A whirlwind descends from the clouds. It circles me, at first violently and then gently. It is a sunless day at the cemetery near our house. I am standing, stripped of clothes except for my underpants. I am panting like someone who has been running for a long time. But I cannot remember anything pursuing me. I stare, conscious that I am alone, as the whirlwind settles and finally becomes Ukpo. Ukpo! He wears a tattered shirt over khaki shorts. His body is all dusty. He looks sad and angry and does not welcome my broad smile. ‘Where have you been, Ukpo?’
‘Two brothers were foraging and a violent death snatched one.’
‘You’ve eluded me. For…’
‘Even here, we’re not happy.’
‘Our father is lost and…’
‘Come with me.’
In a split second, I am suspended in the air behind Ukpo, the wind bearing us gently as we move along Airport Road towards the town. It is a long straight road with several roundabouts. We emerge on Murtala Muhammad Way and make a detour to reach the main road that leads to Unguwa Uku. I recognise the road that leads to Hotoro, to the government house, to Ola’s house. We pass the Bank of the North, the tallest building I have ever seen. We fly pass Zoo Road and Unguwa Uku to Naibawa. It is here our legs touch the ground. We are on the outskirts of the city where there are only a few houses. We turn to the right, into a sandy road, and walk ahead. Ukpo’s strides are so unnaturally long that I must trot to keep up. Then we reach a huge storey building under construction. It has no fence. He stands away from the entrance.
‘Look into the entrance of this house.’
I move to the entrance and look into the house. At first I do not see anybody, only planks and mason’s equipment in the large room. Then I look round and see a human figure, silhouetted, sitting in the doorway of one of the rooms opening onto the large room. Its back is to me. I want to approach the figure, but hesitate. I decide to talk to Ukpo first. When I turn round to see Ukpo, however, he has vanished. Astounded, I look round. The clouds begin to murmur, thickening, darkening. I run round the house, searching for him. Frustrated and angry, I scream his name.
I started awake.
‘The nightmare, at last! Why Ukpo?’
I did not answer Mama. I screwed up my eyes at the electric lamp. She was standing over me. I sat up abruptly and held my head in my hands.
‘Tell me, the rational one. Is your father no more? I knew you’d see it.’ Mama’s voice was shaky.
‘Ukpo has shown me where Baba is. I’ll go get him.’ I stood up quickly.
Mama grabbed my arm and pulled me down. ‘Even dreamers have their limits. Where are you going at this time of the night?’
I looked at the wall clock. It was 2.40 a.m. I calmed down. Mama sat beside me, curious and sad. My siblings slept heavily.
‘Mama, I know where Baba is.’
‘Don’t talk out of sense, because of a nightmare.’
‘I’m sure, Mama.’
‘You can’t be sure of a dream in this perilous time.’
‘I’ll go there when it’s daylight. I’ll try to locate the place I saw in my dream. We’ll come here together if I see him.’
‘Where did you see in your dream?’
‘Naibawa.’
‘On the way out of Kano?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Ukpo showed it to you?’
‘Yes.’
Mama fell silent. I heard whistles from afar and distant footfalls.
‘You won’t go anywhere. They’re killing people all over.’
‘I’ll go, Mama.’
‘Have you been there before?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘You really want to go?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘No, you won’t. We can’t take such a dangerous step.’
‘Joseph dreamt,’ I said, surprised at my own utterance.
Mama stared at me. ‘Yes, he dreamt in Egypt.’
‘I’ve also dreamt. Just give me a chance, Mama.’
Mama was silent for a while, thinking. ‘You’ll not go. I can’t let you out of my sight. If your father is alive, he can find his way to the village.’
I awaited the coming of dawn with anxiety. Numerous thoughts flitted through my mind. My attention occasionally focused on Mama’s moving lips. Would she ever tire of reminding God of her travails?
Mama fell asleep at 5.30 a.m.
I opened the door gently and sneaked out of the room. The parlour was colder than the room we slept in. I opened the kitchen door and surprisingly found Aunt Becky. She started as the door creaked open.
‘Are you a ghost, Murtala?’
‘Good morning, Aunt Becky.’
‘Morning. Why out so early? Need something?’
‘I didn’t know I would find you here,’ I said, dodging her questions.
‘Oh you should know, Murtala. I have to be up on time to prepare food.’
I moved towards the door. ‘I’m going out to get something for my mother.’
‘But you don’t know this area, do you?’
‘I know where I’m going.’
‘What are you going to buy, Murtala?’
‘Just let me go and…’
She opened the door for me to go.
The watchman posed no difficulty. I trekked some distance to the main road before taking a bus. Inside the bus, I tried to recall my dream vividly. The direction. I succeeded in trapping some images: the tall building, the Unguwa Uku main park, the baobab tree, the turn to the right, and the green undergrowth.
I alighted where I thought was the right place, at Naibawa. There I saw Adejo walking towards me. Adejo! What could he be doing here, so early in the morning? I could not dodge, because he had already seen me.
‘Hey Murtala, nice to see you again.’ He beamed, stretching his hand out to shake mine.
‘Nice to see you, too. What’re you doing here?’
He looked haggard. He was carrying a loaf of bread inside a polythene bag.
‘Moved in to stay with my uncle. Where is your house? I saw someone like your dad yesterday.’
I was wide-eyed, drawing closer to him. ‘My dad?’
‘Oh yes. Around there.’ He pointed at a suya spot. ‘The man I saw was bearded and wore a jacket. In fact, I wanted to greet him and ask about you, but changed my mind because I wasn’t sure if it was him.’
‘I’m sure you saw him. I hope you didn’t lose anyone in the crisis.’
‘We can’t find my mother.’ His voice was weak.
‘Oh my God! You mean…’
‘She never returned from work.’
‘Ukpo died.’
‘That strong brother of yours? Accept my condolences.’
‘My condolences, too.’
The mood was getting heavy.
‘Show me your house, Adejo. I’ll come see you later.’
He pointed at a house. After telling me to take care, he turned and walked gawkily away.
My dream would come true after all. If I looked for Baba and did not find him, I would return to Adejo, tell him more and ask him to help me.
I walked some way before I saw the turn to the right. A huge baobab tree stood by the roadside, immediately beyond the intersection. I tried to focus on the images of the green grass, the farm and the uncompleted storey building. I tried to keep in mind the shape of the building. The upper part was larger than the lower part. There were pillars outside. There were doubledoor shops at the front of the house. The house was not plastered and a heap of sand stood in front of it.
As I walked down the lonely lane I saw a farm of young com stalks on the right, handsome and dewy. I stood for a moment to admire them. I trod gently past the farm. Then, raising my head, I saw a lone storey building under construction a little distance away, surrounded by small clumps of reeds.
I looked at the sky. It was bright. Far in the sky two birds, close to each other, flew towards the east. On both sides of the road were ferns, shrubs and young trees, green and full of life. Happy small birds, in their morning splendour, were flying from one tree to another.
A Hausa man, tall, dark and clad in riga, came out of the frameless door. I walked towards him, speaking in Hausa. ‘Good morning, mallam.’
‘What’re you doing here?!’
There was suspicion in his eyes. I drew closer to him. His lips were thin and dark. He stood, nervous, visibly embarrassed that I had drawn so close to him. I noticed a fat spliff in his right palm, which he was trying to hide. His anxiety was putting him on the defensive. His eyes were restless. I said loudly, ‘I’m looking for my father, please.’
‘Your father?’ The scowl on his face changed to a squint.
‘Yes.’
‘Your father?’ he asked again.
I nodded.
He canted his head to the left. He drew closer to me. ‘I can see you resemble that ex-policeman.’ He pointed towards the entrance of the building.
‘I’m his son!’ I almost jumped up with happiness.
He looked me up and down, the suspicion not totally gone from his eyes. He drew on his marijuana, then gestured towards the entrance.
I saw the figure straight ahead of me. He was sitting in the doorway to one of the rooms, his back to me. I could see that his arms were folded over his chest. He faced an influx of light from the large window of the room. I heard news being broadcast on the radio. I stepped into the house and took two quiet steps towards him. At the sound of his voice, I froze.
‘And the children shall seek their father.’ He did not turn.
‘Baba! Baba! Baba! Why have you…’
He interrupted me, standing up. ‘Murtala, I’ll prefer us to avoid the whys in this matter.’ He turned to me. ‘Consider my leaving home an act of freedom. The cage has burst open for all of us.’
The influx of light presented him to me in utter clarity. Baba’s face had grown very hairy. He obviously had not shaved since leaving home. He walked to me and gestured that we should go out of the building. He led the way, his small radio, now turned off, dangling from his left hand. Outside the building, I studied his features. His face had become thinner, more wrinkled and dissipated, with his beard threatening to swallow his lips. His lips had turned quite dark and assumed the perpetual shape of a chuckle. His eyeballs were bloodshot, but sharp. His neck had grown leaner, veined. He wore a tattered, long-sleeved shirt torn at the elbows and a pair of faded jeans. His body stank of marijuana.
‘Are your younger ones as healthy as you?’
‘Yes, none of us is ill, except Mama. Because of your absence.’
Baba smiled. ‘Not because of my absence, but because she’s in a prison called the city. Take her to the village and her health will return. She was quite robust in the village, before I married her.’
‘We’re planning to go to the village. She’s waiting for you and me. We’re in my friend’s house, because of the riot.’
‘Oh! The religious killers. Avoid them as much as you can. Most people in our country are enslaved to Islam and Christianity, two foreign religions tied together by violence.’
‘I hear you, Baba.’
We stood outside the house, looking at the sun as it rose with alluring rays. I saw two beautiful butterflies flying around.
‘Murtala, life turned into an enigma for me; to confront it, I have become an enigma too.’
He walked to the heap of sand and sat on it. I sat beside him. He raised his head, that chuckle refusing to leave his lips. ‘I’ve become an enigma to confront life.’
‘I understand Baba,’ I said even though I really did not understand. I wanted him to stop talking so we could leave. I was filled with joy.
‘When the cage finally burst and I left home, I walked towards the sunrise. Persistently. I was angry at the sun. Unlike my age-mates in the village, I was born when it was rising. Didn’t the sun owe me some explanation for the mess I lived as a life? Don’t ask me whether I’ve found the sun or not, whether I’ve had the explanation or not. I’m just resting. And learning. I shall rise with the sun again.’
Baba chuckled. He was full of life, happy, happier than I had ever known him to be. He draped an arm over my shoulders and held me like a friend, as he had never done before. My attention was not on what he was saying. I wanted to shout with joy that I had found Baba, that Baba was after all alive, that at last Mama’s boiling emotions would calm. I was eager for us to leave here. Why did Baba choose to carry on talking?
‘Mama and the younger ones are waiting for us, Baba.’ My tone was impatient.
‘Don’t be in a hurry, Murtala. I hurried and hit the rocks. Now I live my life gently, gently and thoughtfully. I seek knowledge. I seek inner peace and energy.’
‘But…’
‘Have you heard of Martin Luther King Jr, Malcolm X, Kwame Nkrumah, Marcus Garvey, Frantz Fanon, Patrice Lumumba, Jomo Kenyatta, Julius Nyerere, Nelson Mandela, Thomas Sankara, Bob Marley and Fela Anikulapo Kuti?’
I stared at Baba, surprised. Was he all right? Why the question? Baba looked at me intently, expecting an answer, that chuckle still playing on his lips.
‘I’ve heard of Mandela and Fela and…’
‘Good, Murtala. Tell your mother I’ve begun a new life. My previous life was one long sleep.’
‘I don’t understand, Baba. Aren’t we going to meet Mama?’ I was anxious and angry.
‘You will, I won’t. I left the village in search of something I haven’t found yet. Tell her I’m sorry for having kept her in the city all along.’
I simply stared at Baba, baffled.
‘All of you, my children, are free to search for light in your own ways. Do not cast Imatum away. Tell everyone, including my parents, not to blame me. Beware of pointing your tiny finger at someone. Tell them none of them has fought life the way I have.’
Baba stood up from the ground, dusted his trousers and offered me his hand. I took it and averted my eyes. He pulled me up. He was energetic.
‘You’re weeping. Aha! The world doesn’t need weeping but bravery. People have wept, wept and wept, and yet have perished. Have you heard of the slave trade? The centuries of continental weeping. Where has weeping taken Africa? Tell my children that they should be brave and radical in their youth.’
I cleaned the tears from my eyes and followed Baba inside the building. He did not seem to be tired of talking. We entered the room in whose doorway he had been sitting when I found him. A small stool stood on the floor beside the door frame.
‘Each morning I sit here,’ he pointed at the doorway, ‘to embrace the sunrays from that window,’ he pointed to the window. ‘The sun must give me an explanation, Murtala.’
It was a large room with a plastered floor. A spread mat – with a threadbare blanket, a wrapper and a dirty pillow – lay to the left. At the head of the mat, I saw a pile of books of different sizes. They all looked old and dog-eared. I squatted to touch the books, fascinated, and skimmed the titles, recognising some: The West and the Rest of Us, The Wretched of the Earth, Petals of Blood, God’s Bits of Wood, Violence, The House of Hunger, The Poor Christ of Bomba and Two Thousand Seasons.
‘I’ll write a note with which you’ll convince your mother that you’ve seen me. And I’ll give you some money to give her. I’ve been working at this building both as a mason and as a watchman. When you leave, I’ll vanish from here. So don’t even attempt to bring your mother to see me. But if you happen to see what I wrote in one of your new notebooks, read it to her.’
I stared at Baba, flabbergasted. He sat down on the mat, retrieved a sheet of paper and wrote the note. Then he counted some money and handed it to me. He stood up and gestured that we should go out.
We walked out of the building. My heart was heavy. It all seemed to me as though I was watching a bad movie. I still wept, averting my eyes.
He placed his right hand on my shoulder. It felt warm. ‘Murtala, your path is that of light. Pursue it with strength and courage.’
We walked on towards the main road. My heart was pounding. I felt like exploding with rage. I felt like kicking Baba. I felt like killing myself.
I saw a number of small birds, flying happily, their wings making prr-prr sounds.
Baba stopped walking when we sighted the main road. I wanted to tell him that I would not be able to take the JSSCE with Mama insisting that I follow her home, yet I could not. All I felt like doing was exploding with a cry.
He looked into my teary eyes and grinned, a painful grin. ‘Tell everyone that I await the triumph of my soul.’