Fiction

Glory at Independence

October 1st, 2010 was that day of my life: I was caught in the ambience of an expectant crowd, sandwiched by ambitious Journalists, and enveloped in the voices of the crowd. I did not know which was louder: the shouts from the youths present, the music interlude from inside the hall, or the coarse voice of the Orderly who stood next to me shouting: “give way! Give way please!!” Such moments are moments when people stand tall, heads held high, and with confident voices, reply the hailing crowd. Such moments, defining moments. For me, it wasn't. July 1994 held those strings that pulled my life’s defining moment.

If I hadn’t lived beyond 1994, I certainly would not have understood why in Sheraton, the Journalists barely allowed me a thoroughfare. “How do you feel today sir?”; “Did you ever imagine attaining this height at such young age?”; “Sir, what significance does 1994 hold in your life?” Too many questions; yet, my words were reserved for the audience inside the hall. Comfortably so, my Secretary kept pace with the words: No Comment Please! No Comment Please!! Then, few steps before the hall’s entrance, I betrayed my Secretary. Or I would say, my legs did.

My right leg had already found a comfy balance on the foot mat at the entrance; I felt the wool on the mat, it was very soft. It was like the smooth curvy hair of a three-day old child when greased with Pears baby oil – the kind every mother wants to carefully comb and pattern. It was at that point that my left leg refused to join its counterpart. I became still when from behind, I heard: “Sir, people think you overcame death in 1994 for a day like this. Can this assertion be considered true?” The voice was tiny, and familiar – like the melodious voices birds sing with at the dawn of a breezy morning.

For a moment, I wanted to ignore the question and keep walking. But again, my eyes failed me. As I turned, my sight was drawn first to the mild pink colour comfortably resting on her thick lips, giving a perfect blend to her fair and spotless chubby face. Her hair was stylishly packed behind, separating two or three woven strands, I think, dangling in front. Strands that reminded me of perfectly boiled sticks of Dangote spaghetti. The kind you want to consume with a chopstick. Holding a microphone on the right, she sharply moved aside the woven strands using her left hand. She rephrased her question: “Sir, do you agree with public opinion that your survival of 1994 is for a day like this?” Gazing at the curvy shape revealed by her fitted carton-brown suit, and the perfect match of her camisole and white leather wrist watch, my lips gave way for words. “Some children die at birth no doubt, and some, shortly after. But yes, I survived 1994 for a day like this.” I said and walked into the hall. The words on her name tag read Adewumi Tosin.

I took my sit inside the hall. It was the biggest in Sheraton Hotel, so I was told. Perhaps its being big as I considered wasn’t in its length and breadth but in the calibre of people who sat there in. On the head table where I sat, was the US’ Secretary of State, Executive Governors of Osun, Ogun, Oyo, and Lagos states. It was Nigeria at fifty, our Golden Jubilee Independence celebration and I was invited to receive an award. I got the award, and reacted more befitting. The award has the inscriptions: Nigeria’s Youngest Peace Ambassador written in dove colour. This for me, was indeed glorious. A glory I claimed following my incessant campaign against political violence, my indelible support for victim-children of political violence, and my best-selling published Prose – Undiluted Dreams which sold over 200 million copies in Africa, and was already shortlisted for the O’Connor Award for Literature. It was a memoir from 1994, dedicated to the memory of Arike. Of course, “bi alagbede ba n lu irin loju kan soso, oju amin lo n wa ni be  - if a blacksmith hammers on a particular point, he wants a distinguishing mark there.” I was making the mark already. For a moment up on that stage, memories of 1993/4 came alive; I remembered Professor Adekunle Coker and his proverbial life style.

1993 was a busy year for my father; even more remarkably, a promising year for him. He had hopes too, very high hopes. Hopes that would become dust and flee in a fierce whirlwind. While awaiting his return one late night, I went into his room, picked a brown hard-bound book which laid close to his pillow; the letters on the front cover had Leventis boldly written in large fonts and then, 1993 Diary written beneath. I opened and read the third column in January: “National Defence and Security Council is formed today and headed by our military President. I wonder what he is up to.” Opening further, I spotted a column in April which read: “Finally, we have the SDP Presidential slot against June 12. I shook hands with our prestigious party candidate and he said – Coker, work with me and lets kick poverty out of Nigeria.” It all made sense when later that night, dad returned with large sized papers with the most obvious of all the inscriptions it bore – HOPE ’93. I loved the sight of the papers as dad covered our walls with it. Even after a year and twenty-one days of the elections, I still loved to see the papers cling to the walls. What I cannot say for sure, is what I loved most about the paper; perhaps the charming smile of the robust man robed in green and white agbada, or the words that stood above his head – FAREWELL TO POVERTY.

The seventh month of every year makes me feel special knowing I would be a year older on the second day. 1994 was different. Two days after my birthday, dad came home with a sad news that my smiling robust friend robed in green and white agbada had been arrested. Not long, Lagos State went tumultuous as an Industrial Strike action began, which lasted 59 days or thereabout. No hospital was opened when my mother went into labour. Minutes after my father delivered her of the baby, Soldiers broke our door open and in their bid to force him out, he resisted in a calm way and pleaded that he was allowed a minute. A soldier dealt him a hard blow from behind accompanied with harsh violent words: “sharap! Na who say make you talk?” The soldier was tall and huge yet I knew he was lower in rank when another officer, short and plumpy approached dad and said: “Professor Adekunle, you have five minutes, use it wisely.” Quickly, I ran towards dad, hugged him tight, and he whispered into my ears: “... b’ese oba se ajanaku, a ki r’eran erin lori ate – if evil has not befall the elephant, its meat will not be for sale.” Words from a brave and courageous man. The words that would be his last – that would torment me for the rest of my life.

12 noon the next day, I tuned the radio for the mid day news and the first headline was: “Professor Adekunle Coker was found dead this morning beside the abattoir in Oshodi market.” I had just clocked five years of age and couldn’t fend for my unnamed baby sister after the news of dad’s death claimed my mother’s life two days later. Before my baby sister joined our parent, I named her Arike. It was the seventh day of her birth and it began my journey of pain but, towards glory.

It is now 2013 and yesterday morning, a bright and crowded morning quite similar to three years ago in Sheraton, I stood before a Priest and an altar. Elegantly robed in a flowing white gown, she approached me with a radiant smile. This time, the object in her hand was not a microphone but a bunch of neatly arranged white and orange flowers. Neither was her hair woven in front as it was in Sheraton, yet her face was spotless and her eyes sparkled like the assembly of refined diamonds. She got to me, we turned, and the Priest asked: “Do you Adewumi Tosin accept Adekunle Samuel as your lawfully wedded husband; to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?” “Yes, I do” She replied. After the priest said all rites, my long awaited moment came – “You may kiss the bride”, he said. I frictioned my lips against hers; it didn’t make her’s less thick, it only made mine stained in pink.

Then I whispered into her ears: “I met glory at Independence. I claimed one in  Sheraton and today, I claim the other.”

Stephen Ayodele

Dedicated to the memory of all faithful supporters of Chief M.K.O Abiola who lost their lives in the 1993/4 struggle for democracy.