A Canon of Multiple Déjà vu The psychiatric doctor whose skinny body wouldnt have commanded any presence but for his probing eyes says to me: Hope you know why you are here. His eyes are searchingly fixed as if reading his reply in my face or reading something I am about to hide. I smile, shrug and reply him. My parents think my mind needs a sort of therapy for daring to cross the boundry imposed on us by those who think of us as apes. His impeccable eyes widen their scan on me before they finally narrow their search to my face. He is obviously amazed at the speed with which I reply him. I see. You, what do you think? I smile and say: I think my opinion doesnt count here. Its all up to you. So, you, what do you think? His big eyes roll like snooker ball. His right hand keep tapping his dusty table as he says: You need a change of heart. He walks into the inner room. His clownish movement and severely tied tuck in are fictional. I see him walk to a bed with a knife in his hand. A patient is laid on the bed and I could see him raise his weak hands as if in protest. He is trying to speak but is inaudible. I do not see it coming. He plunge the knife into the patients chest as blood draw red on his forehead down to his shirt. I am transfixed with terror. He is now coming towards me with the patients heart dripping blood on one hand, the gruesome knife on the other. I run out. He follows shouting: Catch him for me. My father and my uncle pursue me, grab me and pin me down. He gets to where I am and raises the knife to struck... I shout in horror, JEESUUS! I wake up sweating profusely. It is a dream: a meaningless absurd one. I pray, prepare for work and step out. I go down the staircase and open the exit door. The unpainted University Teaching Hospital wall opposite Okolosi building faces me with that selfsame expression: Poor man today, rich man tomorrow, the graffiti says. It was written by a school drop out. Any time he gets to the graffiti, he calls out the later part of the graffiti: Rich man tommorow. And thus it became his name. I walk down the street to Costaine Bus Stop and stand waiting for okada, the ubiquitous commercial motorcyclists. Across the street, Rich Man Tomorrow and a group of youths are feasting on their favourite breakfast: cannabis. A new motorcycle is parked beside them. One of them, a teenager, takes another puff of the cannabis and is on the new motorcycle. He crosses the street towards me and a thin line of smoke follows him. Where you dey go? He asks as he parks before me. His voice is cracked for a teenager. I dey wait for pesin, I lie. I can not imagine myself driven by a teenager who is also driven by cannabis. The teenage motorcyclist considers me for a while before driving back to rejoin their morning communion. A middle-aged woman emerges from a lonely, dirty street. She is dark in complexion and of average height. She has some kitchen wares on her head and a half-filled, black polythene in her left hand. Her right hand supports the wares on her head and sometimes, as the need arises, she repositions the child tied loosely on her back as she makes a careful leap up. When she gets to where I am, she stops. Without uttering a word, the child behind her thrusts an open palm towards me. I look at the hand. It is dirty and the childs body is unclothed. Could she be normal? And at this stage the child has already learned how to beg for alms. This is serious, I mutter. The woman refuses to look at me. She avoides my face as if it is a plague. Well, begging is now an art and every beggar has a unique angle to it. There are some who give it the musical angle where they form groups of choristers. Depending on the groups philosophy, they either sing praises of the person they are expecting something from, or they sing songs that remind the people of the religious benefit of giving. Now this woman and her child have added their own angle to the art of begging: no music, no words, only the powerful persuation of a small childs tiny hand begging from the back of a woman performed in a heart troubling tranquility. And my heart is troubled. Books say this country is blessed, but reality say we are cursed. As an administrative officer in the state Ministry of Agriculture, I only have my transport fare to the office in my pocket. An elderly okada rider appears on the scene. I flag him down and I am glad to walk away. Ministry of Agric, I offer. Hundred naira, he replies. I look at the man and feel sorry for him. He is obviously also driven by something. But unlike the first motorcyclist, this one is perhaps driven by his familys burden. This is a better risk, I decide. Seventy naira, I plead. Eighty, he says with finality in his voice. I climb the motorcycle and the man speeds off towards Ministry of Agriculture. I am with the commisioner when the messenger kill the commisioner with his message. Oga, dey don come oh... He announces. How many times will I tell you to stop rushing into my office with incomplete messages? The commisioner barks. Oga, sorry sir... The messenger apologizes. Who came? The commisioner enquires. EFCC sir. The man in the commisioner dies instantly. He suddenly turns pale. He tries to stand up but sits back. EFCC is an anti graft commission newly introduced by the present administration. To me, this anti graft commission and the introduction of mobile telephone networks are two of the most important achievements of the administration. I seriously love the idea of calling public office holders to book. This will grow iron hands and chock corruption to death. Call Accountant for me, he tells the messenger. Excuse me sir, I say and walk out. I meet them in the corridor on their way to the commissioners office. They all wore black suits and dark spectacles. They look scary: like action film antagonists. But I am not scared of them, my hands are clean. After a long while, the accountant comes out and confides in me. He says oga is in deep shit. I almost jump up in jubilation. Not that I hate oga, but it only means the war against corruption is being won. The masses will soon smile. I am going to the bank now,” he announces. What for? I ask in surprise. Oga has offered them three million each to make them keep quiet. I am going to make the transfers. This time, it is the man in me that died. I walk out of the office slowly and I start going homeward. I hate the job. I hear the primary school students opposite our office say the pledge: I pledge to Nigeria my country, to be faithful, loyal and honest... I used to stop any time I hear them say the pledge feeling proud to be a Nigerian. But today I will not stop. And I am not feeling proud to be a Nigerian. I pitied the kids. I hate Nigeria. Again comes their voices: ... and uphold her honour and glory, so help me God. Amen. You will need that prayer kids, I mutter.
Posted on: Sun, 01 Dec 2013 08:17:52 +0000
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