Chapter 3: Chapter 3

A child who forgot his home is merely postponing evil days

-Yoruba Adage

I tried to live by father’s rule as much as I could since our last encounter. No calls I couldn’t explain when he was around, performed salat, kept my wide friends away, no listening to music and I recited Qur’an especially when he was around. The relief on his face was evident. His morning sermon after Subuhi prayer became more focused on the importance of seeking the happiness of our parent. Yusuf asked him in one of those mornings if seeking the happiness of our parents is mutually inclusive with doing what makes us happy. I guess the question was a tough one because his eyes narrowed in surprise. “Sure as long as we don’t violate the rules and guidelines of Almighty Allah” father said. I was glad when Yusuf did not press further, because the Yusuf that I knew would tell him the rules were many and there was no way not to trample on any of them.

While Yusuf remained passive to father’s religious beliefs it was different for Ibrahim. The break gave him more time to study religion texts and listened to Islamic scholars on weird religion doctrines, or what some would refer to as religion fanaticism. On his 15th birthday, he told us and some of his friends that wished him a happy birthday he was a year closer to his grave. He actually asked me if I would love to celebrate his death and my jaw-dropped.

The situation at home went from bad to worse; mother was becoming less available. She left in the morning and mostly returned very late. Sometimes I woke up to find father on one of the chairs waiting for her to return. Mother said her lateness was due to the harmattan and festive period, her customers’ demand had increased and they kept coming late in the evening. “I can’t leave them to go and buy from my rivals when I don’t have a sucking baby at home” she said to justify her absence. Father was not pleased with her excuse, I knew because his eyes always betrayed his feelings. But he didn’t query it or restrained her to prevent a tug of war. I guessed he knew mother would call him out on his responsibilities, and demanded he took care of them if he wanted a babysitter for a wife. So everyone buried their hatchet for peace to reign, but it was the calmness before the storm.

On the last Sunday that preceded Ileya festival when everyone was present at home during the day. Father announced that he wanted us to go to his hometown for Eid-il-Kabir. Mother looked at him suspiciously. “We’ve not gone to Ibadan to celebrate ileya before. Why now?” she asked. “There’s a first time for everything” father replied curtly. Mother pressed further with accusation dripping from every syllable. “Since when have you thought about it?” she inquired and I could sense the tension building. “Salamat! I’m going home to celebrate with my family; I didn’t realize I needed your permission” father replied authoritatively. Mother was enraged; she looked at him in the eye. “You have a wife and I believe I’m important to your family; you should be asking me before making decisions that affects us”. She stood up, went inside to change her dress and stormed out of the house without a word.

I never knew I could side with father against mother when they had a misunderstanding. But I thought father was right this time. My brothers and I spent our entire childhood in Lagos imagining what our hometown looked like. I wished to meet my extended family members at least once in my lifetime. Back at school my friends always bombarded me with gist after returning from their hometown during Ileya. And I wondered what my extended family members looked like, how they would receive us if we made the journey home. When father broke the news Ibrahim was grinning from ear to ear before mother shut his mouth with one vicious look. So I already knew his opinion on the matter. Yusuf however was totally indifferent. I was not surprised by his nonchalance because he was never the one for long trips, he wouldn’t even go to school excursion outside the state. The farthest he had gone was a 20 perhaps 25 minutes bus ride from Iyana-Ipaja to Ikeja-inside.

Mother returned in the evening around 7pm. Father didn’t ask where she had been to; as a matter of fact he welcomed her like nothing happened. I guess she didn’t see it coming and was disturbed by a guilty conscience. That night she prepared dinner for us but father refused to eat her food, and sent Ibrahim to buy bread and I made tea for him. This act completely deflated mother’s ego and she couldn’t keep it together. She woke father up when she thought everyone was asleep and gave explanation of her whereabouts. “I went to my friend’s house” she said. I’m sorry for how I behave in the morning.” “It’s okay” father replied. When he didn’t say anything else she went on. “I’m not trying to keep you or your children away from your family. But you know they don’t like me. Your father didn’t approve our marriage, that’s why we never went home. Why do you want them to make jest of me now?” I thought father was asleep when he didn’t say anything for almost 3 minutes. “I have nothing against you. You can stay back; don’t travel with us if you don’t want to, but I’m taking my children home this year” he said. “But why?” Mother asked desperately. “My father is getting old; I must make sure he saw his grandchildren before his demise” he replied. Mother knew there was nothing she could say to convince him, he had made up his mind. The next day she delayed going to her store and waited for father to leave the house. When he finally left, mother called for a meeting and tried to persuade us to decline going to Ibadan with father. She practically begged us to side with her. I didn’t know what to say when she asked for my support. Ibrahim’s position was evident, he wanted to go home. I also want to go home but how would I tell her without making her feel betrayed. The situation was like an adage I heard from my Yoruba teacher that says: “going on a king’s errand but the river king was beyond crossing. The king message must be delivered but jumping into the river king was suicidal”. What should I do?” Yusuf was on the fence and I figured he would support the winning party. I looked at mother apologetically, “this may be our last chance to know the way home. If we don’t go we might regret it someday” I told her.

The motor park was bustling with activities. A loud speaker was blaring the destinations that were available to passengers. Some people were with loads that gave me the impression they were leaving Lagos struggles never to return. If one hawker was summoned to purchase an item numerous of them would flock to the buyer, and a careless buyer might lose valuables to pick-pockets camouflaging as hawkers. A boy I presumed should be in Ibrahim’s age group thrust a face towel in my hand. I was about to refuse but he said “my fine sister, your face is sweat very well, use it clean just 100.” I couldn’t resist him, he was right I was dripping with sweat and he obviously needed the money, so I paid him. At last we made it to the section of the bus leaving for Ibadan and father went to get our ticket. Mother was not enjoying the charade a little bit, because she kept hissing, stamping her foot and raining invectives every time someone bumped into her or mistakenly stepped on her. She almost got into a fight with a chin-chin seller who insisted she buy chin-chin for the children at home. At last we entered the bus and took our sit, I sat between mother and father while Yusuf lapped Ibrahim by the window.

The journey was largely silent within our group, except for the intermittent discussion between Yusuf and Ibrahim about the things they saw in some of the places we passed. Perhaps I would have joined their conversation, but I was like the rock that separated the Lagos Sea and the Atlantic Ocean; tension was rolling from both sides and I was cramped in the middle. At last I fell asleep. I dreamt that when we got home the entire neighbourhood came to welcome us singing and dancing, like I saw in a Nollywood movie when the lost prince miraculously returned. But in our case father was no prince, just a disobedient son that refused to hearken to the wisdom of his father.

Although I was fantasizing for an ovation kind of welcome, I wasn’t disappointed with the warm welcome we received. We were ushered to a sitting room that was bigger than our apartment back in Lagos. Black and white pictures of different sizes hanged loosely from the wall. An outdated calendar of a cooperative society was behind an old grandfather clock, and at one end of the room was a box-like screen standing on four legs. I looked closely and realized it was an archaic television set. Grandpa sat in one of the cushion chair that was arranged in a crescent facing the television at the other end of the room. His cap not quite matching his leaf green coloured cloth has ears that remind me of our neighbour’s dog. We all went down to greet him. He took his time to stare at mother then at father, his bielded eyes filled with ancient wisdom. “Rise, I’m happy you found your way home. Now my spirit can bless you.” He said nodding his head repeatedly as if confirming his own words. “Stand up my children it is the egg that becomes a cock, come and sit with me” He said with so much compassion in his eyes. Yusuf and I sat on either side of his chair and he practically carried Ibrahim on his lap. “This one looks like me, welcome home my son” he said speaking Yoruba all the time with thick Ibadan accent. None of the faces that came to greet us knew me and my brothers and neither did we know them, but they felt like family and I was completely at home. Even mother was greeting everyone excitedly, and I couldn’t believe she was the grumpy woman who entered the bus with us in the morning. I knew she was faking it, but she deserved to be applauded for doing a perfect job. Grandpa’s house was a bungalow with a lot of space at the front where orange and pawpaw tree were planted. The windows were wooden which got me thinking how they planned to keep mosquitoes out at night, and also got enough air inside the house. I don’t like it when mosquitoes buzz in my ear, and I hope we don’t leave the windows open by nightfall we would be vulnerable to burglars. For the first time I prayed coming home won’t be a bad experience.

While I was busy enumerating dangers and safety measures Ibrahim had made some friends. Alhough he was having difficulty coping with the Yoruba dialect my cousins spoke to him. Back in Lagos we usually communicate in English except in few cases when we are addressing mother. Some of them realized his struggle and code-switched to a not so fluent English with deep Ibadan accent to communicate with him. I was laughing when one of the smaller boys told him “I will sow you my sat when my mummy come” and Ibrahim was lost between “sow” and sat”. Yusuf was very tired from the journey and slept not long after our arrival. That night we ate amala and ewedu with bush meat. Grandpa invited Ibrahim to eat with him and gave him large chunk of meat, treating him like a baby all the while and Ibrahim enjoyed his attention as much as the old man.

The next day we didn’t eat anything before going to prayer ground. I asked father for the reason, he said the festival was in memory of what happened to Prophet Ibrahim, when he was commanded by Allah to sacrifice his son. “He was sad on his way to the designated place but he obeyed Allah’s commandment, so Allah gave him a ram to kill in place of his son. We must also reflect the moment of his sadness by not eating before going to prayer ground” father said. Ibrahim was grinning with pride like he was the Prophet reincarnation. Yusuf didn’t go with us because he developed a slight fever during the night. Mother couldn’t keep her irritation off her face, as she kept giving father an odd look like he was directly responsible for his sickness.

We were returning from the prayer ground when we met a woman; she is not as tall as mother, huge or busty. She was fair in complexion, very dark eyebrow and long eye lashes that I would have swear she fixed if she wasn’t standing two paces from me. Her lips were pink shaped like the love symbol, slender built, average height that she needed to tilt her head backward to see father’s face. She wore a blue hijab and long blue caftan that touched the ground, strapping a baby on her back. I was marveling at her beauty when her eyes met mine before looking behind me. “Abdulrazaq!” she exclaimed. It took me few seconds to realize she was addressing father. “How have you been? Longest time” she walked down to meet us. Father looked sheepish. “Asalamualeikum!” he said. “Wahaleikumsalam waramotullah wabaratu” she replied her voice ringing like a bell. “I was at your house to greet your father the last time I came home. I was told you reside in Lagos, but no one knew where or provide a number I could use to reach you” she said. Father was obviously not at ease with her presence; he kept glancing everywhere avoiding eye contact, but she seemed not to notice or refused to acknowledge it. “I lived at Iyana Ipaja” he told her. “This must be your daughter, she is very pretty.” She complimented and I blushed. “Please give me your contact so that I can reach you later, my husband is waiting.” I traced her line of vision and saw a man waiting beside a very big Acura jeep. She quickly exchanged contact with father and promised to call him. Later I asked father where he knew the woman but he gave me no response.

We ate bread and tea when we got home. Grandpa’s wife who is actually the only wife still living out of four wives announced to the Iyawo-ile they are to prepare pounded yam for the afternoon. Ibrahim was at the verandah helping with the preparation of the ram meat and he started smiling to himself when he heard pounded yam. Our eyes met, I mouthed the word “foodie” and he stuck out his tongue at me. I went inside to meet Yusuf who was back on his feet but not his usual self yet. He sat in one of the cushion chair in grandpa’s sitting room looking like a foreign man in a strange land. I asked him how he was feeling. “I feel better” he said. That was when I realized I haven’t seen mother since we got back. “Where is mother?” I asked sitting down beside him. “She went out some minutes after you left to the prayer ground.” he replied. “Do you have any idea where she went?” I asked. “No I don’t” he replied. I went to ask father if mother told him she was going out. He looked at me like I was speaking a language he hasn’t fully grasped. “She should be at the backyard with the rest of the wives” he finally said. I told him I was with the wives earlier and she wasn’t there. Father looked for his phone and dialed her number. “Asalamualeikum! Where are you?” “What happen? The voice on the other end asked. “I’m at my family house to greet my mother, I will be back soon.” I heard to! to! to! She disconnected the call. Father was enraged but there was nothing he could do.

Before mother returned it was late in the evening when some people had retired to their room, or went on errand of their own. I heard two younger wives talking about mother. “Where did our Lagos wife went all day?” the first one said. “Where can you not go when you have slaves to cook, wash the dishes, and even feed you” another responded. “You are right, I wouldn’t want her to crack her polished nails pounding yam” they both cackled and one of them glanced at my direction. I wondered if they thought I couldn’t hear their dialect, or they were intentionally having the discussion so that I could hear. I left the premises and went inside the room that was assigned to us. I wished we could go back to Lagos that very night. Father was angry but above all he was embarrassed with the way mother conducted herself. He made up some excuses for Grandpa why we needed to return to Lagos the next day. Grandpa was skeptical but he couldn’t prevent us incase our reason was genuine and he made father promise to bring us on vacation. Although father promised but I knew mother would never agree to such arrangement.