FBI Is Thinking MAMA NO CRY AGAIN, I CHOP BLOOD AND COKE Tears literally flooded my face when I read the comments and birthday wishes of my facebook friends and fans. One said: “You are one of the most hilarious and captivating writers I have ever known.” Another said "You are the resurrection of Chinua Achebe..." It was so touching. Thanks and thanks to all my fans. I will never tire of saying thanks to my fans. I write for you. I pray that you reach into yourself and bring out something that will make the world celebrate you the way you celebrate me. Bring it out, package it, present it and watch the world go “Wow!” I say reach inside and bring it out... even if na excreta. Seriously, I got my first taste of celebrity status because of my shit! After my father’s death, life became miserable. We wallowed in penury. Mama struggled and toiled to fend for us. It was tough. Inspite of our lack, Mama insisted in raising us up with dignity. No child of hers will dare eat outside or eat trash because he is hungry. Come back home, let’s share the little we have or sleep hungry together. That was her creed. Those days there was something edible they make out of cow blood. They will take the blood after slaughtering the animal and sort of bake it. In my Mum’s dialect it is called “Alung ayam.” It is the foulest of things to eat. The few times I ate it, I hated it. But I always eat it whenever I had the opportunity because my Mum gave direct and specific instructions never to taste that trash. You know how all of a sudden the things our parents say we shouldn’t do become so appealing and tasty. One day I went to hawk mai-mai. I strolled into Abakpa Market with my little basin on my head. Business was good, so I decided to sit down and chat with some fellow kids who were also hawking. One of my pals bought a large quantity of this baked blood and we started eating. That one finish, we come begin to buy in turns de chop. Na our mama money o. Mtcheew. Wetin? Abeg, cheers to the good life. By the time we left that market, we had eaten enough cow blood to make us a herd of cattle. We left the market and continued the hawking. We happened upon a birthday celebration going on somewhere; we hung around there for a while. None of those birthday people were interested in our wares. But there were very nice; people are general nice during festivities. They offered us Coke. One full bottle of Coke each! Wow and wow! Mama say make we no chop for person house o. Abeg, abeg, abeg. I have been keeping this rule since na, but one full bottle of Coke all to me? Me alone? Who can resist this temptation? Certainly not me. I fell gladly. I got home. The next morning I was pressed. At 10, I had the freedom of doing it in the toilet or on a refuse dump in the outskirts of the compound. This morning, I chose to do it on the refuse dump. The refuse dump was close to a path leading to the river and Ofana Well. When on the refuse dump, you can see people coming and going to the Well and river, and they can see you too. I mounted the refuse dump and started defecating. My nyash and back was facing the path and my face facing away from those using the path. I was enjoying the sweet relief of expelling pellets of shit out of my anal cavity and totally lost to the world around me, when I heard a long scream. I got up sharply and turned abruptly towards the path in time to see my mother throw away the basin of water she was carrying and came running towards me. There was commotion. People came running towards her screams as she came running towards me. I didn’t wait for an explanation. I de craze? I took off. I knew I was running from her, but I didn’t know where I was running to. Somehow in the ensuing pandemonium, I ran into her. She clasped me tightly to herself and was screaming and crying. She was saying something about my shit and my death. The shit was under me, but I didn’t see it; meanwhile Mama has telescoped the shit from a distance. I couldn’t understand. They tried to calm her down and asked her what the problem was. She tried to explain, but her words were scanty, heavily overcrowded by punctuations of her sobs. But she managed to say something about the colour of my shit and the date of my death. They wanted to see for themselves. They lined up in a procession to view my shit. I believe that is the highest honour and deepest respect ever given to a human shit in history! What a shit?! When they get to where the shit was standing, they will fold their arms across their breast and shake their heads in surprise and sorrow, I was utterly flummoxed. What the heck are they seeing in my shit. I wriggled out of my mum’s grasp and joined the queue to see my shit. When I got there I saw a totally black mass of mess. I was initially shocked, but I remembered what I ate yesterday. Everybody was afraid. My mum was crying. She believed my Liver must be rotten for me to bring out such a shit. I stood there, with my nicker under my left armpit, my right hand lifting my shirt up a bit, exposing my 10-year old penis for public consumption and scrutiny. They turned my anus into a laboratory. They were investigating the contents and the container with clinical bravado, microscopic concentration and telescopic accuracy. They were crying. I stood there. At a stage I was convinced I was even death. I looked around. Maybe I don die o. I turned to one of the men investigating my anus “Uncle I don die?” “No you never die,” he assured me. I didn’t believe him. They were crying. More women don show. Some were crying soprano, some were crying alto, some tenor and others were crying bass. A sizeable crowd had gathered. The tourist attraction was my shit! What a shit! News was spreading fast about me and my shit. People were coming from everywhere to see us: me and my shit. Mama was still crying. I hate to see my mum cry. I knew why that shit was black, but nobody was listening to me. I know that if Mama found out what I ate, she will surely trash me. But I don’t care, I cant stand her crying like that. I moved close to her. She saw me coming, dragged me to herself, embraced me, still crying. “Mama no cry again, I chop blood.” I whispered. She did not hear. “Mama I chop blood!” She wasn’t listening. Nobody was. “Mama I chop blood and Coke!” She no hear. Mama only stopped crying and everyone calmed down when Dr Uguma confirmed me fit and sound. [Im gathering comments on my writing to help me negotiate a publishing deal. so please give your honest comments]
Posted on: Fri, 12 Jul 2013 08:12:41 +0000
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