A happy man marries the girl he loves,
but a happier man loves the girl he marries. - African Proverb
Bashiru Obelawo was a small child, gifted with the wise soul of an oracle. At six years old, he thought and spoke like a 12-year-old boy. He understood death, cherished friendship and worshipped love. Most of these qualities were gained from the films he watched at the cinemas. Others were learned when he occasionally followed his father, a Bolekaja bus driver whose route included the regions of Yaba and Jankara. The Bolekaja bus, a transit vehicle made of iron, steel and wood, was pretty popular in Lagos up to the early 1980s. It had two swing doors and four long seats, two in the middle in which passengers sat in, back-to-back.
Obelawo had a hardened, almost unpleasant façade—sort of a steely look that made strangers regard him with fear. He had big eyes that roved like an owl searching through a dark, rain-drenched forest. He had a heart-shaped head, a big round nose, and a thick, drooping lower lip. His peculiar appearance made him a spectacle, causing touts, (individuals who hung around motor parks) to call him “Alaye,” (a thug). And Obelawo had the biggest navel I had ever seen. It was round, soft and large as a ripe tomato. Often, the navel peeped out of his undersized shirt, no matter how well he tucked it in.
Obelawo was my best friend at the United African Methodist Church School, Eleja, Ebute Meta. We sat together on a two-seater wooden chair while he told exciting tales about life and the intrigues among his father’s three wives, especially the youngest, Fali, also known as the scorpion. He amused me with stories of the films he had watched at Shiela or Glover Cinemas, and Sunny Ade’s end of year music show at the Railway Recreation Centre at Ebute Meta. And he once told me that men don’t cry, only boys do. He added that big boys don’t even cry. He said that Amitabh Bachchan, an Indian movie actor, said so. Nothing made Obelawo cry, not even when our teacher, Mr. Ladega created a funny name for him -“Bonkolo.”
Often, Mr. Ladega teased Obelawo and ridiculed him in a song that referred to his big navel. He would sing:
Bonkolo yi fuke fuke
Idodo e ri bolojo
Boya lo le gbe dodo mi
Ifuke, Ifuke, Ifuke
This Bonkolo is so comfy
And his navel looks lavish
But I doubt if it can swallow a fried plantain
So comfy, comfy, comfy
And the class would roar in laughter.
We never knew why Mr. Teacher Ladega enjoyed verbally bullying Obelawo. Maybe it was his cruel idea of humor or simply a way of engaging the class and making us laugh. But Obelawo and I didn’t think it was funny. At lunch time, Obelawo ambushed any of our classmates who had laughed about his navel. At the cul-de-sac near the toilet, he knocked the head of such classmates with his knuckles.
It was also at the cul-de-sac that Obelawo sought revenge against anyone who taunted me. I was small in stature then, the smallest boy in my class. Because of this, some classmates called me “Yanko.” And it was Shittu, alias Ireke Obo (the Monkey Sugarcane) who gave me that pet name. We called him Ireke Obo because he was lanky, skinny and shapeless. Whenever he called me Yanko, I always cried.
One day, Obelawo ambushed him at the cul-de-sac by the toilet.
“Why did you call my best friend an ugly name,” Obelawo asked the terrified Shittu.
“I, I, didn’t call him so,” Shittu answered. “It was Bakare who called him something. I only laughed.”
“So, you laughed when Bakare called him Yanko,” Obelawo said.
“I only laughed,” Shittu said, quivering.
“Okay, tell my best friend, ‘I’m sorry, sir,’” Obelawo said.
Shittu hesitated.
“Tell him, ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ or I’ll Yanko your head with my knuckles,” said Obelawo as he clinched his right fist.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Shittu said in tears.
“Say it loud,” Obelawo shouted.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Shittu said again, his voice quivering.
Many boys thought that Obelawo was a bully, but I didn’t think so. They avoided him during play at lunch time when we gathered at the long jump pitch, and fell on one another in the saw dust. The boys deftly avoided Obelawo when it was his turn to jump. He once fell on Sule (alias Borokini). Sule broke an ankle and was taken to the Igbobi Orthopedic Hospital. When he returned to school after four weeks, he compared the impact of Obelawo’s fall on him to being hit by a sack of beans. From then on, another sobriquet was added to Obelawo’s many monikers—Apo Ewa (the beans sack). And the more students who called him that, the more who had him “chop more knuckles” on their heads.
But everything changed the day Suki came to our school.
Suki was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She was an elegant Benin bronze who stood out in a crowd, even though she was only four feet tall. Suki had a stately step, a luminous smile, a body too shapely for her age and spotless skin. Always, she smelled as fresh as a new born baby (because of the baby lotion she used). Her most prominent feature was an aquiline nose. Because of her pointed nose, we called her Fulani Eko (the Fulani of Lagos). And the nickname was apt because her mother was from the Fulani tribe of Northern Nigeria, while her father was Yoruba. Her father was a train driver who had traveled great distances across the country. In 1972, he was transferred to Lagos, and that’s how Suki came to our school.
Suki liked me, but I didn’t like her or, at least, I was ashamed to let the boys know that I liked her. The more I avoided her, the closer she wanted to be with me. She persisted, and we became closer–just childish closeness.
When we talked, she would tell me about her life in Jebba, a town surrounded by “big, endless water” in the middle part of Nigeria. She told me that fish were everywhere and that an Oyinbo man (a white man) named Mungo Park was buried there.
“Do you know that Dr. Nnandi Azikiwe, Nigeria’s first president, was born in Zungeru?” Suki asked me one day. “Dr. Azikiwe’s father had worked there as a railway man.”
“At Lokoja, the rivers Niger and Benue meet,” Suki explained, adding that another area, Kaduna, was called the “city of crocodiles.”
“Why is it so?” I asked, eyeing her nervously.
“I don’t know, but I can ask my father,” Suki replied softly. “And Jos is very cold. I’ve been there. And my father told me it’s cold like London.”
“Has your father been to London?” I asked.
“No. Is there a railway to London?” she asked me.
“I don’t know. You may ask your father. He seems to know everything,” I said.
Many of the places Suki told me about sounded like exotic lands. As we sat on the green grass under the breadfruit tree near the southern fence of the school, I liked how the cool breeze fanned our cheeks gently, and the way the sun shone on her thick, black hair.
Suki’s presence created a gulf between me and Obelawo. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Obelawo any more and it wasn’t that I liked Suki. It was just that Suki didn’t like him, especially his rough play. So, she told me she wanted us to avoid Obelawo. But the more we wanted to avoid him, the more Obelawo wanted to be with us. Whenever Suki and I sat together to escape into our world of tales of those faraway lands or railway towns up North, Obelawo joined us. Often, he sat without saying anything, as he listened attentively to Suki and gazed at her sparkling eyes. Suki told me she liked it when Obelawo just sat quietly without blurting out anything stupid.
One day, Obelawo broke his silence. Suki had just told us that one of her neighbors in Zungeru always beat his wife. Later, the man sent her away and married her best friend. As Suki narrated this tale, Obelawo interrupted her.
“That was very cruel,” Obelawo said. “You know what? I’ll never raise my hands to beat a woman. I have this one life to live; I’ll die for my best friend and live forever for my woman.”
Suki stared at him for about ten seconds, shook her head, and rolled her eyes in amazement at his passionate declaration. For the first time, she smiled at Obelawo.
“My Yanko, what do you think about my neighbor?” Suki ogled me playfully, then nudged me gently on the left shoulder. Suki was the only one who called me Yanko without my being angry. Maybe because she added “my” to it.
“A man should never beat his wife,” I said. “But why must a man leave his wife to marry another woman?”
“I don’t know either,” Suki said as she looked intensely into my eyes. I knew she was confused. Confused about what? Her look demanded a promise, a reassurance. A reassurance of what? I was too young to know.
Obelawo showed me his meaning of true and everlasting friendship one Tuesday, after lunch. Our teacher, Mr. Ladega, was writing on the blackboard when Shittu belched. Instantly, we all laughed. Mr. Ladega looked back. For whatever reason, he went to Suki’s chair, which she shared with Monisola. He asked Suki why she belched like a pig, thereby disturbing his teaching. Suki replied with a deep shake in her voice and vehemently proclaimed her innocence. Mr. Ladega stood his ground. He pulled Suki by the right ear and brought her to the front of the class. He went for his cane and whipped her backside with six strokes. As each stroke landed, she yelled, and tears flowed from her eyes. I cried. I looked at Obelawo. He didn’t cry, but just shook his head. His eyes were misty and red.
Obelawo didn’t talk to anybody for the rest of the day. He sulked. As we gathered at the close of the day, I knew he had something on his mind.
“I’ll teach Mr. Ladega a lesson,” Obelawo said as he patted the tattered rucksack that contained his books.
The following day, Mr. Ladega didn’t come to school, and the next day after. He appeared a week later with a bandage around his head, tied like a turban. What happened? We heard that he was hit by a stone on his way home as he passed by the motor junkyard at Odaliki Street. At lunch time, Suki, Obelawo and I sat under the breadfruit tree. Obelawo told us he wanted to make a confession.
“I was the one who injured Mr. Ladega with a stone,” Obelawo said. “I used a catapult.”
Suki and I listened in disbelief.
“I picked a very secluded spot behind a trailer and waited and waited. Then Mr. Ladega finally appeared. I aimed for his head; I hit him. Then I fled as he shouted and held his head in his hands,” Obelawo said gleefully.
“But why?” I asked.
“Because he beat Suki for what she didn’t do,” Obelawo said without remorse.
“But violence is bad,” Suki said as she winked at me.
“But the use of a cane is violence, too,” Obelawo said. “But I’m sorry now. I never intended to turn him into a Lemomu (Imam).”
And we laughed at this.
We kept the identity of the assailant secret among us. However, the new nickname for Mr. Ladega soon spread around the school. The students started to call him “Mr. Lemomu.” Suki was the broadcaster.
Twenty children cannot play for twenty years ─ Yoruba proverb
We graduated from the school in 1976. My family left the area and moved to another part of Lagos. I saw Suki and Obelawo no more.
I moved on with my life, grew up, went to higher schools, and got a very good job, with a promising career. But most of all, I married a loving woman. I minded my business, until a certain Saturday afternoon in July.
I was at the AP fuel station at Onipanu. I had just filled the tank of my brand new BMW. I was about to pull away from the station when I felt a sudden jolt in the seat. The sound created by the impact chilled my bones. My car was hit from behind. I got out and went to the backside. The bumper had sunken in, and the rear lights were shattered like a thousand strips of confetti. The driver of a commercial bus, also known as danfo, had hit me. He was stunned by the damage. I was furious.
“My father, please don’t be annoyed with your boy,” said the man, probably in his fifties, as he snorted and sweated profusely. He had copious gray hairs.
I didn’t respond, but my blood boiled.
“Ah father, I know it’s my fault, but I beg you in the name of God. We can get a panel beater nearby to push out the bumper. It’s only the rear light, oh. Ye, my God,” the man said as he gestured to the broken pieces of glass on the ground.
I still didn’t utter a word.
By that time, the bus passengers and passersby had started to gather around. Some begged that I should forgive the old man. I looked straight into his pleading eyes. He stared back, then closed his eyes. At that instant, the silly man unbuttoned his blue shirt and exposed a tennis ball-sized navel.
“Obelawo,” I shouted.
“Yanko, Ehn, our Yanko,” Obelawo screamed.
We embraced. It had been 36 years since we had seen each other. We held tightly for about 30 seconds, oblivious to the people around us. As we let go, the crowd looked at us in surprise. They were probably disappointed at how the story turned. Maybe they had expected a fight. In that case, it was an anticlimax. We moved our vehicles to the car park at the filling station to avoid obstructing the flow of traffic at the pumps.
Obelawo told me he lived close by, along Bajulaiye road and asked if I was free to come along to his home. I immediately said okay.
“I have a surprise for you,” Obelawo said.
“What surprise?” I asked.
“A man to whom we are bringing a new wife should not eagerly look through the window,” Obelawo said.
I wondered what the surprise was.
“Ehn, Ah, Kekere Ekun, take the bus to the car wash and bring it home,” Obelawo shouted at his conductor, as he threw the key to the young, scruffy chap. “I’m going home with my best friend in the whole wide world. And don’t use the bus to start picking up prostitutes. I don’t know whether you’ve been cursed with the curse of women. All your life is to chase women.”
“Ah Baba. It’s not like so, oh. They are the ones chasing me,” Kekere Ekun responded gleefully.
“I’m sorry for your family. That’s the trade you’ve chosen in your life,” Obelawo retorted. “Running after shameless young girls, and even old women who are old enough to be your mother. Just bring the bus home after the washing. I’m expecting it very soon oh, or I will whip your backside this evening.”
As we drove to Obelawo’s home in my car, he apologized for the harsh words he had used on his conductor. He noted that those garage boys needed strong hands or they could send the bus owner to an early grave.
Along the way, my mind was focused on the surprise Obelawo said he had for me. I also wanted to ask a few questions, and I wondered whether he had seen Suki since we left primary school.
Soon, we arrived at a self-contained, two-bedroom bungalow that belonged to Obelawo. His family lived in the front part of the building, a large compound with well-kept green lawns. Pawpaw trees dotted the landscape–all planted in a tidy row around the fence. Here and there, hibiscus flowers were in bloom.
I entered the living room. The sweet smell of lemon air freshener caressed my nose as Obelawo offered me a seat on the double-seater sofa. Suddenly, I was struck by a 10- by 12–inch, black and white photo on the gray wall, displayed by the television set on a well-polished wooden cabinet. No doubt about it, that was Mrs. Obelawo in an attractive nurse’s uniform. I thought the white cap sat regally on her head. My eyes traveled to another black and white photograph about five inches away. I recognized Obelawo with eight young children; one of them sat on the lap of the wife. I wondered about the woman in the photographs—she looked familiar.
Obelawo seemed to have read my mind.
“Oh, those are the children,” Obelawo said. “Two are medical doctors, one is a lawyer, one an engineer. The others are schooling abroad.”
Although I was happy about the progress of the children, my interest at that moment was the woman in the photograph. “Could it be?” I thought. I was immersed in this thought when the door to the living room opened gently. A woman, about five feet eight inches tall entered. A white towel was tied firmly around her, from her chest to her knees. She had exited the bathroom and was walking across the flat. I stared, and my eyes landed on her well-chiseled face and then on to the neck. I looked again at the pointed nose.
She gazed at me with bright eyes.
“My Yanko,” Suki screamed
“Fulani Eko,” I yelled.
“How did you find me?” Suki asked, as she rushed into my spread arms. We embraced. She laid her head gently on my shoulder. I smelled the scent of baby lotion, which was her trademark from our primary school days. She held me so snugly that I felt the pulse of her heart. We stood there in warm embrace. When we let go, tears glided along her round cheeks. Why the tears? I thought. What caused the tears?
“Motherhood has not tainted your beauty,” I said.
“My Yanko,” Suki said coyly. She excused herself from the room and went to the bedroom which was to the right of the TV set.
Obelawo then filled me with the rest of the story.
After our primary school education, Obelawo’s father died, and he became a full-time bus conductor and later a driver since he had no one to sponsor his education. Shortly after, Suki’s family moved to Kano following her father’s job transfer to the area. Two years later, Monisola, Suki’s best friend in primary school who also then lived in Kano relocated to Lagos. One day, she boarded Obelawo’s bus. After the two chatted awhile, Monisola told him that Suki lived in Kano. Obelawo got Suki’s address and traveled to Kano the next day. Suki, who was a student at the Federal Government Girls’ Secondary School at the time, was quite surprised to see Obelawo. They renewed their friendship, and Obelawo visited frequently. However, when Suki’s father heard about the “rascal boy” from Lagos who was seeing his daughter, he opposed the friendship on the grounds that she was “too refined to be seen with a bus boy.” Not long after, Suki became pregnant by Obelawo. Her father was shocked. He disowned her and sent her out of the house. Obelawo gladly accepted the pregnancy and brought Suki to Lagos, where they have lived happily ever after. (Obelawo had since reconciled with his in-law.)
Momentarily, Suki ambled in wearing a white shirt and a blue skirt.
“So, Obelawo, you ran away with our boyhood trophy,” I said.
“It was dangerous to leave such a gem in the open for so long. Wolves would gorge her,” Obelawo said as Suki walked to him, sat on his lap, and kissed him passionately on the lips.
“And since we married, it’s been forever pleasurable,” Obelawo said. He looked into Suki’s eyes and their lips again entangled.
“And what’s more, he has never caused me a needless tear,” Suki said cheerfully. “And even when I cried, they were happy tears.”
As I drove home after the visit, I slotted a compact disc into the music player and found the track, “The Colour of My Love,” by Celine Dion. As Celine’s soft voice tickled my soul, I was elated that my dearest wife was also earnestly waiting for me at home. I listened to the song:
I’ll paint my mood in the shades of blue
Paint my soul to be with you
I’ll sketch your lips in shaded tones
Draw your mouth to my own
I’ll draw your arms around my waist
Then all doubt I shall erase
I’ll paint the rain that softly lands on
Your wind-blown hair
I’ll trace a hand to wipe your tears
A look to calm your fears
A silhouette of dark and light
While we hold each other oh so tight
I’ll paint a sun to warm your heart
Swearing that we’ll never part
That’s the colour of my love
I’ll paint the truth
Show how I feel
Try to make you completely real
I’ll use a brush so light and fine
To draw you close and make you mine
I’ll paint the sun to warm your heart
Swearing that we’ll never part
That’s the colour of my love
I’ll draw the years all passing by
So much to learn, so much to try
And with this ring, our lives will start
Swearing that we’ll never part
I offer what you cannot buy
Devoted love until we die
And I reflected on this thing called love. What is love? Is love an intangible field of energy that pulls you to your desire? How powerful is this force? Can you resist it? If yes, why yes? If no, why not? Is love a tyrant? If you cannot resist it, why is it that when you no longer love what you had loved, you are able to pull yourself away? Are there two forces pulling in both directions, allowing love to exist? In other words, for love to exist, as you pull toward your desire, your desire must also pull toward you. The point at which you both meet is the equilibrium of love.
At the primary school, ours was a triangle of relations, not love. We were too young for love and too naïve to understand its mysterious power. However, I now believe that there was a force that we couldn’t comprehend back then—a force that peered far into the future. A force that rewarded those who toiled, sweated and suffered for what they desired.
Suki knew who she wanted, and that was me. Obelawo yearned for no one else but Suki. I, whom Suki wanted, wasn’t sure what I wanted. Hence, I never pulled. Only Suki and Obelawo exerted the force and tapped into its potential. So, it’s only natural that Suki and Obelawo would be rewarded, for they allowed the unseen magnetism of love to pull them together. That same power turned a schoolyard bully into a tender husband. Love is a phantom.