In the Spirit of Patriotism and Friendship

 It's October, the month of Nigerian independence. What better time to celebrate our patriotic spirit than now? To prove the depth of our friendship, I will keep your secret about your reluctance to celebrate this national feast. I won't spill your grumbles on the recent economic hardship. The things you've said about it. Neither will I say a word about the politicians you've cursed — even up to their seventh generation (I dare you to search the world for a friend like me. You will find no one. Not even a soul. I know. You don't need to say anything. I love you too).  

In the spirit of this friendship and patriotism, I will tell you a story. A sad one. One you already know, but I will tell you regardless. 

Hassan Kibwana 

 But for people living in some parts of Nigeria, those places that look unnigerian—like the white man's place. Yes, those people. But for them, most of us live with the map of Nigeria on our bodies. It is there on our dark skins, an oil well of melanin fueled by a sun that has never not shone. It is there in the curvy trail of our childhood scars carefully demarcating the borders of each state, marking the rocks of Jos and the hills of Enugu.  The jagged lines look even darker because we didn't know that wounds were stitched and our parents shunned surgeries. They thought of it as death sentences. "If not, they asked, why would they open up your body while you are asleep? Why do some never get up, eeh? It can only be because it is an abomination?” So they rather squeeze the bitter leaf dry and pour all their mgbogbolise on the wound. “It may leave a trail,” they say. “But at least you won't die.”

 

Photo Credit: Retouchist

We see the grooves of Benue in the short stubs of our fingernails and in the carouses of our fingers. Proof of our fertile lands. The price of our favorite cassava meals. They look like birthmarks now. But we are patriotic. We do not mind.  We loyally carry our Nigerianness in our bodies. A perpetual mark of our citizenship. But this carrying is not enough. Recently, our chi has demanded more of us. That we breathe it in and out. That we stamp this Nigerianess on our faces and smear it on our bodies. On our children's bodies. Their children's children. And the generation after them. So, the barrow pusher heaves it with his load. The hawker screams it with the sun. And the mason mixes it in the cement. 

No one is spared. Not even us. We pant it when we chase the last bus after work. We hear our hearts beat faster. Pumping Blood. Panic. There is little difference. We know at these times it is either the bus or our lives. We make the better choice. And pay twice the price because the driver won't relent. “You think it is easy to drive at this time of the night abi,” he tells us. “Do you know how much each checkpoint will cost me? Fuel nko?”

Photo Credit: Ben Iwara

It is ironic. On this same axis, we run from unknown gunmen and he, from supposed ‘security’ checkpoints. Yet, we who have never given up without a fight, tried to put our mother’s bargaining skills to good use. The driver gave us that look, ‘abi you don't know we're living in hard times or what?’ We know. We don't argue further. On a good night, we would have felt sorry for him. But tonight we're only sorry for ourselves. We are home late nonetheless. The children are asleep. We have barely seen them since we began this side hustle. Setting out early in the morning before they wake and coming back after they have slept.  We count the money for that day as our wives fill us in on the events of the day. She will emphasize on the landlord’s fifth visit. His threat to send us packing. We will feel the heaviness. No, not from the story. Nor the purse. The heart. Blood. Panic. The money is barely enough. We will go again tomorrow. It doesn't matter that the doctor said to rest. What does he know about hunger? With his fancy degree and white coat. Has his last son ever stretched his hand for a lollipop and taken it back empty? What does he know about the consistent failing of expectations? The gradual chipping away of the heart until it is empty. What does he know about the silent breaking of a soul? If anyone doubts me, ask him what it means to fret about every necessity. Food. Clothing. Shelter. To have children begging on the street. What does his soft hands know beyond holding a scalpel? Does it know when to put more water in a cement mixture? When cement mold has given the mixture its shape? Until he finds out, he can keep his advice.

Photo Credit: Solomon Wada

It's been a long day. We're tired. So tired. We tell our wives not to bother about dinner. It's already late and we shouldn't eat this late. You see, we are being careful about our health. Following the doctor's advice. We laugh at our jokes. The irony. It makes us feel better. Much better. We lie down to sleep. The night is cold. Too cold for our thin wrappers. It is our Nigerianess that we wrap around us. It comforts us. Even though the floor is hard, we know we are harder. Mama has taught us not to give up without a fight. Tomorrow we will go again. 

To every Rose that grew from Concrete; Blossom!