TA MO (A short story from my childhood)

Sometime in the late 80’s, somewhere in Ikeja Police barracks where I was born and raised; my little friends and I had a weird kind of amusement we frequently indulged in. We called it “Ta mo”, which is a Yoruba phrase that means, “cling unto”.

Now in those days the Landrover used to be a rugged open back truck, not like the sleek SUV it is today. And these Landrovers used to drive through a long dusty road at the edge of the fence bordering our barracks.

My friends and I who were just about 9yrs old or thereabout would lay ambush for these Landrovers, chase them and “Ta mo-ed” them. The oblivious driver would just cruise on, while we enjoyed the free ride to nowhere. It was just a dusty vanity ride.

After a long ride, the driver would always sight us through the side mirror. When this happens, he would slow down, which usually gave us the advantage of detaching ourselves easily from the moving vehicle. As soon we jump off, he would bring the truck to a halt, alight and give a hot chase.

This is the most enjoyable part, because we would dribble him around until he was exhausted while we laughed him to scorn.

Now to the main story…

One day, we “ta mo-ed” a Landrover as usual, but what we didn’t know was that the driver was Lucifer’s younger brother, because as soon as he noticed us through his side mirror, he picked up speed. Chai! Come and see as ‘afraid’ jumped into our little hearts. Young Lucifer raised dust as he sped along, occasionally swerving the truck right to left and left to right as we screamed and cried muted pleas for mercy.

From the corner where I hung treacherously I could see his evil smile from the side mirror, walahi, I swear I saw bloodied fangs; this driver was simply the king of Hell Fire.

We could not jump down, and he wouldn’t slow down.

In our great distress, we suddenly realised he was driving us to the police station. So, as he slowed down a little to negotiate a bend that led to the police station, me and my notorious cohorts exchanged glances, took our chances and jumped off the moving truck.

We rolled uncontrollably on the dusty road, bruising our bodies in the process. But despite our bleeding knees, elbows, shins and palms, we picked up our injured selves and ran like crazy. We thought we were better off dead than arrested.

That night our teary yells echoed and created a symphony as our mums mercilessly massaged our bruises with wet towels soaked in steaming water containing Dettol.

Even the lies we told about how we came about our wounds could not stop our mums from dabbing them with cotton wool soaked in iodine.

The experience was so painful that hours later, with our nose dripping and thumbs in our mouths, we sobbed ourselves to sleep.