When I was in Jos, I was in love. And when you are in love the world looks like it has been fresh-painted in new colours. Every new morning is an adventure, every night a passport to dreams of bliss.Your heart beats faster at the stray memory of a smile, and if it was on a day you got to make a phone call, in those days of super expensive Econet and MTN, well, let the angels play with their toys in Eden all by themselves, you were already in a euphoric paradise. I was a corper then, salt of the earth. My duties at the Bukuru Local Government Council ranged from light to non-existent, so I was free to indulge my bent for pro bono work at the Legal Aid Council, run then by the sweet-natured Mrs Adams.It was at Jos Prisons that the gates of a penitentiary first slammed shut behind me, in company of Eddy Henshaw as we went interviewing awaiting trial prisoners. We heard stories to make your blood boil, other stories that made us collapse in helpless laughter at the endless foibles of man. If theres one perk I appreciate in the brutal work schedule a busy trial lawyer must take on, its the opportunity to poke your nose in all sorts of shady business that you know your client would never tell another soul. High courts, magistrate courts, rickety poultry-farm-like area courts, we toured them all, conveyed on high-speed achabas (okada to you unenlightened southerners) ridden by reckless juveniles who didnt look to be more than 12. They crashed. A lot. There was a special ward at Jankwano dedicated to motorcycle cases referred to JUTH. When we did enter the taxis, I got a shock. They were so cheap. And the passengers were so polite! The first time I entered a taxi and I was greeted by the passengers, I recoiled instinctively. Do recall, I lived in Lagos, which prima facie raises a presumption of the insanity that rules supreme there. The Berom, among whom I lived, were such restful folk, the unhurried rhythms of life reflected in the elaborate greetings with which they addressed each other in their morning encounters. Theyd go on for minutes on end; sannu, sannu, na gejiya, yaya jiki, yaya sayni, sannu, sannu da aiki.....it reminded me of my mums village (okay o, town) in Owan, Edo State. I didnt get it twisted though. Beneath the elaborate courtesies and easy-going run of daily existence, deadly tensions were seething. The indigene/settler conflicts, the christian/muslim animosities had already boiled over in a maelstrom of hellish madness a year before I got there. Atrocity stories were told me by my friends that still make me shudder. Terminus Market was a burned-out hulk when f first saw it. In court one day I saw an architectural drawing of that ultra-modern market in all its glory, and I understood why Solomon Lar is said to have wept when he heard of its destruction. But we were a carefree bunch, we corpers, in spite of the close shaves some had in the outskirts of Jos when intermittent violence did boil over. With Eddy and my old course-mates from LASU we tramped around town every chance we could. West of Mines with its mouth-watering suya nights and three day weekends was a favorite spot. I lived in Dadin kowa, not far from the young pastor Paul Folorunsho-roberts and his family, but most of the time Id be found at Eddys crib close to State CID where he was serving. His flat was a sort of way-station for all the corpers of our acquaintance who were serving outside Jos and had come to visit town. We shared everything; food, sleeping spots, money, and when all the girls assembled for weeks on end Eddy and I would have a right good laugh at the thought of scandalised neighbours wondering at the frightful goings-on in that supposed den of iniquity. I figured Jos was actually not such a big town, just far-flung over long distances because of its rocky terrain. Big or small, it was a beautiful place. The colonial settlers, enamoured of its temperate climate, had left their mark on its architecture and landscape in Anglo Jos, Rayfield, Millionaires Quarters. The police barracks were build of blocks that will still be standing when our more modern post-independence substandard structures are crumbling to dust. I toured Bukuru market, Gada Biu, Farin Gada, scouting for business opportunities to to cut my entrepreneurial milk teeth on. Id decided already that I wanted to settle in Jos to farm after my legal career was over, and Id pick our vet friend, Lanres brains for ideas on fish farming and cattle ranching every chance I could. Lanre could talk! especially after we found we had a mutual friend in Said Kay Lawal when he was in UI. The funny Kay stories never got old, even now. Nor do the memories of Oyetola Oluwafemis weird principal at the law chambers where she served. Nor of Chinelos droll tales of attempting to dodge farm work at her aunt Major Mwanyas house - I mischievously always referred to her as Major Mmanya. The maddest of the lot were definitely Maudlyn and Yomi, and Yomi couldnt hold a candle to sharp-tongued, devil-may-care madcap Maudlyn that year in Jos. We beat Cameroun that year, at the Nations Cup where Jay-Jay Okocha curled in a sweet free-kick to score the 1000th goal of the tournament. The whole town danced in the street to Sonny Nnejis Face Me I Face You when we trounced the loathed Camerounians, for once unable to rely on refereeing ojoro to steal another victory off us. Efosa was ecstatic, and we all suffered when Osaze Odemwingie, the revelation of the Super Eagles that tournament, bungled the penalty kick that sent us crashing out against Tunisia in the semis. It was also in Jos we watched Otto Rehhagel guide an unfancied Greek team to the final of the Euros and win it against an emotional Portuguese team. I had wanted the Czechs to win it actually - I worshipped the perpetually running Pavel Nedved before I latched on to Gerrard - but it wasnt to be. Those were good times. Jos is more than a sports-loving town. It is sports mad, and if you went to the stadium early in the morning you would see a full complement of athletes, weightlifters and karatekas being put through their paces. Even in the cold, and Jos can be cold. My cousin Femi Bakare saw his first hailstones in Jos and ran around like a giddy schoolkid picking the ice cubes up in wonderment. I laughed at him. On his visits from Gombe where he was serving, we read everything we could lay our hands on, and he actually got me much closer to my flatmates at the corpers lodge. I was there so seldom I seemed like a guest when I did show up. I cant remember a day without laughter. With the cocky assurance of youth, I spent many evenings with pen and paper, drawing up detailed plans of how I was going to take over the world. It was in Jos I first bought an engagement ring, at TK Bridals How do you grow up in surroundings of such joyous beauty and still give yourself up to the blackest impulses of hell? How does it happen that the very elements of our cultures that humanise us: patriotism to clan, loyalty to our kith and kin, faith in the relationship we have with a supreme all-seeing Lawgiver who judges all our actions, are now the very things that rip us so violently apart and causes brother to murder brother? I dont know. And I cannot spare much time tonight for anguished problems as old as eternity. I just want to look at my memories of a Jos that once was, and I defiantly hold up the hope that that Jos will be again, that all the enemies of mankind afflicting its peaceful people will meet their just deserts in no long time. I just want to remember. There was a year I spent in Jos. In Jos I was in love.
Posted on: Tue, 20 May 2014 21:56:32 +0000
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