LETTER FROM COTE D’IVOIRE 

By Gabe Onwu

There are days and memories you would like to keep forever....

      

 “ Ya place, Champion, Grand Pere, ya place, dedans, Montez, Montez,200cfs, Montez Avec la Monnaie” Apprenti (a learner or Bus conductor ), as he and his colleagues are popularly called, had his right leg thrown outside and his right hand stretched  like a puppet from Europe.He beckoned to some passengers who were stranded outside the popular Market of Adjame in the city of Abidjan. The chauffeur was busy trying to squeeze the last puff from a cigarette stick when a thug approached him for ‘Cadeau’ or tip for picking passengers at his territory. Obviously, the driver had to comply immediately to avoid the wrath of other thugs whose ranks and inconspicuous presence constitute a menace to the society. On a positive note, these Bus Stop thugs seemed to have legalised their status. Before now, they were pick pockets, muggers and bandits who were in the habit of denying passengers of their valuables. First came the storm that sent confused shoppers in all directions. Soon the sky opened and it began to pour like it had never done before. Was God angry? The sound of a thunderstorm could be likened to dynamites and explosives used by ‘our friends ‘who had in recent times spread their infamous crusade to destabilise some countries. Women with babies strapped to their backs battled very hard to keep their umbrellas in positions, but the storm overpowered them. Young ladies had their own troubles trying to keep their latest hairdos from flying off their greasy heads. Others struggled to hold some pieces of clothes that seemed to rhyme with the latest design or fashion in vogue at least according to their own judgement but disobeyed and exposed some sensitive parts of their body. A particular lady in her late twenties was on the ground for two minutes. Her shoes probably got tired of her huge weight and decided to go on strike. Three touts went to her rescue and took advantage of her situation to touch her and utter some romantic phrases ”Ma Cherie, désolé”, Tu as blessure? Poor lady! Had she any option?

Koffi and I went after a flying rickety Gbaka that had the inscription” DEIU MERCI”.A novice in French, that I would gladly admit  or I would admit my incompetence in the French language, but it became obvious that something was not right  with the inscription and so I protested silently and mumbled to myself ’DIEU or DEIU’?

Another one with the inscription ’Avec Dieu,, toute est possible’. ‘With God all is possible’. Yes, even our death. We hopped in. Come to think of it, a moment like this no one dared question if the moving corpse would make it to its destination. The killer engine that defiles all road signs and traffic lights. The Chauffeur shared his bit of madness when he almost crushed a student boy whose schoolbag was too heavy for him to carry. My excitement was cut short when I had to occupy a seat next to a lad who from all indications had probably not visited a bathroom for the past fifteen days. If he did, someone must have baptized him with a mixture of rotten eggs and some used water from the abattoir.I reached out for  a handkerchief beautifully designed by my ex-girlfriend to provide a temporary relief for my nose. When he noticed how uncomfortable I was, he asked”Ya quoi dedans, Quelle est ton problem?”I lied pointing at my head to indicate ‘a headache’ and quickly added ’Ma tete’. I chuckled and uttered few words in English. ‘Who is this celebrated sonofabitch with a certificate in bacteria emission Yes,?’.

“Moi.Je Suis pas speak l’anglais”. Aha! I got him and somehow challenged his incompetence as well. His red eyes and unfriendly face almost scared the hell out of me, but the presence of Koffi arrested the little fear in me almost immediately. Koffi’s Kungfu and boxing skills had won him fame in our neighbourhood, turned him to a cocky young man and a braggart.No one undermined his presence in the quartier (quarters).We got home and I had a quick bath at least to remove some stubborn virus that might have disrespected my body during the trip. I made for the kitchen and began to feed directly  from the pot that sat lazily on the cooker. Did I say my prayers before meals? The stubborn hunger in me was responsible for that laxity. All the same, I uttered some few words after the meals like a good Catholic to thank the Man upstairs. I had had a long day, therefore, my bedroom was the next destination. I forgot to switch off my radio. Of course, I had to replace the made in China batteries to keep me abreast with the latest gossips from the BBC World Service.

At daybreak, I had my bath and breakfast in haste. It was a special day and there was no way the events of that day could elude me so cheaply. I joined a train of irate football fans and supporters of Les Elephants and set out for the National Stadium some Kilometres away from where we lived. The excitement reverberated throughout all the Regions and districts. Streets wore new looks adorned with Orange, White and Green their National Colours. Along the route, we stopped to take some snapshots that would later remain our souvenirs of the Century. That month of April was significant in the lives of Ivoirians and indeed Africans who love the round leather game.

 The Stadium was not enough to accommodate hundreds of thousands of spectators and fans. Somehow my friend and I made our way into the Stadium. We met many Ivoirians who slept in the stadium just to catch the glimpse of the Newly crowned heroes or ‘ Roi de Afrique’ After five hours of waiting, the trophy finally arrived in a Motorcade. The golden trophy was jealously held out to the jubilant spectators by the President and the Captain of the National Team surrounded by Security Aides. On seeing the trophy, we all went agog. A juicy lady who stood very close to me jumped and hugged me from behind. She and I never knew each other from Adam. I was glad to get those hugs after so many years of observing canonical distance from such essentials. Before you blame me, we were in the celebration mood, so chapter closed....

To be continued.

Memoirs

                                        MY PLACE OF BIRTH     PART 1

                                                             Written by Gabriel Uko Onwu

In my little village, I had always looked forward to three great feasts well celebrated among my kinsmen.Our new Yam Festival (Igede Agba), Christmas and Easter. In each of these, I was sure my parents were going to buy a shirt, a pair of trousers and sandals or shoes for me. My Mum would always save enough money for this purpose. I was only denied these privileges once when I stoned Onayi for calling me her husband.Onayi was a beautiful girl in our village who grew faster than her age and when she clocked 13, some hungry bachelors had started besieging her Father’s compound for the same intention. She was jealously protected and had to be taken away to live with her tough Aunt in Calabar,one of the largest cities in our Country. Was I pleased to see her leave? If only I had understood the meaning of love at that time. I would rather not talk about it but if anything I owed her apologies and wish she was closer than ever. Time was when I would single out her voice among several  voices of young girls rehearsing their latest tunes to grace each occasion. Each time I looked at her parting gift( a beautiful necklace embroidered with her name and mine), tears were far from drying up. Of course, that was when love was love but my naivety   was at work.

The most interesting part of those celebrations as I could recall was the eve of each feast. I would get up four or five times at night to test my new clothes and  inspect the chickens, goats or ducks that were earmarked for the celebrations. To say the least, Ukpa Ochodu, my sweet home was like a second heaven to my age mates and me. Famine was not known there in my childhood. There were different kinds of food crops, fruits, domestic animals, birds, eggs and bush meat to send hunger back to her motherland.Yams, cassava, beans, rice, sweet potatoes and their twins, okonkilo, ichiri(hard beans). bambara nuts, groundnuts just to name but a few never escape each household. My Dad was highly respected among his age group for various reasons. He was a warrior, a great wrestler, a traditional dancer, a great farmer, a palm wine tapper, and a hunter par excellence. He hardly went on hunting expedition without returning home with an antelope, grass cutter, rabbits and guinea fowls to complement different kinds of soup my Mum creatively launched in our household. Children loved visiting our home especially in the evenings when Mum’s sauce would always lead us into temptation. I remembered that particular day when my mother caught me red-handed trying to extract a stubborn piece of meat that dared me from her Egusi soup. When she appeared, I quickly lied that I was trying to kill a lizard that jumped into the pot.”Lizard”? She asked and quickly added that in all her life she had never seen a living thing inside a boiling pot. She smiled and teased me with my native title”Uko chanyan gbodu”.She hugged me and I was ashamed of that little act. I promised her at that spot never to steal again. The aroma from her thatched kitchen was incomparable. Salivating was part of me.

My Father’s physical prowess was glaring and sometimes he would rather walk around our compound without his shirt to enjoy the natural ventilation although his muscles would vibrate back and forth like a lump of a full-blown beef sampled out by butchers to attract their clientele. One day my Mum teased him with these words “who are you showing these tiny muscles to as if someone is afraid of you’? He moved closer and grabbed my Mum’s hands. Next; she yelled, went down on her knees and asked for pardon. She added that she was only playing and reminded him that she was his jewel. I enjoyed that part of what kept them for years without an open quarrel or fight unlike some husbands who would occasionally beat their stubborn wives for some laxity, negligence and loose tongue. My Dad once instructed me never to beat my wife when I grew up. He added that women would never cease talking even when they are been beaten. Fighting a woman was a crime among male folks in our community. It was okay to slap your wife with the back of your hand but not to thoroughly beat her or inflict any injury on her. Consequences and sanctions were there. Of course; some stubborn men still touch their wives but usually in the privacy of their rooms.

To be continued...