Yemetu must be one of the earliest settlements in the now boisterous city of Ibadan. My unsolicited journey into the world began here and the earliest recollected memories of childhood with its fantasies, fears, escapades and the carefree irresponsibility of that particular stage in one’s life remain evergreen. From Total Garden, anti-clockwise you have Yemetu Igosun, Yemetu Amukoko, Yemetu Aladorin, Yemetu Adeoyo {where you have the then state specialist hospital and the palace of the then Olubadan Salawu Aminu} and Yemetu Yekere leading to the Government Forestry of Igbo Agala {a dreaded and forbidden evil forest where the headless corpse of an extraordinarily beautiful woman was discovered in the mid-60s}. This is not a lesson in geography but a journey into the past and a bittersweet recollection of an era that can never be relived. The fate and state of ‘my’ Yemetu is a metaphor for the state of the nation in general today.
The majestic trees that lined the Total Garden to the specialist hospital in the early sixties had been cut during the civil war. St. Paul’s school 2 had been demolished to make way for a pharmaceutical outlet by a local government chairman who was prepared to cut down the metaphorical tree in order to eat the unripe fruit. School 1 situated on the promontory on the other route to the government forestry is now a shadow of its old eminence. The ‘auld enemy’, St. Michael’s catholic school has become a sober reflection of the criminal decay of educational infrastructures. The statute of avenging angel Michael reminiscent of a ‘do or die’ football between the schools is no more-vandalized and finally destroyed.
The teachers were dedicated and respected. I had no recollection of industrial action by our teachers because of non-payment of salaries and emoluments. We never had cause to question the authority of the teachers in or out of school; in fact, most of us were in mortal dread of these teachers. I took a stroll through the old neighbourhood and was tremendously shocked at the unseemly spectacle of students in rags and some without footwear roaming aimlessly during school hours. Where are the dreaded school inspectors of yore? Where are the ‘late comers’ catchers and where are the teachers themselves? I had a chat with one of the teachers-a study in disillusionment, apathy, and indifference. My inquiries sounded naïve and out of order in the ears of this teacher and his ilk.
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The ‘mental arithmetic’ hazard, a regular daily morning gauntlet is no more; the ‘nature study’ corner is now an unnecessary distraction, the early morning hygiene checkup, a distant memory, and the domineering senior prefect an extinct species. I was not surprised when the sullen fellow started whining about the means of settling his children’s school fees in a private nursery school; and he made no bones about the fact that he was a bird of passage in the profession, desperate for a place in the banking world or the oil sector. Could I peradventure be wired to the shakers and movers, and can I facilitate a move even to the local government service? “Oga, imagine the monthly allocation of those bastards; imagine what those idle councilors are collecting for doing practically nothing, not to talk of their chairman”, he snarled.
I left ‘my’ St. Paul’s in a melancholy mood. The old footpath to Yemetu AGIP, the scene of many brawls on the way to and fro from school is still in existence. The ‘old’ house sold by our absentee landlord and was briefly a fast food joint before its present transformation into a thriving Pentecostal church is still there in its gloomy pre-eminence. Directly behind the ‘old’ house is the cathedral-like {in my youthful imagination} Celestial Church of Christ, reputedly the first parish of the church in Nigeria. The tall tales told narrated about the going on in the church and the spiritual exploits of its founder, Pastor Oshoffa was fittingly out of this world. Even in our youthful innocence, the grace and beauty of its female members registered. Their mincing steps and provocative mien evoked the futile warnings of the prophets of old in the Holy Books. Nevertheless, I cannot for the life of me remember the neighbourhood being held hostage by the church in night vigils and revivals despite the fact that the church is directly located behind our abode.
The ‘Borokini Club’ is a stone’s throw away, a living antithesis of the happenings behind us. The civil war was in full steam, but the patrons and matrons of the club could care less; every evening, gorgeously dressed ladies and their escorts invade the neighbourhood, and the blare of highlife music from the forbidden recesses of the club would float out on an evening night comingling with the celestial tunes from the house of God behind us. My grandfather {with the confirmation name of Emmanuel}, loathed the ‘white garment’ congregation behind us with a passion, nevertheless warned us in apocalyptic terms about the hell and fire consequences of the activities of the clients of ‘Borokini’. Grandpa likened the club to the biblical Sodom and Gomorrah, and an innocent matron of the club and his consort assumed the tragic role of Lot and his wife in my youthful imagination and I waited in anguished trepidation for the unfortunate pair’s transformation into a pillar of salt.
Down the road from the sybaritic pastimes of the ‘Borokini’ crowd, the residence of the Obisesan clan, principal actors in the political convulsions consuming the old Western Region at the time, with the capital city of Ibadan as its epicenter, loomed menacingly large. We encountered decapitated bodies and barbequed cadavers on more than one occasion on our way to school in the morning. Unknown thugs burned down the popular palm-wine shack of Mope directly opposite our residence, the beautiful belle actively involved in the bloody politics of the day; and I can still recollect vividly the burning pyre illuminating the night as if in a contest with the approaching charioteer of dawn. ‘Dongo’ and his henchmen, a notorious thug in the employ of the Obisesans terrorized the neighbourhood with absolute impunity and it was a red-letter day when his badly mutilated body was discovered in the river that that flows behind the celestial citadel. Whodunit?
I looked forward to the Sabbath day, not because of the religious observations and the tedious Sunday school chores; rather the guaranteed sliced ‘Otarus’ bread with fried eggs and the afternoon meal of rice {on special occasions jollof rice} with fried stew was worth all the admonitions of the Sunday school teachers on the narrow but true path to heaven. Sundays were for visits to families and relatives; an occasional visit to the Zoological Gardens would inevitably lead to visits to relations at their halls of residence in the premier university. Here, the message is clear and unambiguous: this is the place to be if you want to become a doctor, lawyer or engineer. You render yourself a personae non grata in the ‘sacred’ precinct if you play the truant at school, disobey your parents and elders, or engage in nasty pastimes like tying petrol soaked rag to the tail of a neighbor’s cat and setting it on fire. There is no place for you at the university if you are in the habit of following the native masquerades in their peregrinations in the city.
The unerring fulfillment of some of the prophecies of our Sunday school teachers! It was their general consensus that ‘A’ would come to a bad and sorry end; ‘A’ as bad and rascally as they come ended his short journey on earth before a phalanx of a firing squad at the Ibadan Polo ground in the mid-70s ‘Y’, a siren at her tender age was warned to take heed from the terrible fate of Jezebel; years later, ‘Y’ was in one of the oldest professions in the world at one of the red-light districts in Lagos, bloated and as hard as nails. Happily, though some of their prognosis came to naught. ‘K’, who they called the favourite son of Lucifer {ah! Omo shatani}, is now a pastor of the living faith, and the erstwhile rascal had the temerity to preach the ‘born again’ line to me when I encountered him during one of his evangelical toils.
The 24-hour cable television would have sounded like science fiction to my generation. I made bold to assert that the quality of the fare offered by the then Western Nigeria Television {WNTV/WNBS} was not inferior to the embarrassment of options available to the present generation, most of them and harmful and toxic junk. I remember ever with pleasure the Western films of yore, ‘The man from U.N.C.L.E’, ‘Wild Wild West’, ‘Maverick’, ‘HAWAI ‘, and ‘COMBAT’ starring Rick Jason and Vic Morrow {a fictionalized series of the second world war’}. Nothing could be more callous and wicked than being barred from watching a ‘COMBAT’ episode by our parents, for your misdemeanor must have been very grave indeed. When you see brother Isaac {of blessed memory} uncharacteristically diligent and in a hurry to complete his school homework, you can be sure that the threat of debarment from watching ‘COMBAT’ was the invisible whiplash!
The entire neighbourhood would be reverberating with the re-enactment of the latest episode of the ‘COMBAT’ series {Bang! Bang! Bang!} all day long. Duro Ladipo, Oyin Adejobi, Kola Ogunmola, the Orisun Theatre directed by Wole Soyinka, and the pioneer of the hilarious genre Moses Olaiya with his ‘Alawada’ Theatre made our days pleasant. The late sister Toun Adeyemi with her popular ‘Youth Rendezvous’ and Bayo Akinola with the brain teaser ‘Quiz’ Time’ were a must-watch.
The mass hypnotism of the English Barclays Premiership and continental European football was still in the future. We were contented with the local football scene and when the other African heavyweights were in town, we were in raptures although passing obeisance to the weekly ‘Star Soccer’ of English football was in order. The round leather game was and is still the national passion. Every available space is a football arena and the lingo of the game is unique to the locale. ‘Goal posts’ are pieces of stone or any other available objects and many a mama’s children had gone home after ‘sets’ with a black eye because of the elastic ‘over stone’ phenomenon. Inter street football show of strength usually came to a violent finale with ‘ten minutes for olomokuya’-a do or die affair, whereby any injury inflicted, is free and fair. Tobi, a promising son of the neighbourhood matron hid such an injury from his widowed mother, gangrene set in and a young flower withered before blossoming.
Our absentee landlord was a devout Muslim and hardly an Islamic festival passes without the entire tenant population being treated to the ‘appropriate’ delicacies. Our father, though a nominal Christian would return the compliments during Christian festivities. The annual ‘Egungun’ festival generates more excitement than the Christian and Muslim equivalents. The tales of supernatural feats of disappearances and diabolical incantations would make D. O. Fagunwa’s tales of Yoruba fables. Oloolu, Atipako, Abidielege, Alapansapa, and their terrestrial cronies filled our days with real dread than the remote ‘vaporisations of our Sunday school teachers. ‘C’, the son of a minor clergy followed one of such masquerade processions: nothing special about that, excepting the minor fact that he abandoned the Sunday school session being conducted by his father.
After all had been said and done, the annual ‘pilgrimage’ to ‘Father Christmas’ was the highlight in a crowded calendar of highlights and major events in our carefree existence. The teachers’ rods and the tyranny of ‘homework’ are in abeyance and the entire neighbourhood is in a joyful and celebratory mood. The tailors and seamstresses had come and gone after taking their ‘measurements’; shoes and other accouterments of the festive period were bought by our parents and the deafening explosions from the detonations of toy pistols and ‘bangers’ filled the airbrushing aside all thoughts of a peaceful siesta by the elders. The universal refrain from the urchins was that we were beyond the reach of the law because we were celebrating Christmas.
The visit to ‘Father Christmas’ in the old man’s reliable Peugeot 403 was an annual operation conducted by the family in batches. The entire ‘Kingsway’, UAC/American USIS complex and the Cocoa House ‘wonder’ puts up the appearance of the neon suffused Las Vegas atmosphere. We ascend a stepped lift to the first floor where we embark on a short train ride to the grotto of ‘Father Christmas. The mysterious man received us in his guttural and growling voice and dispense gifts worthy of his name and the genuine awe we held him. None of your present day ‘Papa from Rome’ with his ‘made in Taiwan’ fake gifts palmed off to kids, some of who dump them the moment they are out of the impostor’s presence. Now, they even have itinerant ‘Father Christmas’, imploring the kids to pay a visit-on the move-so to speak. Now, what manner of ‘Father Christmas is this?
Like the 24-hour cable television, the Internet would have been pure science fiction in our time. Now, the kids have unprecedented opportunities to broaden, educate and enjoy themselves. What does a child need after a decent parental care than these? Nevertheless, what do we have on our hands? All the gizmos of the present age are deployed by the youths and sometimes their teachers {at board examinations} to cheat at examinations. A visit to an internet site is not for the pursuit of legitimate knowledge, but ingenious attempt to defraud unsuspecting victims some of who deserved their just deserts. At present, there are five cybercafés lining the Potemkin like facades of dilapidating structures in the neighbourhood, and I have the sneaky feeling that the operatives of the EFCC would make a bountiful haul if they make an uncomplimentary visit.
I had an illuminating conversation with a guardian of one of the students attending Omolewa Nursery School situated not far away from the Salvation Army School, a public school institution. We used to ‘mix’ things up with the kids around the Salvation Army/Igosun axis on the playing ground owned by the police authorities at the time. This guardian showed me the ‘list of books’ and the extortionist, nay criminal fees hapless parents/guardians are forking out on a quarterly basis in order to give their wards ‘qualitative’ education. My eyes were riveted on the ‘list of books’ and studiously avoiding the ‘essentials’ list itemized; as far as I am concerned, the choice of any school is a voluntary one and I made the perfunctory noise about the high cost of things these days including ‘qualitative’ education.
I observed with deep sorrow and regret that the assembly line production of half baked, parrot-like kids for secondary schools continue in blissful ignorance of the needs of the kids in their lives. Where are the books that fire the imagination of youths and kindle the spirit of respectful inquiries and childish but profound curiosities? “Treasure Island”, “Tom Sawyer”, “Huckleberry Finn”, “David Copperfield”, “King Solomon Mines”, the fabulous stories of D.O. Fagunwa are no longer standard fares in our schools. Few of my generation will not forget in a hurry the quixotic of “Abdul”, {tea without sugar} a cunny and deep character featured in our ‘Oxford Education English’ series nor the perennial and dubious antics of Mr. Tortoise and Yannibo, his long-suffering wife.
I acknowledge with pleasure and marvel that the ‘iledi’ of the Reformed Ogboni Fraternity {ROF} is still rooted in its seemingly ancient location. You have a feeling that they have been there since the dawn of time. A vagrant of the times, Oledarun to all and sundry and a favorite of the children because of his non-violent disposition was believed to have had his ‘head turned’ for divulging the secrets of the Fraternity whilst a leading member. Oledarun was never taunted or molested by the children despite the violent invectives against passers-by from his kolanut tainted variegated teeth when awake, for Oledarun was a great sleeper, once causing a veritable stir when he seemingly resurrected after a 24-gour motionless repose when everybody thought he had given up the ghost.
The nomadic nature of Oledarun’s disposition made him a favorite in the vast neighbourhood and his semi-permanent spot was a giant tree in the Yemetu. boulevard extending from Total Garden, terminating at the Agbadagbudu area of the city. Where is the stagnant and muddy lake that gave Agbadagbudu its forbidden and intimidating reputation? A stone’s throw from the now extinct lake was the stable of the ‘Nigerian Tribune’, then in a pioneer ‘guerilla’ journalism against the powers of the day as the politics of the day was a do or die affair where the winner took all. And the patron of the stable and his followers were on the losing side.
A narrow path {now overtaken by a concrete jungle} led the unwary sight-seer to the government forestry reserve of Igbo Agala. The forest conjured up the images of gnomes and ethereal spirits in D.O Fagunwa’s fabulous stories. A sickly classmate of ours who had Igbo Agala as his contact address was an object of fearful and covert inspection. We were not surprised when it transpired that his father was a powerful ‘medicine man’ and a masquerade to the bargain. The forest sealed its fearful reputation as an ‘evil forest’ when the beheaded corpse of a stunningly beautiful woman {dubbed ‘orekelewa’ by the tabloids} was discovered in the forest and the gory picture splashed in the newspapers.
I visited the forest reserve in the late seventies. The intention was to have a quiet afternoon at the historic Bower’s Tower and enjoy a panoramic view of the city of Ibadan as famously described by the poet J P Clark ‘a city of shining metal-roofs in the tropical sun’. Pentecostal churches dotted the dusty landscape to the eminence of the hill and hard-pressed citizens had denuded the famous and forbidden forest reserve of its prized trees during the perennial fuel scarcities that had been the lot of the citizenry. The base of the Bower’s Tower memorial and its surroundings had been taken over by miscreants and a lively and thriving trade in hard drugs was in progress. The anti-drugs enforcement agency must be on a suicidal mission to visit the area in order to apprehend the miscreants and their customers. A brazen attempt to dispossess me of my backpack was thwarted by a character who warned the ‘rats’ to steer clear of me since I did not have a cop signature written over my face. My ‘protector’ warned me in an unambiguous tone to avoid the area before nightfall for my own health. Though informed that the whole area is now clean and could now pass off as a tourist zone, I deferred a visit to the area indefinitely.
I have been accused of being afflicted with the historians’ malady of living intensely in the past and of being a glutton for raking up painful memories of the past. I retraced my steps back to ‘our’ Yemetu and decided to end the bitter-sweet journey with a ‘cool down’ at a palm wine shack not far from the new abode of the ‘Borokini’ club. Any hope of information from the present clients of the palm wine shack about the past proved abortive as they were, in manners of speaking of another generation who are living intensely for the moment.
I settled my bill and walked out of the shack out of sorts with myself and the old but not forgettable past. My thoughts went involuntarily to Oledarun and his tragic end in a watery grave. Grandpa said his only visible activity was eating and that if he had his way, he would not mind being spoon-fed. Oledarun perished in one of the deluges like the rainfall that continued to wreak havoc in the city and it seems as if a permanent solution to this recurring tragedy is beyond our so-called rulers. Oledarun, the so-called rulers, and the insurmountable seasonal deluge is a powerful metaphor of the way we are.
