In the Spirit of Patriotism and Friendship II

 This post is a continuation of the last blog post.  Although I tried my best to make it a stand alone, I have a feeling I may not have been very successful. Please read the first post here. Or dive right in. 

 

 …but our Nigerianness never ends. It continues beyond the scars on our bodies to our innards. Our intestines twist so hard till they look like the rugged lines at the boundaries, carefully mapping out the red zone called Nigeria. It is our danger alarm. But nothing prepares us for what is to come. Naira falls. We fall with it. And purge.  

There is a chi that watches out for us. She holds us so we do not fall ‘too’ hard. She reminds me of my mother when I am too stubborn to listen. She lets me go to bed without rubbing in another sheen of Aboniki balm. I know that just before the dry harmattan winds begin their lovemaking on my skin, she will put another layer of blanket on me. 

Our chi is kind. She forgives us when we put the cassava leaves to good use because they sold tissues at ridiculous prices. She knows about the pads. Our lack of them. She will never tell what she sees. She understands these things. How precious clean water is. Why we value every drop. So she lets the children have fun with their akpu before it begins its journey into the mouth. She ignores the brown prints, residues from the thousand miles they have been to, because their mothers do not know any better.

Atlas Green 

‘But some birthmarks are not from birth,’ I told you one day. You were on your way back from your favorite food vendor. It was easy to fall in step. ‘Some are man made, I continued. Those are removable.’ You agree. And you, more courageous than I am, went to tell the mothers. They scream at your suggestion. ‘Let the children be,’ they said. Do you not know that a child has no better playmate than the earth? Even better, the sands of his father's obi? Leave them, let them play with their ancestors.’

I step in to help. They snort.  ‘How old are you?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Aah! I see,’ they continue. ‘You are young. Inclined to the white man's way. You do not know the ways of your fathers. We know that you are concerned about us. Our children. Their hyniene. But you need not bother. Our chi will keep us. What a person does not know will not kill him. Ask the mad man in the dump if you doubt us.’  We let them be. 

Sometimes, I wonder how much this chi can take. Her temper has slipped several times. She struck the red eyed man blind. He tried the healing effect of mgbolise on his eyes. She cursed the woman who drank the brown water from the rusted tap because satchet water had become unaffordable. She stooled and vomited until she died. I like to think that it was a mistake. That chi mistakenly slept off on on duty. I badly want to explain. To tell her that it was not the woman's fault. That she did not know. That the landlord refused to distill the water. He said rust came from iron. That Iron is a micronutrient the body needs in the right proportion. Just enough to tint the water. She believed. Chi is not listening. She must be taking a nap. You must understand my fear when I saw your favorite food vendor wipe her spoons on her body not minding that it wiped her sweat more than she wiped the dirt. I panicked and ran to tell you. 

Tunde Buremo

 

You see, asides you, she feeds the market. Nothing beats her food. She makes it in heaven. You know this. Even the housewife knows this. So she creeps in early to buy a family share before her husband comes home. We remember to let them be. They eat to their fill. But it is their Nigerianess that fills them up. It will begin to show when their intestines begin to show. Till it marks the border lines separating each country from the other. The red zone called Nigeria. It is our danger alarm. Naira falls. The last child falls along with it. And purges. The hospital is not receptive. They said, ‘No deposit. No treatment.’ They go to heaven. And because it is difficult to stay still, we go with them to plead with their chi. We pray in their voice: we did not know. What we do not know does not kill us. Chi will listen. She will not betray us. We are hopeful when the child’s groan begin lessen. We will understand better when the women begin to weep. And the men begin to dig a shallow grave beside the house. It is our Nigerianess that cover it up. 

To every Rose that grew from Concrete; Blossom!