BEGGAR IN BUCCA

(This is a fictionalized account of a true life story. Enjoy reading.)

Esther would definitely not treat me like this. Yes, she wouldn’t. She would surely use her sixth sense. But for this feminine stature who stood before the waitress, I am sure, had never had a taste of any sense, not to talk of the sixth one. She ordered her plate to be filled without discretion and sobriety. She had no pity on her guy’s pocket. Whatever that means. ‘Add this’, ‘add that’, ‘put two’ and ‘put three’, were the only words I heard. I sat close to the counter.

Esther was a priceless jewel. Her manners were celestial. She never made any one regret the kind actions shown to her. If I ever took Esther out to eat, she wouldn’t make me as uncomfortable as this girl did to her sober looking friend who sat few meters away from the window. The window had a dusty mosquito net that partially covered it.

She moved her legs in excitement, poking her head at the sound of the tweets that exuded from the television. The innocent boy who was initially on cloud nine, now had a doleful look; like an officer who had just been deployed to a terrorist infested zone. His face were squeezed like the underneath of a banana leaf. Hmm pity. The same tweets from the television that made the girl danced were like a prelude to a scary movie to him.

Maxwell, Fegor, David and I had come in some few minutes ago to fill our belle when we met this money-gulping-young-feminine inflicting literal holes on this young boy’s pocket. The boy now took to a thinking position as he stretched his legs and placed his heavy head on his hands. I am sure, thinking of the next fairy tale to tell his parents so he can replace his self-looted funds.

A wall clock which had lost its function was hung closed to the plasma television. The television repeatedly advertised the branded cow-bell milk. A cow would run from one end of the field to the other. This made me wonder, why would a milk meant for humans be named ‘cow bell’. What happened to ‘human-bell’?

Around the door post inside the restaurant, were empty sachets which constituted environmental nuisance. But nothing bothers these hungry customers more than the quantity of the food served to them. Many students had spoken so well about the food served in this restaurant and how benevolently the restaurateur serves her food into customer’s plate no matter how small an amount they proposed to buy.

My friend David, had always complained that I never knew how to cook. Adding that, only God would save me from poisoning myself. He had even renamed one of the sumptuous noodles I prepared for him on a Saturday night as ‘indomie-pepper-soup-tea’. Stating that the noodle tasted like the concoction an herbalist made for him when he was having stomach trouble in the village.

“I will come on a particular day to taste the chemicals you call food”, I would say in reply to his ungrateful remarks. So there. Today, we were all supposed to eat David’s own preparation. Instead, he took us to this cheap restaurant. Canny. Never mind, we had to follow him because all that mattered was for us to get our belle filled.

We had to wait for the queue. By the time that young girl in front was done adding all the additives, she was heavily armed with a plate of rice, two boiled eggs, salad,  three fishes, the thigh of a young chicken and a Malta Guinness which would help decongest her esophageal traffic.

“These same girls are the ones who would insist that they are watching their weight”. Fegor whispered.

It was now David’s turn to buy his ration.

“Good evening Madam”, David saluted the waitress. She stared at David shabbily as if he was a regular beggar who had come to ask her for the favor of consuming the left overs. It was already some minutes past 9pm hence she wouldn’t be hypothetically guilty if she had suspected him that way. Hunger was practically written on our faces and our smile were stale and expired like politicians who had just lost an election.

David was very dark. Yes, as dark as the content of the branded black shoe polish, Kiwi. He was darkly black to the extent that, when he speaks from a dark room at night you may conclude that you are hearing from a Kabbalistic force. You may not be able to discriminate his complexion from the dark surrounding except for when he smiles. His teeth were the direct opposite of his complexion. He usually gesticulates with his right hand whenever he needed to say anything worth listening to. He was relatively short, relative to Maxwell. David was the magic behind our visit to this ‘filling’ station. He was to sponsor our feeding.

David stood for a few more seconds trying to draw any sane meaning from the stale stare of the waitress. He finally ordered his meal and went to his seat to feast. I then stood up to request mine. Even if I was not to pay for my feeding expenses, I had to apply common sense as this was the first time I patronized a public restaurant.

“Give me rice, white rice”, I had to specify the color because I never wanted the red colored type of rice many students usually mistake for the copyrighted jollof rice.

“Is that all”? She questioned with a galling tongue.

“Yes ma”. I barely spoke out of myself. Her question came as an indication of dissatisfaction. She wrinkled her forehead at the sound of my answer.

She had surely expected me to buy as much as every of my friends had bought. Her face looked like those dusty harmattan stricken sign post. She massacred her erect ears with holes, adding a jangling metal in each orifice. Her lips were round and apparently soiled by the red paint that overshadowed the naturally brown color. Her wrapper could barely go round her waist. She was corpulent.
She looked at the pot with bland eyes, her eyelid made as if she was about to fall asleep. Her scarf was loosed at the left side of her head which made her like those partially literate house helps who never go anywhere except at the order of their mistresses. She held the spoon with her right hand with a speck of stew in it and with protruding lips she asked, “Do you want any meat”?

I made as if I observed the pot for a very sizeable meat. She then raised her head to reiterate her question in silence.  This time her face got more livid.

“Oh, that’s all”. I replied seemingly unconsciously. She then, stirred the momentous pot of stew and added a little of it around the rice. The stew was golden colored and tempting, I then imagined if it was this same color of preparation Fegor had confessed he stole ‘solid materials’ from at age five.

“All your friends added either a meat or an egg”. She said exposing her brown set of incisors. “Please, that would be all”. I replied with a straight face. I really needed her to stop talking, else, she bath my food with extra spice. She was mouthy.

Before I could start eating, Fegor has halved his plate, while David and Maxwell had already ravaged theirs, they would have been very much innocent if eating in this restaurant was a crime. The food had a bland taste. From the taste, I sensed that it lacked many essential cooking ingredients. The only fact I was happy about was that the food was not bitter.

Just then a boy walked in with a partially tucked in shirt. He looked unkempt. He barely passed through the already opened door without disturbing its hinges. His eyes were crimson red. He was a long pointed nose figure and his height matched his trousers. He had a blank face, the kind of expression a convict usually have on his first day in prison. His student Identity card flickered from his right pocket.

He made a few unsteady steps to the woman in front and spoke to her in low tones. After which, he went to an empty table with a single wrap of fufu and soup in another plate. In split seconds he was done with the content. He then bent his head over the table and made as if he was trying to say his prayers.

After a while, the waitress went to the young lad and asked for his legal tender.

“How much is my fee”? The boy asked with his eyes wide open. His eyes drew emotions from my amygdala.

“Your fee is just fifty naira”. She replied. There was now silence. Loud silence that could deafen. The silence was broken by the ceiling fan which spun round and round and sounded like a faulty generator, and the never ending cow-bell advert breezing out of the television.

Making an attempt to stand up, he stuttered. “Mama….”

I could see watery fluids gathering in his sclera. He now looked downward, maybe to evoke sympathy.

“Please Ma... I would help you wash your dishes, I don’t have the money to pay”.

“Then why did you come to buy food”? The woman replied in a raised tone. Another episode of silence enveloped the room.

“This is the second day nothing had entered my stomach. I am a 100 level student. My roommate who have been helping me with food had said his foodstuffs were running out hence he could no longer help me. I am from Kwara state and immediately I packed to school my mom fell sick while my father was retrenched. I don’t even know if I would be able to continue my education”. Tears dripped down his face to the empty plate on the table. I had to look away to avoid crying too. It was pathetic.

“Please Ma”, he continued and made as if he would kneel.

“I would wash all your dishes for the next two days to pay for this meal”. He stretched his hands and moved his palm together as if he washed them under a flowing tap, his voice now sounded very slow and disjointed as the crying made it very difficult to understand what he was saying.

But all those pleas fell on deaf ears. “How does that affects me? Huh? Give me my money jare” she queried. Her hands were now on his shirt.

But Maxwell quickly came to his rescue. He successfully separated the boy from the woman’s grip and then paid for his food. Everyone in the restaurant contributed a certain amount for the student that would at least last him till maybe his parents recover or till he finds another Maxwell who could pay for his food.

Where someone ate in excess another had no money to pay for his food. Always help others when you can. Try to be a star in someone’s sky!

LETTER TO JONATHAN

Dear President Jonathan,

It is no longer news that you lost your re-election bid. Although it was a painful loss, yet a necessary one. Necessary because the peaceful co-existence of the Nation depended on it. The masses made their choices and with their voters card they voted. They voted you out. But, Mr. President this is not the purpose of this epistle. I saw it necessary to write to you, not because you lost but because you conceded defeat.

Leaders like you are difficult to come by. Especially amongst Africans. Africans are always known to be power grabbers. They serve as dictators and are usually resistant to change. This was evident in Ivory Coast. You proved otherwise. You congratulated the winner before INEC did. Hence, you immortalized the words of the great author, Leroy Eames which says; "A leader is one who sees more than others see, who sees farther than others see, and who sees before others see." You saw the land sweep by the opposition. Even though you didn’t see it before others did. At least, you saw it. That was nonetheless heroic.

Just as the Holy book asserted, “Flee from every appearances of evil”; many were ready to flee Nigeria. They saw the country as a stock load of explosives ready to detonate. You changed all that. You made all the political prophets who had prophesied doom for this country bury their head in shame. You helped our democracy gained buoyancy and international relevance.

You showed patriotism in its best act even if it didn’t please some of your aides like the now popular Godswill Orubebe. Just as my mentor, Gilbert Alasa crooned; “You owe yourself a duty; to be truthful to your belief, your inner self, no matter whose horse is gored”. You acted the truth. Even if it crippled Orubebe’s horse.

You had put all your fanatics and fire spitting irascible supporters at bay. Your congratulatory message to the president elect was actually a congratulation to Nigerians. It was a sign that we could still go on with a one Nigeria. You shocked Nigerians by your exemplary display of statesmanship. It shocked the World and most intriguing, it shocked me.

Mr. President, many students were prepared for another session of forced academic holiday. They thought the chaos from the election would make Universities shut down. Our schools were deserted. They thought the election would breathe down fire and brimstone on us. But they were disappointed. It was a good disappointment. This was the kind of disappointment we all longed for. But we were starved of it. We needed to be disappointed about the reality of the Boko haram insurgency. We were not. Instead, every bomb blast reminded us that they were a predicted reality. Sir, all these led to the final disappointment-- your election loss.

Mr. President, I grieve for your loss. I seriously do. I loved your mantra, your control and style of leadership. Where others saw trouble or looming danger you saw hope. I campaigned immensely for your re-election. Although, not immensely enough to convince my parents and my siblings. I must apologize for that. Each time I tried to convince them to vote in your support, they expressed grieve for series of unpaid allowances. They called it ‘hazard allowance’. They told me that, if that money had been paid, they would have not been under the plight of an overbearing landlord.

Anyway, I was not deterred. I continued campaigning for you. I tried to convince others. But, I found it more difficult to convince anyone better than my friends did for your opponent. They won supporters by just the shout of ‘change’. I had to engage every individual I met in a long documentary of the works you have done. Most of them seemed so comfortably tucked in under the duvet of their stereotypes. They couldn’t bear any dissection from their misconceptions or flawed generalizations about you.

That made me wonder, why was it hard to convince the masses for your re-election?

The answer, of course, was not farfetched. You were surrounded by bad marketers. They could not sell you to the public. You did so much yet we knew so little. You were surrounded by lip lickers, egregiously mouthy individuals who needed your office for show of glamor and affluence. Pity. They heard from the masses and gave you wrong messages. They also, heard from you and gave us a wrong directives. They were political hangers on. Instead of campaigning for you they were busy throwing without caution, outrageous expletives at your opponent.

Surely, those hideous comments that came from your campaign speakers exhibited a rare form of intolerance and bigotry that should never be allowed in the 21st century. I was really disheartened that we have become a generation that cannot throw jibes at each other or sustain simple civilized debate without resorting to ‘naked’ insults. I was truly shaken by the effusion of animosity over this matter.

Many also said you were herbaceous. And that, you didn’t have the gusto to lead this country. Anyway, that was their opinion. Let us watch on Mr. President, as someone who does has this ‘gusto’ takes charge. Those who accuse you of lassitude, do not know the power behind the adage; ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown’.

Journalism had flourished during your tenure. I hope the incoming government do not have any reason to interfere with its growth. I would surely miss your smiles and your humility. You cared for the next generation, which reminded one of James Clarke’s words; “The difference between a politician and a statesman is that a politician thinks about the next election while the statesman think about the next generation.”

Even in defeat, you re-iterated; “No body’s ambition is worth the blood of any Nigerian”. That was wow. If only your opponent had learnt how to make such statements during all those times he lost. Then, we wouldn’t have lost those dear Youth coppers during the 2011 post-election violence.

I also heard all your friends have deserted you. Not to worry Mr. President, I, Ezekiel Efeobhokhan would always remain your true friend. Come rain or shine.

Finally Mr. President, I want to sincerely ask, that you ensure a smooth and peaceful handover ceremony. I believe you can replicate the statesmanship you displayed during the collation of the election results. Call your troublesome supporters to order. God bless you as you do so.

Welcome back to being a follower. Let us watch on as APC leads. I sincerely hope you assist the incoming government in every way you can.

Yours friendly,

Ezekiel Efeobhokhan.