Is This Your Face?: Speaking My Name In Another Tongue

Yorùbá people calling my name has to be one of the things that amuses me the most.

The other day in the market, I saw a woman i knew from my erstwhile local church but she was far, three stalls away, chatting animatedly with a woman selling nylons for wrapping eba, in a certain way peculiar to Yorùbá women. I turned my attention to something else—a man with dreadlocks eulogising his rat poison as he dangled a dried rat in the faces of passersby. Yes, the woman was faraway, but I wasn’t in the frame of mind to exchange pleasantries too.

“Oyeka, seé ojú ree re? Mo sá n wo pé eni tó wo face mask yii jo Oyeka. Ah! O ti gerun e”, she shouted loud enough for all of the meat sellers section to hear her.

These people who take a word from another language and hammer it into a form fit to flow over their tongues

Here’s what she said :

“Onyeka, is this your face? I thought to myself that this person wearing face mask looks like Onyeka. Ah! You have even shaved your hair”

<No this is not my face, it’s a mask I wear occasionally and I left my hair at home>

I smiled, caught in that limbo between amusement and embarrassment. I just couldn’t get angry at these beautiful people. Beautiful who wear colourful dresses more than any other ethnic group, beautiful people who tread the path between diplomacy and deceit, beautiful people who drop their H’s and pick it up at random, beautiful people who call bread bùrèdí, beautiful people who call Enugu Enú ń gun, which literally means his mouth hurts him.

How could I be angry at them? How could I be angry at these people who call every Igbo person Omo ína— child of Nna?

These people who take a word from another language and hammer it into a form fit to flow over their tongues with river-like grace in a way suggestive of flexibility, rather than erasure. Ah, add indifference to flexibility, maybe laziness.

People who speak to you in their own tongue—you not speaking their language nonetheless—until the words begin to form in your mouth themselves. Until you begin to sing Lèke lèke bà mì lèke…when you see cattle egrets.

How could I be angry at them? How could I be angry at my own people? Does a little child get angry at his mother? If perchance he does, does he stay angry at her?

How Big Is The World?

In the beginning, there was the myth. Or was it the truth? The story goes that there were two men and two women. This was after Chukwu, the chief god woke up from his deep sleep and glanced around him. And every glance became a star. And the stars lengthened into nebulae, into galaxies and into vast stretches of light.

*Image from paradisepostblog.wordpress.com*

　　One day, the men asked one another, “how big is the world?”, but neither knew. That was why they asked.

　　In the beginning—this beginning, man had not come to serve objective truth. He plunged with unbridled passion into pools of mystery. Sometimes, he found his feet on alien dry ground. Other times, most times, he bobbed up and down, arms flailing in distress.

　　So, the men with their women— beings supple in form, firm of bosom and fair to look upon— decided to travel in opposite directions on a quest to find out how big the world is. Not before they put an udala seed beneath the earth on which they stood.

　　Each man travelled and travelled. Through lands of scorching suns, rivers of roaring rapids, lands of numbing ice, into the deep and into the wilds. Suns dimmed into moons, moons lengthened into seasons and seasons morphed into years.

　　Soon enough, on a certain day, each of these men saw a shadow in the distance. And as he got closer, the shadow became substance, and the substance was a crowd. As he beheld the crowd, he saw his partner, the other man of the beginning—now bent with age, with his woman—now a mass of bones and graying hair. But there were other things—other men and women—men thick in limbs and straight as arrows, women supple in form and fair to look upon.

　　Each man stood in wonder as he beheld the nation his friend had become, and rubbed the trunk of the great udala tree in bewilderment . Both were in awe of how majestic it was and in astonishment at how big the world is.

How To Push Someone Over a Cliff or Better Still, Make them Dash Their Phone On The Wall : A Short Exposé.

Chat them up.

Make the convo interesting. Discuss stuff with them. Let them open up and contribute to the conversation enthusiastically.
Continue that for the next five minutes.

Let them send one long ass message : probably about how they like you, how their day went,something interesting that happened to them, anything.

Just make sure it’s a long message whose subject matter is a thing of great importance to them.

As if in reply to the message, click on your message box and let your keyboard come up(of course, your data is still on). Drop your phone and go do something with your life : wash a dish, sweep a floor, anything.

All the while, typing… is showing on their side.

Do some stuff with your life a little more.

By now, it must have been about 25 minutes to half an hour that you’ve been away.

Come back, and reply with “k”

This was the reason why a high school student in California went to school with a revolver and shot a teacher, ten students and the girl he was crushing on. And that’s homicide, double homicide I think.

Alternatively, they might just smash their phone on the wall or jump over a cliff and come back to haunt you as “the Broken Bogeyman”.

You don’t know who needs to hear this, that’s why you should share it.