The message from the village came at the most inconvenient time, but so grave was the countenance of Bòóda Tájù that I, that very evening, made contact with the school principal, asking for a leave of absence.
This urgent desideratum came on the heels of the final exams. Madam Dáhùnsí, accustomed to my habitual requests, stood motionless. Her keys clutched in her right fist, she bent over the desk, both hands on the table.
“Please, ma, something serious has occurred this time,” I added.
She sighed and turned to look at me with her usual disdain. But suddenly, her mien changed to that of a mother curiously concerned about her son’s well-being. She studied me with her iris and asked, “Are you all right? Your face is white.”
+++
Bòóda Tájù had refused to answer my attempts to fish out what had occurred. He moved about on the spot, refusing to look me in the eye. He had on a newly-sown attire made with Kíjìpá fabric. I failed to make out what shoes he was wearing. With his right forefinger wagging, he repeated his orders that I go home immediately and left. He didn’t even accept the monetary parting gift he’d become attuned to whenever he brought messages from back home.
Typically, it was a sickness or injury of exaggerated retelling. I’d heed the call as soon as feasible, hauling loads of biscuits, sweets, and tin-canned goods. The sick relative would, of course, and perhaps due to my mere appearance, appear much better than I was informed. Sometimes, it was a festival or rite I had to attend. Other times, a broken fence or a hut demolished by a rainstorm—tragedies that did not require my presence, but I suppose they preferred I courier the repair funds myself.
This time around, I could not shake the conclusion that somebody had died. But who?
++++
I could not sleep.
In the bedroom of my flat—the boys’ quarters of a storey building—I lit a lantern. Bullets of rain pelted the corrugated aluminium roofing sheets and pattered against the louvre panes. Infrequent lightning flashes occasionally came through the curtains preceding the grumblings of thunder.
++++
When the driver, Alhaji Yemí, eventually pulled up to the Surulere stop, only three people were on the bus—a middle-aged woman and two others—a couple. I sat beside Alhaji as he offered a smile, revealing teeth darkened by years of tobacco smoking.
The previous night’s rain had left a lot of debris on the roads; in some cases, clogged gutters had turned streets to streams. We were soon out of the city’s claustrophobic bowels and into the devouring forests. And, in no time—whiled away by senseless chatter—we were in the village.
++++
From afar, I noticed a gathering of sorrowful faces in front of the family house: my uncle, Uncle Bólájí, and beside him were Ìyá Bósẹ̀, Aunty Péjú, and what appeared to be three neighbours.
I prostrated as I got in front of the house, but, happy as they were to see me, they kept looking at me with some bewilderment, unsure of why I was present and how best to deliver the bad news.
“Ìyá is dead?” I asked. Ìyá Àgbà, the centenarian, was my suspect.
Ìyá Bósẹ̀ became startled. She looked at Aunty Péjú, hoping their eyes would meet, but the latter seemed more preoccupied with a naiveté I was evincing.
“Yes,” Uncle Bólájí replied. He ushered me in, arm across my shoulder.
There were about ten people in the living room, and I immediately greeted them, one after the other. Some were crying, one profusely. The centre table was brimming with their caps, handbags, and other personal items.
I sort to ease the melancholy in the room, asking the little kids how they were; they’d trooped in once they knew I’d arrived. I’d pat one on the head while stuffing a lollipop into the palms of another. I’d pull one by the cheeks while pretending to box another.
I held Sojí, Aunty Shayò’s son, in my arms, pretending to bite off his fingers. “Bòóda Tájù did not wait for the burial? He was the one who informed me in Lagos,” I told the now de facto head of the family, Bàbá Ìgandò.
“Which Tájù?” Ìyá Bímbó asked, nearly leaping off her chair.
I turned to look at her, Sojí’s little fingers in my mouth. The whole room was looking at me, puzzled.
I chuckled, putting down the boy, “The same Bòóda Tájù, of course.”
The puzzled looks continued. Bàbá Ìgandò expressed a fairly loud “ah,” turned to the room, sighed, lowered his head, stretched out his agbádá and interlocked his fingers. Ìyá Bímbó—who’d stopped mid-tear, handkerchief halfway to her face—left her mouth agape. Uncle Bólájí ushered the kids out of the room, asking Dúpé to ensure they were well-behaved and each got an equal amount of the biscuits I’d brought.
For a minute or so, no one said a word.
I watched them take their time, each waiting for someone else to take control of the quandary. The alteration in their demeanour was worrying.
With a tone and mannerism that suggested he was merely delivering one-third of the full blow, Uncle Bólájí informed me that Ìyá Àgbà had died; well, Dúpé discovered her corpse less than two hours before I arrived.
No one cries when an elderly woman dies: they rejoice. There was a different reason initially for the gathering.
Okay. My mind tried to find its footing. Then, why did Bòóda Tájù insist I come home hurriedly? Wait, who had actually died? Bàbá Ìgandò shook his head, sighed deeply and turned to face me. This tall, rotund mortal of fearsome impression seemed to be struggling with the words somersaulting out of his mouth. Gradually, I pieced them together—Bòóda Tájù had died the week prior.
*****
Although certain that Madam Dáhùnsí would’ve already forwarded my termination letter to the district superintendent, I was forced to stay in the village. The Adífálà warned that one more person in the family remained in great danger. But, why?
On the final day of the seven-day rite, the appeasement was concluded. To what? I dared not ask. In the dark, the traditional elders, dressed in white and holding torches, cantillated as a naked virgin walked ahead of them with a calabash on her head—a sacrifice to conciliate the gods. Soon came the downpour: pellets of rain dug the earth. The sky groaned with thunder. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. My back was no longer used to the straw mats.
I turned.
Alhaji Yemí was standing in the corner of the room, fuming, soaked in blood. Gradually, the noise I’d been hearing increased: it was the sound of the market. From the ewédú seller to the butcher, the porters (alábárùs), the yam sellers, and the tomato and pepper traders. The saleswomen who sold provisions, and the zestful evangelist with a megaphone. The sound of knives—the rapid slash and dash of the butcher’s machete—parting apart a cow’s flank. The sound of stalls selling CDs and cassette tapes, blasting different kinds of music. The sound of a million feet on muddy floors. The bellowing of bus conductors looking for passengers; men coming to blows; the high soprano pregóns of the àkàrà sellers, and the clanging of tongs on the boxes atop the heads of puff-puff hawkers, screaming “Ten, ten Naira!”
I got up hurriedly to look outside the window. Before I opened it, Ìyá Àgbà came in the room. I tried to prostrate myself, but she hugged me.
—–
Image: GDJ Pixabay remixed