By Kole Odutola,
Lagos is a city of many names and shades. It is a place of multiple narrations, where stories give birth to stories and the tellers are sometimes lost within the streams of other stories. There is no old or new Lagos because Lagos is born anew in those whose placentas were buried in that hot place of a thousand possibilities. As two scholars tel us, “Personal stories are not merely a way of telling someone (or oneself) about one’s life; they are the means by which identities may be fashioned.” (Rosenwald & Ochberg (Eds), pg.1 1992).
This occasional column is not about the history or politics of Lagos but anecdotal accounts of Lagos through the mind of a child of middle-class parents. Outside of the economic marginalization, this is also about the invisible accounts of my maternal grandfather, S. B Ajayi, a politician, a Councillor, whose time is unrecorded in accessible history. If nothing can be found in digital records about S. B Ajayi, the story of Omoba Odutola Ogunajo has been totally erased in popular imagination. According to the remnants from oral accounts, my paternal grandfather, was announced the Akarigbo of Remo in the morning and by evening his younger sibling was made the Akarigbo. The news arrived in Lagos at the same time my elder sister was born. The demise of the Akarigbo also coincided with a strange occurrence that involved my sister. For my family what links Remo to Lagos is more than a network of roads but a confluence of stories and happenstances.
It is through these accounts of my forebears that I intend to re-construct my life story and re-present myself as a way of centering self within a larger space of my birth.
Let us start this way…
There is the real Lagos and the fictionalized Lagos. It is within the fictional Lagos that a real Lagos will emerge.If you listen to Azuka Jebose, the unrepentant follower of Fela Anikulapo Kuti you will hear, Eko ree, ijo ree
Imagination runs wild in Lagos
The assignment was unambiguous. The copy of Wahome Mutahi’s “Thank God, Jesus was not born in Nairobi” was to be the template of our own creation. Professor James Ogude, the facilitator of the session requested that each of us wrote our own version based on our city. I was of two minds; I wanted to write a story in which Jesus will be born in a city in Lagos where he will be so welcome, where the health system will not disappoint nor the traffic jam an issue.
As with everything creative, the brain was willing but the pen was weak; so I ended up with a different story. Please come along!
Three White haired Chiefs were instructed by an Oba in Lagos, who lives on the Island, to go seek out pickin Jesus and report back to him. It was while on their way that this writer caught up with them and became the eye of their story leaving you the reader to share and partake f the heart of the story. Together we shall monitor the legs of this story and where it will take us to. The destination of the White cap chiefs was Agboole Oloolu and their mission was to see for themselves what was on everyone’s lips in town. They started their journey from Iganmu where the Nigerian Brewery is located. To make the journey a little less stressful they decided to follow the Star logo on the distribution van on its way to Ebute Metta where a big party was about to run its normal course. As expected, the three major roads leading to this Mainland segment of the Lagos sprawl had been closed a night before. As clearly as the ears could hear, band boys were already testing mics; one-two-three we all could here repeatedly. Caterers from the other end of town too were working hard setting up foods & drinks. The fellow at the suya stand was working smoke to the heavens. Why not, it is not every city that has this singular luck of Jesus been born again without the usual suspicion hanging on his neck.
The White haired chiefs decided to stop at Oyingbo market to buy different gift items for pickin Jesus who the BBC announced has something to do with the East of the country. The local newspapers were not to be caught unawares, one carried a front-page story that from investigations carried out and from very reliable “sauces” Mary the mother of Jesus is actually married to Joseph. PM news on its own came out quickly to correct what it termed a misleading information. Mary was not yet married to Joseph and that the confusion should be traced to an overzealous reporter who saw court papers filed by another Mary from the East.
“we are sorry for the mix-up” the paper concluded.
Now that the confusion was cleared, the White haired chiefs had bought this and that and were about to jump back into their Benz C Class only to discover that another ‘oversabi’ LATMA man had towed away their car!! Not to waste any more time, they left one of their very trusted aides to sort out the mess while they continued the trip to Agboole Oloolu on different Motorbikes popularly known and called Okada, the daring riders. They had not gone too far from the market when another of the many governmental agencies in charge of traffic flow stopped them. The rotund “officer” demanded to see the particulars of the Okada riders and also wanted explanation why the chiefs were not wearing crash helmets.
“With due respect sirs, it is against the 3-day old traffic code not to wear a crash helmet” he said without the usual confidence
“but officer were are on a mission to see Baby Jesus”
“Baby Jesus? Which one?
“The same Baby Jesus, the media has been talking about all day now” said one of the chiefs
“Well my fathers, we too will like to go see Baby Jesus but as you know now……” his voice dropped and all got the message that they had to drop something small.
The negotiation phase ended and quickly new Naira notes exchanged hands and the chiefs were allowed to go on their merry way. I can hear faintly “ain’t no stopping us now” beaming from one of the many road-side bars near the bus terminus at Jebba Bus Stop.
Who does not know that Okada riders have a pact with death and beds at the orthopedic hospital? As if wanting to prove a point one of the riders swung sharply into Cemetery Street without looking at the oncoming trucks in the opposite direction. Thank God, the angels watching over the chiefs had not gone on break. The situation did not lead to the usual supply of Ogun’s crimson fluid. Well a minor incidence I cannot gloss over occurred, the sharp swing must have triggered the need to pee badly, all I heard was the eldest of the chiefs demanding that the Okada rider should stop and let him ease himself.
“…but sir there are no public toilets in this area of Lagos and this is a very well-known den of area boys”
“I say stop abi o fe ya were ni” said the chief in his guttural voice.
The Okada riders stopped and the men dismounted one after the other looking right and looking left like it was still the Idiagbon era when doing such a thing could earn one a ticket behind bars. To add to their burden; reaching deep into their many folds took more time than budgeted. As if on cue, area boys descended on them and need I say they were dispossessed of all their valuables leaving only the gifts bought for baby Jesus. Time was running out and “center is now cold as more than mere anarchy is loose upon their world” Like the Maggi the road played host to their soles. The van with the Star logo was nowhere in sight, the Okada riders in fear took off without collecting their fare. Now how would the White haired chiefs find their way to Agboole Oloolu before it is too dark?
I guess you too can make up the rest of the story as I open yet another can of fluid story for myself. Are you still there?
…………………………………………………………………………………
Sit down young man and let me tell you a part of the story of how I fled from the place where my placenta was buried. That place where the footfalls of Iya Agba was music to my ears. The grandmothers of blessed memories had stories to tell and both sides of my X & Y knew how to give lessons without grading, we had no tests nor had a fear of grades hanging over our heads.
I wached Iya ‘Badan cook and fry delicacies and all I had to do was watch and eat when the meals were done. The kitchen sink was not too high for me to wash the pots and pans and I did with joy each time I left my holiday job to go keep her company. As we ate so also did she tell me stories of life in different parts of the nation she served as a md-wife. Iya ‘Badan was not shy, nor was she prudish in any way. I am still not sure who writes family histories and what verdict such a historian would pass on her. I really do not care what anyone thinks of Patience Omope Roberts.
Now that P.O has long passed on and I relocated to another part of the world where I cannot pay yearly visits to her final resting place, the Internet has chosen another Iya Agba for me. Her name is Margret and to her I run when I need to know things men my age should know already. One day my friends and I wanted to know the Yoruba expression of ritual and try as we all could, nothing could capture the Yoruba expression for something that complex and procedural.
If you have suggestions for us just drop a line with the Editor of TNC and we shall see if your attempts can take “fire to the farm”
Ends
2 comments
This cultural ‘package’ for me, ‘a love at first sight’. Its consistency would no doubt turn out to become a historical document of some sort! However leave politics outside the doors!
So so sweet..