The day dawned, determined to register its solidarity with the Abiona family. Its tears? The light shower, which pelted the earth silently as though, bent on making her mellow in readiness to welcome the remains of the Abiona matriarch. There was no wind, only a grey cloud which tinged the day in grave hues in spite of all the colours of the rainbow that were represented by the umbrellas which several of the mourners still held open to protect themselves from the dying rain.

I stood a few paces behind the crowd. Only then did I feel sufficiently shielded by a blood red bougainvillea tree. I surrendered my mind to the melody of the choir's music. The choir had performed only the deceased's favorite hymns during the funeral service. All the way to the graveside, voices rang gaily as they performed her favorite gospel tunes. I was surprised to find some of these were my all time favorites too.

I felt like a fraud standing there as I watched the grim faces of the slain woman's children, family, friends as well as the legion of supporters who continued to throng to her graveside to pay their last respect in defiance of the drizzle.

"I feel highly honored by this uncommon duty which fate has thrust on me…"

A familiar voice grated on my mind, then faltered as the speaker wiped his tears with a dazzlingly white handkerchief. 'What a sharp contrast to the tone of the day.' I noted annoyed. I moved from under my shelter to get a closer look at the speaker. I needed to see his eyes in order to resist falling prey to the nectar in his voice.

'Cicero', this character had been dubbed and it was no accident that he had emerged one of the most powerful political figures in the country.

"Chief Mrs. Abiona!" He exclaimed and paused. "Chief Mrs. Abeni Oloropo Abiona …" He paused again shaking his head gravely as he pointed at the casket." A thoroughbred lies here today; still, lifeless, but we …" he beat his chest several times before clearing his throat as if to stop himself from choking. "We who are nothing but mere plough horses in comparison to her know that creatures like the good Chief Mrs. Abiona who sojourn but briefly through this terrain called life are really and truly immortal. Adieu thoroughbred! Thoroughbred, I use this word deliberately. For how can a woman of Chief Mrs. Abiona's colossal stature ever be perceived as anything less? She was like a racehorse, a strong solid thoroughbred. Pure bred from the finest of her stock. A race horse, more noble that its rider. Creatures like her would rather die running than loose the race. For such was the commitment of this magnificent embodiment of all that is prec ious in a woman."

He paused again, this time scanning the faces that surrounded the grave as if to examine if anyone dared to challenge his pronouncement. As heads nodded emphatically, not necessarily out of comprehension, I hissed, muttering: 'bastard!' under my breath. My mind appalled by the speaker's histrionics shut his voice out of my head.

My mind willed me to flee from this man's shameless manipulation of the event to his own advantage but my feet refused to move. I felt powerless to make my feet heed my mind's counsel.

"Thoroughbred indeed'" My head began to reel from the memory of this man's mocking laughter several years before when I had first gone to volunteer for the People's Party for Progress. I willed the speaker to choke on his words and fill the hungry grave when I remembered how he had laughed at my naivety when I was forced to confess my reason for volunteering to serve the party.

He was one of the Party's deputy divisional heads and had full charge of the Youth Wing. It was therefore his duty to screen young volunteers. I had gone to volunteer, determined to follow in the footsteps of my political heroine Mrs. Abiona (as she was then more humbly known). As it turned out, I was the only girl out of the five who responded to Mrs. Abiona's call for young people to come forward and lend a hand to the political process during a radio interview.

I had never done anything so daring in my life when I roused myself to heed this clarion call. I had never even known either of my parents take the trouble to go out and vote.

When my turn came to be screened, I let myself into Wole Abanishe's office. He had not then earned the title Cicero but that did not stop me from being in awe of him. I was shaking like a leaf inside. I met him digging his teeth into a cob of roasted corn and studying a paper on his desk. He did not raise his head to acknowledge my entrance even as he asked my name.

"Ayotunde Ojo" I managed to whisper. Only then did his head jerk up as though struck by a rod from under his chin.

"But you're a girl!" He said through a mouth jam packed with corn.

"Yes Sir" I whispered again, wondering if I had got that part of the interview right.

"But … I thought…" He paused to swallow. "How come you applied in a boy's name?" He frowned at me like I had committed a grievous crime.

"It's my name." I said regretting my lot at bearing a name, which could so easily condemn me.

"Why would a young girl like you want to get herself entangled in politics?" He did not offer me a seat and any moron knew in those days that you never, ever made an impudent move like helping yourself to a seat at an interview unless you were given permission first. "I'm 18." I stammered because I could not immediately brace myself to confess my reason for volunteering. "But why have you volunteered?" He asked setting aside his unfinished cob of corn.

My heart fell and hit the pit of my stomach. I was convinced I would be turned down so my mind went temporarily blank but my ambition quickly rekindled it and it went into a flutter. How could I ever manage to tell this man who appeared to hold the key to my entire future my most passionate, most secretly desired ambition?

"Politics is serious business you know? It's a really tough business. It's hard work too, even for volunteers." He eyes seemed to be admonishing me for wasting his precious time. "Are you a student?" He asked. The question was like throwing me a lifeline because I had an answer to that one. My confidence was momentarily buoyed.

"No Sir, but I've applied to study political science at the University."

"Why?" He asked again.

I hesitated for a few seconds trying to determine if he was earnestly ignorant of the reasons why people studied political science. But his mouth was now shut and I could no longer see the reassuring pieces of cornhusk stuck between his teeth. As a matter of fact, his face was now completely closed; unyielding of any emotion. I decide this had to be a trick question and because I knew he would throw me out if I did not get the answer right, I willed myself to answer: "Because I want to be a politician like Mrs. Abiona." I blurted this out and was instantly rewarded. His mouth stretched into a slow lazy smile.

"Oh really? So you want to be like her henh?" He thought about this for a while then peered closely at my face still wearing the smile that spurred me on.

"Yes Sir. She is good and beautiful and strong like a horse."

"A horse? He queried. The smile had vanished.

"No Sir! I don't mean an ordinary horse. She reminds me of a strong racehorse. A thoroughbred winning all the races. Even when her jockey falls off she is unfazed and continues right through to win all the race." I corrected myself. Desperate to win back his smile, I hastily elaborated on my vision. Pictures I had carried in my head since childhood without ever needing to paint with words spilled out of my mouth. I had learnt to appreciate horses as some of the noblest of God's creatures just from looking at their magnificent exteriors. Now I borrowed their quality to dress my desire.

This time, I was rewarded not just with the smile but a loud deafening laughter in between which he paused to repeat: "Not an ordinary horse but a thoroughbred!" This laughter convinced me I had failed the interview. Embarrassment and disillusionment made my feet weak but emboldened me enough to take the weight of my disappointment off my feet. I slipped into the seat in front of him. The gesture was like a switch, which turned off his mirth.

We sat facing each other like contenders at a game of chess waiting for the signal to commence the tournament. I opened the tournament by playing my queen: I steeled myself and managed to hold his gaze by concentrating my mind on what lay behind his now sealed lips: a mouth filled with teeth that had bits of corn wedged in between them.

He was left with no choice but to make the next move. "Alright, since you're so keen, I'll take you on."

I went home and looked up the meaning of thoroughbred. My father worked as a stable hand at the racecourse and I used to stop by there and play on my way home from school as a child. I must have picked up the adjective thoroughbred from hanging around the racecourse.

Rebellion at my humiliation made me continue to think of my heroine as a thoroughbred racehorse even after I discovered that not all racehorses are thoroughbred.