MUCH ADO ABOUT SEMO

On Friday of last week, upon that hour when the sun and the moon negotiate dominance for the day; upon that hour when bankers undo their ties, remove their suits and fold the sleeves of their starched, plain shirts and trade the busy banking halls for even busier pubs; upon that hour when businesses wind down for the day with businessmen and women wearing long faces and releasing long drawn out sighs to reflect yet another day of poor sales and ill-lucks; upon that hour when taxi drivers and commuters shout themselves hoarse in search of tired and hungry passengers trudging towards parks and their routes, some limping because of yet another day in shoes they would rather not wear and being at jobs where they would rather not be and earning remunerations which they believe to be perennially better than.

Upon that hour I was rounding up with my purchases at a trader’s shop in Wuse Market. I had gone to the market with N18,000 half of what I had earned working as a cashier in one of the fancy Hotels in Abuja where a room went for about N30,000 per night, eerily close to my salary. I had gone with the intention of replenishing my pantry but had not succeeded since I was told there and then by one impatient trader dealing on rice and its condiments that what my N18,000 could get me was basically a packet of sweets.

“A bag op rice na N23,600 gaskia.” He had told me with a hint of finality in a thick Hausa accent, turning away from me to dust down his wares in a gesture that communicated his impatience. ‘If you are not buying for that price, shuffle along for another person would buy,’ the gesture said.

“But I saw on Facebook that the price of a bag of rice was N18,000” I had insisted.

“Well, Oga. I no buy am por this rice pom pacebook.” His responses were edgy, almost angry. He spoke as if he could barely tolerate my presence and my haggling were one of the difficult things he must deal with if he must in fact prove himself to be a man.

I had left his shop disappointed and angry too. I wished that I could give him a piece of mind but I thought better of it, these days, people wake up angry from the hardship and pervasive hunger. Exchanging words with the trader may deteriorate to him pouring his entire vexation on me. And people are really not happy these days.

I left his shop with a better perspective. Facebook is not the marketplace and the figures and purported facts there are nothing but armchair forecasting of a lazy and mischievous people.

After those revealing minutes in the angry man’s shop, I did an impromptu readjustment of budget and tightened my belts just as many a Nigerian Politician had advised not-minding the fact that their daughters fly first class to London on Virgin Atlantic Airways, or that they still buy Mercedes G-Wagon and spray dollars at their son’s wedding ceremonies.

What the current reality allowed for my budget was half a bag of rice, maybe a mudu of crayfish and possibly some tins of tomatoes, condiments that may be enough to last me for a couple of months while I wait earnestly for the Nigerian government to get their acts together and realize that recession is not just a word but the most tragic of economic realities that is almost synonymous to the demise of a nation’s economy. However, my fences with the irritated trader had been broken down beyond repair and my personal safety demanded that I pursue other trade partnerships before an irritant trader break my head with a carton of tin tomatoes.

I was haggling over the price of a half bag of rice with a dark-complexioned man whose narrow head augmented his awkwardly protruded pair of ears when a ruckus unfolding thirty meters away from me caught my attention. An equally dark man with the roundest face one could ever feast his wondering eyes upon, a face that looked more like a soccer ball than a rugby ball. He gingerly balanced the round head on a very long slender neck that seemed more as a result of malnourishment than a natural endowment from the god of long necks. The neck was equally plugged into a very wiry 5 feet 8 frame giving the man the look of someone who could easily melt into the cacophony of the market. But the man defied physiology and refused to disappear, on the contrary, he hogged the attention of the market, drawing the gazes of both buyers and sellers and the potters.

However, the man’s face was at odds with the rest of his features. His cheeks were bony and pockmarked and looked like that of an East African warlord, his brown eyes were fierce and were glistening a bit with preliminary tears. His hands locked something to his chest in vice-like embrace. A group of three hefty young men tried to pry open his grip on something that looked like a 10kg bag of rice.

The men that grappled with the thin man were his direct opposites. They were hefty, decorated with chests that looked like a well-set slabs of stones, short, brute necks that looked to have traded grace for strength and thickness. Their jeans and tshirts hugged aggressively to their frame so much so that I could half-swear that they were painted on their bodies rather than worn. A closer look to their chests showed me that their chests have a life of their own, they breathed and quaked angrily, threatening at times to tear through the sheer fabric and express itself formidably to the bare evening air.

The men shook the thin long-necked man like a feather and he flew from side to side like empty tin containers packed at the trunk of a ‘goods only’ truck. Despite the barrage of brutality, the man held the 10kg bag of rice as if it was a ticket to eternity.

The onlookers and passersby participated in the melee only as fascinated observers and pointing commentators who laughed and took pictures to update on their social media pages.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, despite its nine lives, but it drew me forcefully towards the scene of the action. I abandoned the trader I was haggling with and started pacing towards the scene of the action. With my every step, I drew closer to the center of the brouhaha and its genesis became clear. For what the man clutched was a small sack of Golden Penny Semolina, a cassava flour that could be stirred and taken with soup.

The closer I got to the scene, their conversational exchanges became clearer.

“This semo go follow me reach house.” The thin man shouted breathlessly.

“Oga you go pay to take am now.” One of the barrel-chested men who I guessed to be the owner of the bag of semolina told him.

“Where you wan make I get money?” His voice was teary, breaking in his anguish.

“I no know that one, if you no get money abeg drop am.” The owner of the bag said.

“Wetin you wan make my wife and seven children chop?”

“Na him born am for you?” Another of the men asked the thin long-necked man.

“Oga Abeg now…Make I feed my family today.” He begged but he still forcefully held to the bag. There were no apologies in the vice-like grip that strangled the bag of semo. As far as the man and his grip was concerned, the semo has reached home to his family for dinner and his kids are already belching in satisfaction.

Thereupon they started hitting the man, targeting his arms; first with their fists and then resorting to planks. The man winced in pain and cried unabashedly but his hands still held the precious bag of semo. I was moved to assist but I had only N18,000 which could hardly get me the condiments I had itemized in a list that was on the breast-pocket of my black and blue striped shirt.

I was still contemplating the economics of charity when a man came into the fray. He looked every inch a big man, wielding the characteristic big tummy that threatens to explode every time he walked. The tummy swayed from side to side with his every step and I had problems imagining what the scene would look like if the pot-bellied fair man with gold-rimmed glasses reeking affluence was asked to lie down on his stomach for some medicinal reasons. This is because the belly extended  at least ten meters away from his waistline.

He walked into the scene leisurely as if the unfolding violence was only a mere drama which he was directing.

He tapped the owner of the disputed bag of Golden Penny Semolina behind the shoulder and said with a gruff voice which commanded as much authority as his big belly.

“Mr Man.”

The owner turned aggressively, his eyes expressing fiery anger and his frowning features spoiling for a fight but a dramatic transformation occurred when his eyes came upon the big-bellied man’s stomach. His fiery eyes calmed as if the fire brigade had unleashed a torrent of water on him. His hardened features softened as he encountered the evidence of good living or at least a chronic case of ascites. The man smelled good, like someone who had just had a bath in a Givenchy-scented Jacuzzi and thus may not be suffering from that case of bloated stomach.

“Sir…”

“What is the matter? Why do you want to kill this man?”

“He took my bag of semo without paying” He said and his grip on the man loosened. His other friends released the man too.

“Young man…” He addressed the long-necked man “Is it true?”

“Sir I no get any money and I no fit go home dey watch my family starve.”

“Is that why you stole?” The Big man asked.

“I no steal am o.” He said still hugging the sack like a politician would hug a bag of voters card.

“I price the semo for him shop and na him give me. But I no fit pay him because the semo na N3,400 now and na only N400 I carry come market.”

“Young man what is N4oo? Are you that lazy?” He shook his head in disapproval. “Young men your age throw this away all the time. It cannot even buy a decent meal.”

“Sir…N400 na big money o. E fit buy crayfish and pepper and vegetable make small soup.”

People laughed but I did not. The scene is profound. The UN had been right, there indeed Nigerians living on below a dollar per day. The disconnect between the elite and the average citizen was gaping there too. In a land where people could break into dance of joy for a gift of N400, another person was throwing it away like it was no man’s business.

“Oga…Abeg give am him semo.” He said dismissively. Just then his phone rang and he started leaving the scene while speaking urgently into his phone.

“Abdul…If I do not get alert of that N7million tomorrow morning, I will not be happy with you…” His voice trailed with those words and he had left without any impact.

The thin man locked his grip on the semo more ferociously and the barrel-chested men descended upon him. Status-quo-ante was restored.

The savior came like Jesus, silently into the fray and was similarly bearded. The sleeves of his starched white shirt rolled up to his elbows and his ears sporting a black Bluetooth headset. He stroked his thick beards and spoke so gently that I could not make out what he was saying.

I just saw the men nodding and the man’s grip on the semo soften until he was carrying it on one hand while he sobbed uncontrollably, praying and chanting “God Bless You”

“Abeg I dey very sorry…” The man spoke aloud, apologizing to everyone and not only to the man whose semolina he had commandeered for almost half an hour.

“Them never pay us for our workingplace for the past four months. I don borrow from everybody wey I know and my family never chop since yesterday afternoon.” He was crying and had become ashamed. I watched as the circling vultures of spectators started dispersing in disappointment, there had been no bloodshed. Nothing newsworthy that could appear on Linda Ikeji’s Blog. For them, it had been an anti-climax to an event that could have delivered at least a broken head.

The Man knelt there, hugging the bag of semo to his chest as if it was his long lost prodigal son while the man wearing the Bluetooth headset spoke to the hefty men who packed a barrow full of foodstuffs and dropped in front of the man. The barrow contained a half-bag of rice valued previously at N5,000 but now selling at N12,000; 5 liters of vegetable oil valued previously at N1700 but now selling for N3,500, two packs of semolina, a carton of tomatoes and two cartons of spaghetti.

Just before he left, the savior gave the man some rumpled N1000 notes but the man did not look up. He was saying thanks but with his slender neck bowed, his face burrowing deeper into the contentious bag of semolina.

I turned to look at the man who I had started negotiations with before I was distracted. He was closing up shop. He was done for the day.

That was good too, I thought leaving the thin, long-necked man in a pool of his tears and near his barrow of goodies. His family would feed well for the next couple of months.

My thoughts turned to me.

What could happen if I came tomorrow and hugged a full bag of rice valued at nearly N24,000?

In answer a song came to me “The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind.”

KILLING GOD (PART ONE)

I do not know who God is but Imam Abdulfatai knows.

He is a sullen fellow with dark solemn eyes, long black beards with some sprinkling of gray and had a tiny scar that ran down from the left side of his small lips black lips, down to his bearded chin. His teeth was white, very white and accentuated his smile against his dark features. And he smiled a lot, when he recites the Koran, reading the surahs in a unique sing-song voice that blared over the loudspeakers, inviting the faithful towards Massalaci. He even smiled with his eyes closed

We came to him in droves, usually young boys filled with zeal for Allah seeking knowledge from a book we cannot read as understood by a man we all love and love him we did.

He was a man of peace then and lived in great harmony with the Christians who often invited him in their churches during their thanksgiving or other ceremonies. He ate and drank with them quoting the Quran in defense.

"Surely those who believe, and those who are Jews, and the Christians, and the Sabians -- whoever believes in God and the Last Day and does good, they shall have their reward from their Lord. And there will be no fear for them, nor shall they grieve"

“Islam means Peace” He said “The Followers of Allah must be peaceful for Allah said You who believe! Enter absolutely into peace which also means Islam”

We often flocked around him chanting excitedly, parts of the Koran which he had taught us and then afterwards he would give us ‘Kwuli Kwuli’ and a cup of ‘kunu’ and usher us out of the mosque while some older men, similarly bearded and often reeking of marijuana waited for him behind, chatting in soft tones and sometimes swearing.

“Na rantse da Allah” They would swear.

“Da taimakon Allah, zan kashe dukan kafiri” I could hear one of them promise one day while I left after the session with Iman Abdulfatai. These men were often a feature in Imam Abdulfatai’s mosque and always came in after dark when Iman would be sending us home. I worried about his safety at first before he made me to understand that they are part of the lost souls that he is trying to save for Allah. He must be very successful for none of them had hurt him with the daggers they hid under their Jalabiya or even shot at him with some of the guns they carried, guns that I can only see in certain occasions when I climb the Mango tree outside the mosque and look into the compound. I did that mostly out of concern for the safety of our amiable Iman Abdulfatai but partly because I was suspicious of the new found love he shared with the sinners.

When I raised the issue with him after the Prayers one day, he told me that recognition of one’s imperfection before Allah is the height of humility.

“Ahmed.” He called me “Do you know that Prophet Muhammed Sall Allah o Alleh e wassallam, once called himself a sinner?”

“Really?” I asked, my high-pitched voice displaying the depth of my surprise.

“Yes…” He said, dragging me closer to him, into the crook of his arm. “Even Him who was favored and blameless in the eyes of Allah recognized that he is a sinner who is dependent on the mercies of Allah”

“Who are we to decide who qualifies for the mercies of Allah” He said, dragging me down to sit down with him on the pavement. He offered me some debino and chewed on some himself. I took the fruit, seven of them and chewed on one while he patted my back gently.

You see, Abdulfatai was like my father, I had not seen my real father because I was told that he had gone missing thirteen years ago when I was only five and since then, I have spent more time at Imam’s mosque than I did with my poor lean fair mother and my three sisters in our two-room hut and corrugated zinc sheets for a roof. I grew up thinking of the gentle Abdulfatai as a father and I became close with his five children; as close as only a brother would. We drank fura di nunu together and bit on our suya and massa with similar gusto. Through the years, I stayed with Abdulfatai and merely visited home when it was time to sleep.

My heart spoke to me sometimes, confronting me with the reasons why I ran away from home, why I detested the loneliness, detested the sight of my mother scraping the dregs for survival, detested the tears of my sisters crying out in the dead of the night for the warmth of their missing father, their tears shed in my stead.

Thankfully, the darkness enveloped us most of the nights in its comforting cocoon and no one could see my tears or my heart. Every morning, since I was five until I turned eighteen, I woke up with first light and ran away; from home and to Abdulfatai’s mosque.

However, when I turned eighteen, I started noticing some changes in my adopted father. He started asking me to stay behind after the evening’s prayers. He insisted that I sat with the bearded men that reeked of marijuana and sometimes glue.

The teachings in these clandestine meetings were different from the calm, singing sessions and prayers we held with the light of the day. It featured more verses than I had ever heard during my long association with Abdulfatai. It was caustic and intolerant and was delivered by another man in Abdulfatai clothing. This preacher was called Ibrahimi Jihadi and replaced Abdulfatai’s solemn eyes with fiery ones that gleamed as he spoke to the group of a score of men who sat cross-legged, their daggers and guns lying in its latent danger, threatening in its silent capacity to wreak havoc and leave tears in its wake.

It was in one of such meetings that my life changed.

It was a Friday, right after the Afternoon Prayers.  Abdulfatai had asked me to wait after the prayers as the Mumunin filed out of Massalaci.

“Wait” He told me patting my shoulders gently from behind. His touch was gentle but the message was abrupt, spoken in a hurry without caring to explain why I should. It was the first time he had asked me to wait after the prayers because I often left to ply my okada. I was a commercial motorcyclist, an occupation that helped put food on the table for my mother and three sisters.

I waited. I had no choice. As confusing as Abdulfatai may be, he was still Allah’s messenger and mouthpiece and also filled the role of a father for me. The bike I use to fend for my family was a gift from him when I turned sixteen.

As I watched, a lot more people waited behind, my agemates with vacant, unreadable faces, impressionless as if they are zombies waiting to be told what to do. Minutes later, I saw the same group of bearded men that had always cradled weapons trooping in after the prayers. I did not see them during the prayers. They had not joined the prayers.

They are still sinners. Abdulfatai had not succeeded in converting them.

Shortly after, Abdulfatai emerged. People had dispersed from the mosque, even the hawkers at the entrance had been dispersed probably by the bearded, hemp-reeking sinners.

He had entered his house as Abdulfatai and emerged as Ahmed Jihadi. His clothes had changed from his simple white flowing robe to a black Danshiki. He held a dagger that gleamed against the sun in his right hand and on the left he cradled a rifle which he had slung over his shoulder with a rope. His eyes were fiery and he looked furious.

People muttered at his entrance, probably some who were seeing him like that for the first time. On my own part, I was too stupefied to even blink.

He raised the dagger, pointing it at the roof and deathly silence overtook the place. One of the boys coughed and it echoed for two seconds before he spoke.

“And kill them wherever you find them, and turn them out from where they have turned you out. And Al-Fitnah is worse than killing” His soft tone had been replaced by a harsher, more commanding one, like that of a Judge reading a death sentence. All around me, his congregation, a quarter of the ones that had left the prayers twenty minutes ago listened with rapt attention.

“And Allah said fight them until there is no more Fitnah because worship is for Allah alone”  His voice boomed again, his fierce eyes searching through the crowd, stopping for some seconds on me, unnerving me and probably seeing into my soul before it passed me to other silent followers.

“These are the words of Allah, unchanged through ages and forever.” He said with evident anger manifested in harsh tones.

“Today a woman despised Allah by cursing the name of His Prophet, Muhammad Sall Allah o Alleh e wassallam”

“Our leaders are infidels actively against the words of Allah and we the servants of Allah, led by the injunctions of his Prophet Muhammad Sall Allah o Alleh e wassallam will fight this blasphemy and more”

The mosque erupted with people raising their daggers and guns and sticks.

He bid them to calm down with with another raised dagger.

“We are not going to stop there. We are going to take this fight to them in their shrines. We are going to burn their churches and the idols they worship.” He started walking amongst the followers and they made way for him by shifting aside.

He presented the dagger in front of me. Scared, I left it in his hand. I had never used a dagger on another human before and Abdulfatai had condemned killing during the days in his teachings. Allah detests murderers, he had said.

Sensing my hesitation, he spoke these words.

"Fighting is prescribed for you, and ye dislike it. But it is possible that ye dislike a thing which is good for you, and that ye love a thing which is bad for you. But Allah knoweth, and ye know not."  He forced the dagger into my grasp and sealed my hands himself until I was strongly holding on to the dagger as if I was trying to strangle it by its metal hilt.

 “These words are the words of Allah as given to us by his Prophet in the Holy Quran. They are not my words.” He grabbed me gently by both shoulders and looked into my eyes, the softness and kindness that identified Imam Abdulfatai had resurfaced. His next words were calm and steady and devoid of that maniacal anger that had started the speech.

"Fighting is prescribed for you, and ye dislike it. But it is possible that ye dislike a thing which is good for you, and that ye love a thing which is bad for you. But Allah knoweth, and ye know not." 

 His voice rose again and he declared "Then fight in the cause of Allah, and know that Allah Heareth and knoweth all things." 

Pandemonium broke loose and men clanged daggers. Someone shouted “Shege… Mutuwa ga kãfirai.”

“Sosei.” Another responded.

“Yusufu Jihadi will lead and Jihadi Ahmed will assist.” Abdulfatai said, pointing at me. I swallowed nervously.

Yusufu, a haggard looking tall boy of around twenty, with kinky uncombed hair and broken red lips walked past me with a shotgun slung over his shoulder. I meekly followed trudging towards a path that I did not know towards murdering a woman I had never met.

However that is what God wants and I have never seen God but his words in Quran are steadfast through eternity.

I may not be able to read the Holy Quran too because I had never learnt to read Arabic or even English but I am sure that Iman Abdulfatai could and he is the living embodiment of the words of the prophet.

As I left with a throng of new followers, I could hear The Imam’s voice booming off another verse of the Quran.

“Therefore, when ye meet the Unbelievers smite at their necks; At length, when ye have thoroughly subdued them, bind a bond firmly on them. Thereafter either generosity or ransom: Until the war lays down its burdens. Thus are ye commanded: but if it had been God's Will, He could certainly have exacted retribution from them Himself; but He lets you fight in order to test you, some with others. But those who are slain in the Way of God, - He will never let their deeds be lost.”

With these words behind us, spurring us, we set out to exact the vengeance of Allah.

At the market, they pointed at a middle-aged woman with a heavily painted face. Jihadi Yusufu gestured me forward and asked me to bring him her head.

“That is the will of Allah.” He said. He does not look like a follower of Allah and even then wore amulets on his neck, evident through the unbuttoned shirts he wore. He also puffed on a marijuana. But in his voice I heard Imam. He would be disappointed if I failed him.

I took the dagger and approached the woman. The Market was silent and the crowd had already gathered, like sprits of death anticipating bloodshed and ready to watch it. I wished they would stop me or hit me over the head. I wished that the ground could open and swallow me whole with the dagger in my hands.

I approached the woman whose face was heavily painted in an array of colours from red on her face and under her eyes. Her eyelid were painted in shiny blue.

She cried as I approached, her tears mingling with the red paint to create the illusion that she was shedding blood instead of tears. Behind, the followers cheered me on, urging me on towards the murder of a woman I do not even know.

“Submission is the meaning of Islam…All must submitted under the will of Allah” I ranted, the quote coming from somewhere within me probably implanted by Ibrahimi Jihadi.

I raised my dagger over the woman’s breast, my eyes gazing into the teary pools of hers and …