My problem with Ibukun started when I was made class captain. He made it clear to everyone who cared to listen that I didn’t deserve to be captain and my being captain was because the class teacher liked me. He was probably right.  He should have been captain. He was better qualified; captain of his class from pry 1 to 5 and having consistently topped his class all those years, he surely did deserve it.He probably would have been captain if the school authorities hadn’t decide to juggle things around a little bit. In those days, at least in my school, if you started from Primary 1^A, you were moved to Primary 2^A if you got promoted and that meant that you knew you were going to end up in Primary 6^A , ceteris paribus. Well, at the end of our Primary 5 session, ceteris ceased being paribus.  The school authorities changed the status quo and decided to put us in classes based on our performances overall, thus,  the student who was 1^st overall was placed in Class 6A, the 2^nd  in 6B till the lot of us were divided into all the six classes, A to F.  Suffice to say that we all ended up in different classes with different people and we had to learn to manage the resultant shifts in classroom dynamics and their accompanying dysfunctions.

I ended up in Primary 6B alongside Ibukun and thirty something odd students. I reckon the reason the teacher made me class captain was because I came second overall and was the first student in her class. That singular decision split the class into two camps, one for me and the other for Ibukun. The latter consisted of Ibukun’s former classmates and others sympathetic to his ‘plight’; those who couldn’t understand why someone who had never topped his class and had never been captain before could be made class captain.

They were probably right. I wouldn’t have made me class captain if I was my class teacher. I had never been first in my school life. The closest I got to the top tier was when I came 2^nd in third term Primary 4. Before then, I had always moved between the 6^th and 10^th positions, which I felt was OK until my Mum, Iya Segun, thought otherwise and together with my class teacher then, Mr Avuru, moved me away from the back row, where I had established myself amongst the class noisemakers, to the front row where he could monitor me more closely, in the hope that I would focus more on my studies, listen in class and perform better in my exams.

It paid off.

After that term, I became more serious and started believing I could actually do much better with my school work. That confidence, coupled with a lot of help from my Mum and lesson teachers culminated in my finishing 2^nd overall in Primary 5, next to Peter Ago, the guy who came first in my class.

I still wasn’t first. But finishing 2^nd overall changed things for me. It got me into the school quiz team, a circle I had never dreamt of being part of.  A few cuties in school also started noticing me and that was great but that was as far as it got.

Being the captain of Class 6^B was not an easy feat. Ibukun and his crew made life somewhat difficult for me; always looking for opportunities to make me look bad and because I didn’t want to upset anyone and further add to the tension in the class, I let things slide even when it was obvious that they were doing everything to undermine my authority.

The fact that I came 1^st during the first term exams only served to increase the level of entropy in the class. Ibukun, for the first time in his school life, was not 1^st. He didn’t take it very well. The relationship between the two of us disintegrated further and it was clear to everyone one in the class that a physical confrontation was imminent. Things got to a head one day when I wrote Ibukun’s name, and justifiably so, on the list of noise makers while our class teacher was attending a Staff meeting. The teacher came back and meted out due punishment to the ‘offenders’ and for Ibukun, that was the last straw.

During lunch break, Ibukun tried all he could to get into a fight with me but I paid him no mind. He pushed and shoved me around but I didn’t budge, insisting that there was no way I was going to bring myself down to his level and get into a fight with him in school.

What level? Hmm!

Truth be told, I was scared shitless. Ibukun had been known to beat up a number of boys in school and I wasn’t about to become another statistic. More so, I knew if Ibukun beat me, the news would spread through the school in the shortest possible time and my reputation, which was just going up, was going to be in ruins.

Thus, I did all I could not to succumb to Ibukun’s taunting, but as you know, in those days the decision to get into fights was not entirely yours, so to speak. There was me, Ibukun, who was ready to roll the punches and our multitude of promoters. Many a fight wouldn’t have been fought if not for the work of promoters. They repeated everything your would-be opponent said to you again, as if you didn’t hear him in the first place, with salt and pepper added of course, to make it pinch a lot more than it would have ordinarily.

Eventually, I agreed to sort things out with Ibukun, man to man, after school.  My decision to fight was not predicated on any self delusional thinking that I might be victorious but that i could save some face by fighting and avoid being labelled a coward. I thought it was better to be beaten than be called a chicken all my life, well, school life.

The die was cast. The news was out. Blackjamesbond was fighting Ibukun at Rowe Park later that afternoon. That was the news in the class. Concentrating in class after that decision was difficult. While I appeared all cool on the outside, I was petrified on the inside. I said a few prayers before close of school but none of them was answered. My father didn’t close early and didn’t come to pick me at school, my Mum didn’t show up and Ibukun didn’t come down with a severe case of diarrhoea.

The distance between the school and Rowe Park was about a mile, my green mile, as I was sure the guy was going to kill me out there but still I hoped that someone would have the good sense of separating us and stop the fight before I am finished off. But knowing the rules by which Rowe Park fights were officiated, I knew I was in for a good hiding. No one stopped a fight in Rowe Park until blood was drawn, sand eaten and one of the fighters, the victor, was seated on the other, the beaten, asking all the questions and getting all the proper answers. Rowe Park was ‘oju olomo o’to’ [Paraphrased: Rowe Park was PG 18].

 When we got to Rowe Park, the promoters quickly looked for a remote part of the park where we could fight without being spotted by the officials and after they had found the perfect spot, a circle was immediately formed around us and the fight began.

As expected, Ibukun was the more confident one and he came out stinging. In my mind, I knew there was no way I was going to beat him boxing, so I decided I was just going to get really close to him and just hold him down. That way I was sure I could prevent him from doing any serious damage and hope that someone would separate us if I held onto him long enough.

Ibukun threw a few punches but only one landed but it wasn’t strong enough to cause any serious damage but if the noise all around us was anything to go by, a passer-by would have thought someone was getting killed.  Ibukun, spurred on by all the noise came out punching again but albeit recklessly. Before he could retreat and plan another round of attack, I ducked underneath his outstretched arms and put my arms all around him. Then I made a startling discovery. Ibukun was very light, almost paper weight! I knew if I could lift him and slam him to the ground, I could win the fight.

So, with my arms around him, I changed my position, crouched a little and tried to lift him up. Not someone to be easily outdone, he quickly put one of his legs between mine and threw the other backwards to support his resistance but he was too late. I had him where I wanted him and before he could offer a more spirited resistance, I had lifted him up and slammed him to the ground.

Being captain became a lot easier after that fight. I asked all the questions and got all the right answers.

I still don’t eat sand.

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http://14thandserenity.blogspot.com/

 

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I am indebted to my FIL for a lot of reasons, the most important being that he graciously gave me his daughter for a wife. But I am also grateful to the man for vindicating me and keeping my name and reputation intact when I was in the university. If not for him and the fact that he stayed true to himself, I probably would have been branded a liar and spinner of untrue tales. But thank God, the man came through for me and thanks to him and to the fact that I made a conscious effort, as I still do, to not do anything that could tarnish my name and person, many of my friends still consider me a person whose word and tales they can rely on and believe even when the stories sound absurd and far fetched.

One of the high points of my days while in the university, next of course to spending time within the two major female halls in UI, was the period between the late afternoons and the early evenings, starting immediately after the afternoon siesta [for those who couldn’t do without their afternoon nap] and ending just before ‘awon’ boys start to prepare for their daily exodus to you-know-where. In those days, that was the time when we shared stories, both true and otherwise, of our conquests, escapades, sexcapades and general campus gist and gossip. I heard many a great stories in those periods and learned quite a few things as well, although one had to possess an internal sieve in order to sift out the chaff [which was more] and retain what was of value.

For me, those sessions helped to douse the boredom I endured during classes and I looked forward to them more than I did my lectures. Call me a lay-about and you probably would be right but if you had lecturers who only read from aging notebooks and never encouraged discourse and new thinking, then you probably would understand why I preferred our ‘yarning’ sessions to my school work. Truth be told, I loved good stories.

I still do.

One of the stories I shared in one of those session was the one about my FIL and how he had slapped me around because he saw me with his daughter. Unfortunately, not many of my friends believed me and that only made the humiliating ordeal more painful for me.

Amongst the ‘unbelievers’ was my roommate, Gbesan. Because of his own unbelief, a lot of the other guys didn’t believe my story either because they felt that if Gbesan, who was my ‘landlord’ and who they felt knew me better than the rest of them didn’t believe my story, they didn’t see why they should too; needless to say that I didn’t share any stories for a while after that.

My redemption however came during the semester break and God couldn’t have wrought it through a better vessel.

Gbesan had met and taken a liking to my girlfriend’s sister. They had met during one of those flying visits my girlfriend [now wifey] and her sisters used to make to my house in those days whenever their father sent them on errands around my neighborhood. I noticed Gbesan started coming to my house almost everyday, hoping the girls would come visiting. I also remember he visited their house a few times as well, braving the possibility of meeting their father at home and incurring his wrath. Unlike me, he hadn’t experienced the man the way I had and the fact that he didn’t believe their father actually beat me up even though the girls had corroborated that story, may also have bolstered his courage.

Since my unfortunate experience, I had made it a point never to ‘walk’ my girlfriend any time she came visiting me except when I was sure that her Dad was out of town. Gbesan didn’t really care about all that. He walked them almost all the time and somehow he got lucky and was never caught. Well, until…

The ladies had visited my house one day and we were walking them back to their home [a walk I only agreed to because my girlfriend had assured me that their father was out of town and wasn’t due back until the following day] when disaster struck.

We were walking in pairs on ‘Main Street’. Gbesan and my girlfriend’s sister, D, were in front, about 40 meters ahead of us. Our walk, wifey and I, was much slower as we were not in a hurry to leave each other’s company that evening. We wanted to spend as much time together as we possibly could. Every time the ‘Doc’ was out of town was a time to relish. Gbesan and D, on the other hand were faster in their walk. Gbesan was still trying to win D over and she was playing hard to get and acting as disinterested as she possibly could but not in a way to deter Gbesan from the chase.

They both must have been too engrossed in the thrill of the ‘chase’ that they didn’t notice when they walked right into my FIL who seemed to have appeared from nowhere and before Gbesan could react, FIL had grabbed Gbesan’s pants, locking him in that vice like grip, which as I said in my last post, only soldiers and maybe MOPOLs have perfected.

My girlfriend and I, lucky to have spotted the man from afar off, had ducked out of view but there was no way we could have warned Gbesan and D without giving away our position. We watched from a safe distance as Gbesan was duly ‘baptized’ with many slaps and my FIL’s leather slippers. He managed to escape after several minutes but not without the tell tale signs of his encounter with ‘oga soja’-swollen face and burst lips.

After that experience, Gbesan became my ‘apostle’ and he preached my gospel to the other unbelievers in school.

I resumed my story- telling.

55 comments

My father-in-law should have been a soldier. Although, the man has lived a very fulfilled and eventful life, I think he would have done better as a soldier than at any other thing. And my FIL had been a lot of things. He was a teacher, a lecturer, a banker, an administrator and now he has retired to his farm [plantation more like it] in Ekiti, where he has blended in so well with the local community that if you saw him you would find it difficult to believe he has a PhD in Economics from one of the most reputable universities in the United States.

I take that back.

You probably would find it believable, especially if you know that the Ekitis are one of, if not, the most educated groups of people in Nigeria. People say that professors are a dime a dozen in Ekiti and that almost every Ekiti family has a PhD holder. This assertion I cannot verify but I know that in my wife’s family, there are at least 5 doctors [not medical doctors] and I remember that I used to have a hard time knowing which of the doctors is being referred to during family gatherings as they all have the same surname.

I digress.

Why do I think he would have made an excellent soldier? I am glad u asked! But before I give u the reasons, let me say that the picture of a soldier that I have in mind has been influenced by what I see soldiers do in Nigeria. So, if that perception seems jaundiced and does not fit or represent the image of a soldier you have in your mind, please do not blame me, my perceptions were formed based on things I have seen and witnessed in Nigeria. Perhaps all the Hollywood movies I have watched should have changed that view but you know most of those movies are ‘make believe’ and I probably would have believed them anyway but for some of the things I have read in recent years about soldiers’ conducts in Guatanamo Bay and Iraq.

OK…you are probably wondering where I am going with this. The truth is I am not so sure myself. It is 3am and I should be sleeping but sleep seems to have escaped me tonight. I have a lot on my mind, the ‘chiefest’ being finding a way to handle a very delicate work related issue without it ending in a win-lose situation for the parties involved. I had been tossing and turning on my bed for about two hours, thinking of the smartest approach to resolving the issue when out of the blues the thoughts of my FIL came to my mind. I had asked my wife’s permission to do a post about her father and she had said yes, reluctantly, and since I couldn’t sleep, I thought maybe I should do the post now.  

Thinking about it now though, I guess thoughts of my FIL and why I feel he would have made a ‘fine’ soldier may have been triggered by what I saw yesterday morning when I went to drop my son off in school.

I saw a soldier, fully clothed in all the paraphernalia of his lowly office [a recruit as we call them in Nigeria], roughing up an okada rider [commercial motorcyclist]. He was slapping, head-butting and kicking the poor dude all at the same time whilst holding his pants in that vice- like grip only soldiers have perfected. The scene brought back memories of a similar situation to mind, the difference being that in that case I was not a spectator. I was the recipient of the merciless ‘shishing’ [beatings].

The year was 1993. I was fresh out of secondary school and I had just made the acquaintance of a young and beautiful girl [who would later become my wife]. Back then, I prided myself as being the substantive yellow pages of all the pretty babes in my area [community], especially in my ‘constituency’-Makoko, but my knowledge and database covered a wider catchment area which included Sabo, Onike and Alagomeji, all in Yaba .

So you can imagine how surprised I was when one day, on my way to school for my final SSCE exams, I saw a Peugeot 505 Evolution packed with 4 girls [also on their way to school] and I realized I didn’t know all the girls in the car. I remember telling myself it was the exams taking my focus off what was really important and I made a mental note to get to know these newcomers and update my database immediately after my exams. Things were going down and ‘awon’ boys didn’t tell me. Chei! World People!

I am not going to reveal how I met these chics and how we became friends because disclosing those methods is tantamount to divulging proprietary trade secrets but what I can tell you is that a few weeks after I laid eyes on them, we became great friends but I got really close to one of them [my future wife] and I am not sure why but it may not be unconnected to the fact that she had the best pair of legs I ever saw, had shoulders that would make a lot of runway models green with envy and that when she looked at me, I had a feeling she saw more than what every other person could see. With her I could be myself and I had a feeling she felt the same way too.

We started dating [well …sort of] shortly after that but I was almost always frustrated because I couldn’t see her as much as I wanted. You see, her father, now my FIL, was very strict. He ruled his house with an iron rod and didn’t allow the girls [three of them] any slack time at all. When he was home, the girls also had to be home. They couldn’t visit anyone and no one could visit them, save for a few female friends. So the only times we saw were those times when he was out of town or when he sent her on errands within the neighborhood and she stopped by my place to say hello. It was very frustrating! The fact that they also lived in one of the few gated houses in Makoko at that time didn’t help matters. If their house was the regular fenceless, face me I face you, buildings that populated Makoko, the type in which you could go in from one street and find yourself on another street when you come out, then seeing her would have been a lot easier.

But somehow, we found a way round the situation. After a while, I had mastered her father’s itinerary enough to risk going to her house without getting caught. I knew when he left for work, when he came home, when he traveled and when Mama [her grandmother and chief guard] took her afternoon nap and when I could go to her house, hide behind their fence and get her to come out of the house without waking Mama up. Although they had dogs, but luckily for me, the dogs were the laziest canines I ever came across. They were always sleeping. 

So, our friendship continued and blossomed. I was never caught by the father, I saw my woman as much as I could and everything went on well…until. ..

One day, she had come to my house asking if I could take her to any good seamstress and seeing an opportunity to spend more time with her I couldn’t turn it down. I said yes and even boasted that I knew the best seamstress in the whole of Makoko, my Aunt Abike and that she would make the best dress for her without charging her too much money.

On our way to my Aunt’s shop, we came across a man and I noticed she stopped and greeted him. I didn’t know who the man was but I assumed he was a family friend, so I walked on and later stopped to wait for her a few meters from where they were. If I had seen her Dad in person before then, believe me, I would have taken off the way Jerry, the mouse, takes off when he has done some evil thing to Tom, but because I didn’t know, I waited and even walked back to the spot they were standing when the man [my FIL] asked me if I could come nearer. My danger alarm should have been blaring none stop then but I never thought the man who used to come to my house to visit the Aunty Nkechi [the only unmarried tenant in my house] was my girlfriend’s father.

FIL: What are you doing with my

 daughter?

Me: Uhn? Stuttering… hmmm

While I was still trying to come up with a reasonable answer and also back step at the same time, the man grabbed me, soldier manner and I knew I was in big trouble.

FIL: I said, what are you doing with my daughter?

Me: I was…

The next thing I heard was Gbao!. Before I could gather myself to put up some resistance, he slapped me again, Gbao! Gbao!!

FIL: So you want to destroy my daughter’s life? Do you know how much I spend on my daughter every year?

Me: Sorry sir, it’s not what you are thinking sir!

My woman [crying]: Daddy, I don’t know this boy. Please leave him alone.

The man slapped me one more time before I could even say one more word. By that time, people had gathered around us and were begging him to leave me alone. I was also beginning to lose my cool and was trying to lose his grip but the man was too strong. It took the intervention of my brother and some of my friends who had rushed to the scene to loosen his grip. That was how I escaped that day.

I didn’t see my babe for several weeks after that and it took several more months before we could reconcile and get back on track again. We did break up after that for about 6 years but like General Kollington Ayinla prophesied several years ago; Eni t’an to ri e na mi, ni hun o pada fe [I will marry the person I had been flogged for, I think]. I guess we both fulfilled prophecy.

Sometimes I wish I could call my FIL and tell him that I am the same guy he beat up several years ago but my wifey had begged me not to remind him but I have a feeling the man remembers. He is probably too embarrassed to talk about it or like most soldiers, even when they are doing wrong; he believes he was just doing his duty.

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