sangodo Amosu, Razak Balogun and Kalu Nyiam. What was his offence? He subjected me to public ridicule by dribbling me disrespectfully in the presence of my enemies and my juniors. I had been praying to be in the school team but Henry Nwosu shattered this dream on the day I was to be selected as a member of the school team. He exposed my obvious weakness to the whole school. I called myself a defender, yet Henry Nwosu scored six goals through my flank. He killed the little talent I had in football.
Conveniently, I didn’t hesitate to switch to athletics rather than wasting my energy chasing a round object up and down and allowing some small boys to dribble me around with clinical precision, I preferred to sprint on a straight line. The little dignity I had left should not be assaulted by a disrespectful junior. Lesson two on smoking was a disaster. Remember, my Master from Ajegunle scheduled five lessons on improvised cigarettes before my graduation. Iya Ibadan was still angry.
To be concluded
