We were at mid-week lunch at our favorite restaurant by the lagoon. We hadn’t done this for a month—everyone was just too busy.
“I just came back from America,” Taiwo announced.
Ogbuagu and I jumped on him.
“Why did you go there?”
“What did you do there?”
“Haba! Is it a crime?”
“You never go anywhere . . .”
“Except Ibadan, sometimes Enugu . . .”
“True, I don’t travel much.”
“You love Naija so much you promised never to leave it again.”
“I kept my promise for ten years.”
“So what took you out this time?”
“Well my cousin’s only son was graduating from high school.”
“Is it that your cousin who married that fine looking Afro lady?”
“The one who went to America before I was born?”
“Why hasn’t he come home? Everyone I know has come home.”
Taiwo took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. “It’s a long story.”
“Same old story everyone knows? . . . Don’t tell us about it.”
“You don’t mean you went all the way to America to attend a common secondary school Prize Giving Day?” I asked in astonishment (genuine, I think). “I mean, you could have gone to Sokoto for that. Or stayed right here in Lagos with your shokoto and saved some money.”
Taiwo jumped up and came at me from the left. “You miserly old goat!” he screamed, jabbing his index finger at my nose. “You think money is everything?”
Ogbuagu came up and came at me from the right. “That’s right!” he screamed, aiming his fist at my ear.
“Play-less, cheer-less, spoil-sport, party-pooper!” yelled Taiwo.
“Mr Donkey on two legs!” yelled Ogbuagu.
All the cutting and chewing and chatting stopped, and the dining room turned as one to take in this bizarre drama. With his left arm holding aloft a tray full of food, the steward stretched out his right arm at the diners like a conductor to his orchestra, laughing a wild cacophonous laugh the entire time. At this signal the entire dining audience gave a loud sigh of relief and dissolved in laughter.
“Well!” I shouted in as loud a voice as I could muster, first grabbing and swinging down the finger and the fist aimed at me—“well, as Fela said, it doesn’t matter what people say as long as they are talking about you.”
“You’re no Fela!” shouted an unknown diner from a far corner.
“Thank God!” I yelled, and the hall went down in a sea of murmurs. . . .
Now, back to the serious business of lunch.
“So . . . how did the graduation go?” I asked.
“It took place in a huge sports arena, with cold concrete slabs for seats.”
“That’s hard,” said Ogbuagu.
“The principal began by asking the audience to refrain from applauding until all the names had been called and every child had come up the platform and received their diploma.”
“He must have been joking.”
“How many students?
“Two thousand. Each with a battalion of friends, family and cheerleaders. And as each name was called they jumped up and cheered, drumming on every available surface, with catcalls and monkey hollers.”
“I bet it took two hours to get to the T’s.”
“Taiwo,” I said, pulling on my right ear as if scolding a stubborn child, “I’ve told you many times to change your family name to A, B, C or D. Something sensible, not something at the bottom of the alphabet.”
“O.J., your word is useless!” he retorted.
But I persisted. “You see, it’s like when a certain state was created. When it came to choosing a name there was a hot debate. Finally they voted for an early-bird position on the alphabet so the national cake doesn’t finish before their name is called.”
“I think I know what state you’re referring to,” said Ogbuagu.
“So why are they always complaining?” asked Taiwo.
“Because their share of the cake is always snatched up, shared and eaten up by their reps, senators, governor and LG members. None of it ever gets used for the intended purpose.”
“What’s the intended purpose?”
“Maintaining the schools, providing drinking water, roads and health care for the ordinary people.”
“Na wah-o!” yelled some unknown diner. So they’d been eavesdropping . . . .
“Anyway . . . what next for the young man?”
“He will go to university.”
“What will he study?”
“He won numerous awards in music and theatre, but his parents are dead set against that.”
“I don’t blame them,” said Ogbuagu. “Today the world is run by economics and business. Money talks. Entertainers get paid peanuts.”
“Yep!” I said. “They virtually take a vow of poverty, like monks and nuns.”
“You’re forgetting the millionaire movie stars and musicians, including Nollywood,” said Taiwo.
“For every millionaire there are three thousand working in the industry on starvation wages . . .”
“Low paid clowns, neo-slaves, the professional underclass . . .”
“So your little cousin must study and acquire life-sustaining skills that make him employable, marketable—that will earn him enough to pay rent, eat, marry, feed two or three children and give them a good education.”
“That can only mean the sciences and technologies,” said Taiwo, “covering health, engineering, agriculture, business, and computers. Thanks, brothers, for clearing my head on this . . . .”
Onwuchekwa Jemie
