FOR THE LOVE OF EARTH

Chapter 4.

THE EXPERIENCES OF MULTIPLE PEOPLE, BOTH RELEVANT AND IRRELEVANT - AN ACCOUNT OF THE EVENTS THAT PRECEDED THE WORST DAY IN HISTORY.

SOLA
Some day, four or five years ago, a Nigerian man graduated from a HBCU with an irrelevant degree, an urge to “blow” and limited access to his father’s large coffers. That man has lived in comfort ever since.

“An African Reintroduction: Overturning and Undoing the Slavers’ Efforts.”
AROUSE for short took thousands of African- Americans each year on a life changing tour through sub-Saharan Africa.  The tour starts in Dakar, continues through Niamey, Cotonou and ends in Ibadan just in time for some Detty December in Lagos.

I didn’t hate the idea. The sight of people in Dashikis walking the streets hand in hand could bring tears to any Sap’s eyes. That is, if said Sap had not been stuck in traffic for the past hour.

“Get out of the road!” I screamed.

If I was not a welcoming person, I would have said worse things. That their ancestors were not here. That they looked more American than Nigerian. That if somehow, they connected with their ancestors, they would probably find that they were as relevant as the dirt they were buried underneath. But being Yoruba meant that I was to be at all times tolerant. It also meant that I knew where my ancestors were at all times.

For example, my Paternal Great grandfather Gbenga Babansala rests underneath his home in Ijebu-Ode, after refusing to be parted from the two storey building he had built with his sweat and bare hands. His son, Tade, was buried in Ikoyi cemetery, just five miles from where he had dropped dead after being told that his only son had run off with an unruly woman from Ibadan. The person that had told him this had been no other than his own Wife Remi. She would spend the next few years traveling to strange places, like Comoros and Luton, speaking loudly to anyone who would listen. It was not proper, most said, to look happier after your husband had died than when he was alive. Eventually, she died. She left two things behind: a note and a dilemma.

The note explained how she wanted her headstone to read:
“Oluremi Akala
1930-1999
Died from excessive enjoyment"

The dilemma was how my father and Aunt would retrieve their mother’s body from Papua New Guinea.

My maternal ancestors according to my mother were all quiet, unremarkable people. As such, they were all buried in Old Ife with quiet ceremonies and very few remarks.

Other than my parents (although I cannot regard them as such just yet), my only relevant ancestor is someone I know quite well. I know that she enjoys apples (the redder the better). I know that her favourite colour is blue and her favourite material is any kind that shimmers and shines.

I am so in tune with my ancestor that if you put a gun to my head and asked me to tell you were she was at the moment, I would get it in two guesses or less. Whether or not my head would be intact on the second guess is irrelevant.

Grandma is always at home. Most times she is in her room asleep. Rarely, she’s in the living room, sitting directly opposite the TV, eating or watching whatever show completely unamused.

At all times, Grandma is remembering, pulling memories from the deepest recesses of her mind, slowly and with much effort. Memories come to the forefront, often too late to be of any use. But sometimes, those memories come right on time and my ancestor remembers my name: “Olusola; Sola Mama; Sweetie pie”. Never has my name sounded as beautiful as when she calls it, holds my hand and asks me to sit with her.

Today, I made the decision to leave Grandma and Ibadan. To run back to Abuja and not speak of that place again. For the past year I’ve spent in hardship, I will spend another year in  one of  the air conditioned rooms in my father’s house. I will fill myself with food and drinks that I did not pay for until every memory of my failure is buried deep in my belly.
But first I must travel to and through Dugbe and find the bluest, gem encrusted lace in Ibadan to be presented to my ancestor in exchange for recognition.

This is how it is done, I thought — reverence. Not wearing Kente and singing Kumbaya.