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.

THE BADDEST PAIN THAT EVER LIVETH (Another childhood story)

It all started when your mum bought you a new pair of slippers. I mean those kinds with three inch soles. And then she pulled her ears and warned you to wear it when you play around.

But you being the champion grasshopper catcher a.k.a King of Abutata decided to venture into the grass where there was an abundance of grasshoppers (abutatas).

Even though you had over 20 abutatas trapped inside your nylon bag, you felt you must catch one more…the one called “felefele”, because of the sound it made when it flew.

So, you spotted one Felefele and went after it, but the grass was too tall and was hindering your nimble legs. To increase your speed you took off the prized slippers your mum bought for you at Ipodo market. Your feet received freedom and you went after Felefele with renewed gusto. Then you saw it perched on a blade of grass as if waiting for you to catch it.

You started to tiptoe towards it and cupped both your hands, holding them in front of your chest, and then you took that mighty leap, caging the Felefele in your hands.

Then, you felt a sharp pain in your right foot, but could not attend to it because you felt the Felefele struggling to escape from your grasp.

With the grasshopper secured in your nylon bag, you finally took a look at your legs and saw fresh blood pouring out from a wound caused by a sharp nail. You pulled out the stuck nail and shed a tear.

For one whole week you hid the wound from your mum, until she caught you limping. As she examined your now swollen feet, she knew exactly what to do.

First, she took you to Mrs. Tiedezi, the caring barracks nurse, who poked your buttocks with an infusion of ATS(Anti tetanus) injection.

As you strolled back home with mum, you started crying for the great thing about to befall you that evening.

Now, to the BADDEST PAIN THAT EVER LIVETH.

After your bath, you were ushered to the veranda where your mum had set up all the apparatuses needed for the welcoming of the Great Pain.

There was a stove, a knife, razor blade and a saucer of palm oil.

My dear reader, the Devil hates children, because he chose a time like this to make four hefty boys stroll past your house. They went- “Good evening mummy(those days everybody’s mum was your mum, not aunty). You need our help?”

That is how these yeye broses were gladly invited to hold you still. With you on your knees and your belly supported by a low stool, you could still see how the knife went into the fire of the stove, and gradually turned from silver to red.

After Mum had slightly opened the wound with the razor and formed a small volcano out of it, she pulled out the blazing knife, poured a spoon of palm oil on it. The shhhhh sound of oil frying over the blade killed your soul a million times.

The she carefully tilted the tip of the knife directly into the wound…the volcano.

The pain shot into your medulla oblongata and the heavens shook as your crying voice pierced the clouds. You tried to shake off the pain but the four broses held you tighter. A loud fart escaped from your anus…yet they did not let go, until the saucer of palm oil was empty.

They let go of you after Mum had slapped the surface of the wound several times with the flat side of the knife. As they released their hold…they also released the dam of tears that had been welling up your eyes.

You cried…yes, you cried…oh, you cried. As you cried some more, you were convinced that this woman was not your mum. But then, she pulled you close to her bosom, wiped you tears with the tip of her wrapper, patted your head and spoke with that very kind voice,

“Sorry my pikin…but next time make you wear your slippers…oya, no cry again”.

THE END

THE AFTERMATH OF CHRISTMAS: A BITTER EXPERIENCE (A short story)

My name is Kunle Omope. Let me tell you a story…

As a child, Christmas was like the season when God threw a party for kids. We would wear our colourful clothes, some of them oversized as the family tailor’s insurance for the rude surprises that came with rapidly growing children. We would blow bangers with reckless abandon and go from house to house greeting, “happy Christmas”. What we got in each of these visits was the same: rice and chicken; Fanta, Coke, Limca, Goldspot and Tandi Gurana. But we also got monetary gifts from our hosts.

So we would walk around with coins jingling in our pockets. With our full bellies, our sugar tooth will now prompt our brains for some sugar rush craving. And na so e go start.

First we would buy “ekana Gowon”, that cone shaped locally made candy with a short broomstick at the base to hold it while we licked and chewed the hard but extremely sweet caramel. After that, we would go in search of “Balewa”, another form of sugar, which is chalk like smooth stones and comes in a variety of bright colours. “Balewa” would leave our tongues coloured and our teeth looking like tie and dye Kampala.

Next, “Eyin alangba” will follow. Eyin Alangba was yet another cleverly crafted candy that had a single groundnut inside it. We’ll suck on the candy till we got to the groundnut…our reward for such sweet labour.

“Baba Dudu” was not exempted, and this one is a black nylon wrapped candy that came in strings. It was usually flavoured with coconut.

In the evening after our bodies and bellies have been heated up with tons of sugar boiling in our systems, we’ll cool it off with “Condense”, which was simply a frozen solution of Balewa dissolved in water. So, you see that we have looked back from common sense and in the process have become pillars of sugar.

At night when we slept, we twisted and turned in our beds, clutching our tummies even as loud snores escaped our sticky lips. It was clear that in the morning, our stomachs would ache and our anuses would run. There was no doubt that we were going to queue at the toilet door and plead with whoever was inside to “do quick before I shit for body o!” But our saviour was on the way. Our tormentor just knocked at the door.

Welcome to the bitter experience.

Grandma visited on Boxing Day and saw that her grandchildren were in great discomfort, but she had come prepared.

That is how grandma brought out this large bottle containing some black concoction, with pieces of tree barks, strange looking leaves and the great mouth squeezer-Kafura pelebe”, all swimming inside it..

One by one we were lined up. One after the other, grandma gave each one of us a cupful of the extremely bitter agbo jeedi. As we struggled to swallow, our throats refused to cooperate, but every time we attempted to throw up, we caught the stern and vindictive look in our mums’ eyes. As if that was not scary enough, the kpankere in our Dads’ hands with an expression that said, “if dem born you well, vomit that agbo”.

The love in grandma’s face could not change the bitter experience. So after contemplating between swallowing and being free or vomiting and getting flogged, we shut our eyes tight and forced down the medicine into our sugar-poisoned stomach.

The worst part was that every time we belched; we re-lived the bitter experience all over again.

The End.

GIVE BABA A HIGH FIVE (A short story)

Hello, my name is Kunle Omope. Let me tell you a story.

The 75yr old man walked slowly through the gates of the bank premises. There was a very long queue at the ATM.

Many young people walked past him in a hurry to quickly join the queue. A lot of questions were flying all around,

"Abeg, are you the last person on the queue?"

" Is it dispensing?"

And then the complaints,

"Why is it only one point that is working?"

"Madam! You are not on the queue o"

"Which kind of life is this sef, this machine is rejecting my card"

And so, since the old man knew he couldn't be part of this craze, he made his way into the banking hall.

Just as he sat down and was fishing through his purse for his glasses, a loud quarreling voice jolted him. It was a young lady arguing with bank teller at the counter.

She spoke in an angry tone,

"I said the queue outside is too long and I need just two thousand naira. Why can't I just withdraw it from the counter?!"

The bank teller, a middle aged man, with a big nose and small eyes replied with that professional tone.

"I am sorry madam, we don't pay anything less than one hundred thousand naira at the counter. Anything less than that, please withdraw from the ATM outside. Thank you"

With this, the lady stormed out of the bank, muttering under her breath, how she was going to close her account with this bank.

Okay, back to our old man.

He walked gingerly to the counter, picked up a withdrawal slip and filled it. He passed it to the Bank Teller, the man with the fat nose.

Mr. Nose, scrutinised the slip and asked the old man,

"One hundred and five thousand naira?"

The old man nodded in the affirmative.

Next, with some punching of the computer keyboard, and the stomping of a stamp, the frrrrrrrrrrrr sound of machine counting money followed.

In less that two minutes, Mr. Nose handed one hundred and five thousand naira to the old man.

Now, let's quickly end this story.

Old man peeled out five thousand naira from the wad, put it in his purse and picked up a deposit slip, looked up at the confused Mr. Nose, and told him he wanted to pay in the one hundred thousand naira that was left back into his account.

After spending just five minutes in the coolness of the banking hall, the 75yr old man walked out and looked pitifully at the young people, shouting, cursing, sweating and suffering under the sun in front of the ATM.

The end.

THE DAY FIRE CRACKED HER - A short story. Enjoy.

My name is Kunle Omope...let me tell you a story.

It had been three years since Pelewura cheated death.

It had been three years since the 15yr old daughter of the cobbler jumped through the window, while clenching a broken piece of bottle as the only weapon to aid her escape from a man that murdered her whole family. It was a large family of 11 children.

In her head she could still count the gunshots that snuffed out the lives of every member of her family. 12 shots in all. One bullet per life.

Pelewura was thrown into a life of running...of trekking many miles... Of picking up very odd jobs to survive...of becoming hardened by the sweaty labour in the market sun and the mercilessly cold nights on dewy and ant infested fields. Sometimes she slept in goat stalls and was thankful for the incessant bleating that punctuated her recurring nightmares.

Tonight she crept into the town of her birth. It was Christmas day.

As she trudged along familiar paths, the tears in her eyes distorted the faces of the happy passers by, so that she couldn't recognise any face. And someone should have identified her, but her face was hidden by a hoodie from the friends and neighbours she once knew.

Then, she heard it go off, "pheeeeee....kpoah!" A firecracker exploded, but she heard a gunshot from her past.

Quickly, Pelewura fled, she felt the need to escape again. Then the second banger went off, and she saw her mum slump dead beside her bleeding dad. Two bangers, two gunshots, her parents. She ran so fast, her strong legs leaping over gutters and puddles. Then she tripped and went crashing to the ground, but before gravity could fold her in a crumple, the third banger went off.

Like a cat, she was up in a split second, running again to escape the sounds of the nightmare that ruined her life 3years ago.

By the time the tenth banger was going off, Pelewura had scaled over a tall fence, rolling on the ground to cushion her descent from such a height, she absentmindedly picked up a bottle of lager leaning by an electric pole, while its owner was staggering over his pool of urine.

Eyes bloodshot, teeth gritting noisily as she sped aimlessly, Pelewura had become a tortured monster of a wicked past.

Somewhere within the town, Chief Ebudola was entertaining a bunch of kids as he shook a long, and colourful cylindrical firework. The kids chanted in unison as a a small fireball shot out from the toy in his hand with a phew sound and a "kpoa" explosion.

The kids excitedly screamed "eleven!", as the fireball exploded.

Pelewura drew close...

As they chanted " twelve!", Pelewura was before Chief Ebudola. His mustache was unmistakable... He was the one that broke into her home on Christmas day 3years ago. He was the one who took her family from her. He was the one whom she escaped from with a broken piece of bottle. Now she was before him, holding a broken piece of bottle in her hand again...and he was shirtless with a potbelly and an overlapping neck.

It's been 12years now, and Pelewura has not stopped running...from the law.

The end.

NA BY POWER (A short story)

Hi. My name is Kunle Omope, let me tell you a story.

As the weathered luxury bus filled up at Oshodi and the driver revved the engine in readiness for take-off, the unusual pockets of noise here and there quietened.

Then, he rose up from the seat behind the driver, turned around and faced the commuters. He was a neat looking man in his forties. His hair had a sheen and the natural wavy curls that came from constant brushing.

Clearing his throat, he broke the silence.

"Those that don't know me will wonder who I am, but those that know me will say, Uncle Joe, the solution Master has come again o". Uncle Joe paused and flashed a bright toothy smile. He bent down and lifted a burnished leather bag and placed it on the head rest of the seat on which he was leaning and grasping on to as the bus swayed and swerved to escape potholes.

He spoke again,

"Good morning my brothers and sisters, your wahala will not kill me o, because it is because of you that I relocated from America so that you will not be sick again. What do I have for my people today, wait and see".

His hand went into the bag and produced a shiny packet, pried it open and pulled out a small nylon pouch containing some brownish powder.

"What you see in my hands my friends, is called the SUPER DISEASE DESTROYER. People that know it call it SDD".

As he spoke, he passed around an empty pack of SDD and urged the passengers to have a look and pass to their 'neighbours'.

Uncle Joe continued,

"Look at it very well, it has NAFDAC number. Now, what does SDD do?"

He paused at this junction to gauge the curiosity of his audience. He was making progress, so, he continued with his sales pitch.

“Whether it is Malaria, Typhoid, eye pain, ear ache, mouth odour, itching of the body, menstrual pain, SDD will clear it all, one time!”

There was an eruption of “ohhs”, “aahhs”, “ehen” and many more exclamations. This reaction from his audience encouraged Uncle Joe, so he went on…

“For Malaria, and Typhoid, just pour one spoon inside one bottle of 7up. If it is body pain, eye or ear pain, pour one spoon inside a glass of original ogogoro and squeeze lime inside. Drink it first thing in the morning, all the pain will disappear fiam!”

At this point Uncle Joe was becoming uncomfortable because nobody was asking for SDD. Almost half of the commuters were sleeping. He then decided to go for the kill.

And if you want to satisfy your woman very well every night…I mean if you want her to be singing your praise every morning…if you want to be a real man…with correct manpower, then just mix SDD with one tin of milk and drink it before action starts…I swear… you will perform like a piston…”

Immediately, sales picked up.

A bushy bearded man sitting at the back said,

“Give me 3 packets, malaria dey disturb me too much”

Another young man who all the while had headphones on quickly made his request,

“Shebi you said it works for ear pain, give me 2packs, let me treat this ear pain once and for all”.

Then, a tribal marked man seated by the window raised his squeaky voice above everyone else and asked,

“Abeg Uncle Joe, give me one pack, this menstrual pain no dey let me rest”.

The bus suddenly fell silent.

The End.

TWO STORIES-MY STORY AND YOUR STORY

Hi. My name is Kunle Omope, let me tell you a story…erm…actually, let me tell you two stories.

Tunde was hungry and jobless. After luckily finding ninety-five naira in the pocket of a pair of trousers he had not worn in a long time, the first thing that came into his mind was bread and beans.

And so, Tunde embarked on the small journey to Iya Sheri’s shop. He didn’t mind that the shop was by the express road, about one kilometre from his house.

So, he trudged on by the side of the road not minding the dust from the cars that sped by, he firmly clung to the plastic bowl wrapped in a nylon bag. He was deep in thought when he heard a gunshot.

Looking back in shock, he saw a saloon car in the distance, driving furiously and recklessly toward him. In his fear, he also noticed that the car was being chased by a security truck with gun-toting policemen.

Without wasting a second, Tunde ran into the nearby bush and lay down on the ground, praying for the Devil to gently pass by.

As his nose kissed the damp soil of the bush, his mouth moved with the rapid speed of prayers. The gunshots kept ringing in the air. Just as Tunde was almost fainting from fear, a large object landed on his head.

All he could do was imagine what this object was. It was not until the noise had stopped that Tunde raised his head and realised it was a heavy bag that fell on his head. He summoned courage and pulled down the zip of the bag…Dollars!!!

Tunde quickly zipped the bag closed, lifted the bag and put it atop his head. He ran home with what he felt was the loot of escaping robbers.

A few minutes later, Tunde was in his face-me-l-face-you one-room apartment. He had emptied the bag of dollars on his bed and was thinking up big dreams.

And that is how Tunde hammered.

Now, to the second story.

After a day of very hard labour, Festus sat down inside a bus stop shed at night. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it and puffed away the sorrows of a situation that threw a university graduate into a construction site to carry kpon-kpon for a living.

He was lost in thought, but his fingers travelled a familiar path to his lips and back, while puffing out smoke that floated clumsily into the air before being swept away by the evening breeze.

At first, he thought the ringing sound came from his mind, but as he listened a little more intently, he realised that a mobile phone was ringing nearby.

Well, after he picked the call, it turned out the owner of the phone was the soft spoken butter daughter of an oil magnate.

The next day, he was in the palatial home of the very wealthy oil magnate.

Favour shone on Festus, when the wealthy man showed him gratitude for returning his daughter’s lost phone by offering him the position of manager in one of his oil companies.

Now, my readers, can I ask you a question?

Have you ever been so broke that you imagined you were the one in any of these stories?

It is called MUMU IMAGINATION. I have been there. Have you?

The End.

Was I a pen

Was I a pen

I’d scribble peace

Upon the wincing face

Of Earth’s troubled waters

Was I a crayon

I’ll wax my colours

Upon patches

Bland with misery

Was I a chisel

I’ll file out excesses

That has left Man

Obese with evil intentions

Was I a keypad

I’ll be the type

Who punches the nose

That holds us breathless

But I can be all of these

If you give me your hand

So, together we can wrap our fist

And strangle life out of Hate

Happy World Poetry Day