Can’t even remember the last time I experienced what I am experiencing now
It isn’t funny. Power is gone, the estate generator is not working, and although I have an inverter, it cannot carry the AC, so I’m back to my Shomolu growing up days
The only difference is that the mosquitoes these days are not as vicious as their forebears, who tormented us in the little flat in Shomolu
As I turn and turn in my sleep, the heat starts making me hallucinate
I see myself at my former job at Habib Bank, I see Mena, I see one junior staff member harassing me, and I see myself driving my old 504 car.
I wake up in heat, my body sticky, and the air humid, and I’m not finding this funny
The giant Gen is humming, but they say it cannot carry load, so they are using it to ‘pump water’, leaving us with the scary noise, which is louder cos of the opened windows
I’ve not experienced this for about 10 years.
With the commercialisation of power, we have been forced to seek alternative sources of power, in addition to the high cost of power.
Solar, inverter, gen are the combo plus public power that has made me forget my roots
This combo has kept me in a disillusioned state of well-being
Today, I am suffering; my body cannot take it. I am restless, and I can’t wait for morning to jump out and just run away.
In Shomolu, it was ok cause I was born into it. There was never ever any power, and my dad would go buy a mosquito coil, which, while killing mosquitoes, added more pressure to the stale atmosphere, making breathing herculean.
We will now go to the small balcony for ‘fresh breeze’, but then run back cos of the onslaught of killer Yoruba Mosquitoes.
My parents-God bless their souls would sit over us and take turns to fan us with giant Newspapers and that thing we used to call ‘fan’.
My mother would carry my sister, Mayen, on her lap while fanning the rest of us on one side
My father would be on the other side, fanning, but would be distracted by talk
He was a stammerer who liked talking. That contradiction never ceased to amaze me
Talking was tough for him, as he would get stuck mid-sentence and would need to stomp his feet and clasp his hands to bring out the words in a very staccato manner.
This difficulty didn’t stop him from talking and would regale my mum with stories while not fanning us well
My mother would admonish him – Sammy, mbok fan ndito nmi, mkpong iko.
Meaning – Sammy, pls fan my children and leave talk
Then she will add – ah me tang iko abogo – meaning you talk too much
This always riles my dad, who will now vex and stomp away, leaving us to the mercies of the big Yoruba mosquitoes.
And then my mother would add, ‘Ndiongo ke, nsuto pastor ke afo do.’ Ahh me ne yad esit
Meaning, I don’t know what type of pastor you are, but you get angry too easily.
And this would further aggravate my Dad, who will go in and lock himself in the room
As I write, the humming of the Yoruba mosquitoes also distracts me
It sounds like a siren that announces its intentions, but I am ready as I smack it down with a viciousness that even surprises me
I am now grown up. Over 50 and not that tiny boy that would lie on the mat with torn pants waiting to be feasted upon by overfed Yoruba mosquitoes.
This time, I will fight back and swat them, pushing them away and preserving my ibibio blood and preventing it from feeding them fat, after which they will now be calling me kobokobo
They should leave my kobokobo blood and carry their wicked sucking tools just across the street into Shomolu, where they will meet many more willing bodies that the APC have subjected to eternal poverty and feed on
Or better still, they go to the Closer Atan Cemetery and have an orgy in the open graves
As for me, once it’s dawn, I will run away from here and check into the super deluxe Bon Hotel , never to come back until the Exco Chairman comes back from the Adebutu party to solve this problem
As that popular musician said – I cannot come and kill myself
Thanks
Duke of Shomolu