| GRIME |
 |
| Perspectives | ||||||||||
| Written by Oyekole Oyekola, A Nigerian in Nigeria | ||||||||||
| Wednesday, 29 October 2008 00:00 | ||||||||||
|
Coming back from a tiring day at work, Ifedayo could expect his door handle, keyhole and his foot mat to be smeared with a special whole new kind of dirt, and it was never the same colour or smell as the one he had to be wary of when climbing the stairs. And he was never, ever, disappointed. It was evident that the neighbours' kids used to come and ogle and glare at his desktop computer through the keyhole, jostling to see this immobile creature that was expatriate to the whole village of Agbepo, and their daily struggle always left their signatures behind. Grime. Dirt. Streams of mucus. Threads and streaks of matter from children who had recently given the latrine a handshake. Great. Ifedayo had been detailed to carry out his National Youth Service Corps program in Agbepo village as a means of giving back to the nation after concluding his undergraduate studies in Health Science and Technology at a renowned Southern University in Nigeria. He had not been aware of the fashion trends in the village, for the Agbepo village people were obsessed with grime, enough to make pigs turn green. At first, he was exasperated in disgust, but he consoled himself with the idea that the village had only advanced in fashion (because what-with upcoming fashion trends worldwide, to the tune of dressing scantily, wearing cut-jeans and rags, etc, who knows if dirt wouldn't be the in-thing by the year 2084?). For now, he just ignored the villagers and imagined they didn't exist. Imagination is such a futile human effort, he decided, as he stepped on a wrap of gooey stuff that someone had lost interest in. He went to the backyard, got a stone and carefully scraped off the eba stuck to his shoes. He returned to the front, inspecting the floor before making any footstep, and opened his door, wiping his hands on tissue paper afterwards. No use smelling his hands, he just had lunch and didn't want to vomit. He stepped into his clean room, possibly the only clean domain for a mile around. But clean, too, was a transient adjective, because under one minute his room was flooded with kids who didn't wash, or if they did, must have done so with the sort of water that is native to drainages and trenches. Amidst the strong wave of stenches, he heard "Welcome COPPER ! What have you bringed to us today?" as they struggled to show the efficiency of the little village school. So he opened his bag and shared sweets amongst them. Of course, he had to pick up the wrappers after they had left. Not only that, but he needed a once-over on the room with his broom and hard-brush to eliminate the clods of soil that they had embedded in his carpet, originating from the soles of their feet. He needed a bath. Then he found out that two or three of the kids had wiped their hands on his towel. The substance was blackish-green, but it had the constitution of okra seeds. His heart sank as he folded the towel and threw it in the laundry basket. Armed with his face-towel, he went outside and picked up his bucket beside the door. Without any enquiry or evaluation, he knew it was smeared with kernel oil, and had some kitchen liquid waste. It also had some sputum generated from the household's chewing sticks. He needed no soothsayer to tell of it, this was an everyday routine practice. Taking the bucket and some soap, he went to the riverside, encouraging himself to endure it all. He had almost one year to go, of which he had spent less than a month. The wind was very strong and the trees swayed in a rhumba dance. Tiny drops of water hit his face. It wasn't going to rain. One of the young men walking in front had spat in the wind. As he turned the final road bend towards the river, he saw, and he stood still and stared at the paragon of beauty. But this was a picture to drink in, because she was truly beautiful. Lips, Hips, and Fingertips. His brain said he was crazy to call an Agbepo woman beautiful, but his heart hastily overruled that objection. Quickening his stride, he decided that if she used very good clothes, she would beat the last five Miss Nigeria Beauty Queens hands-down. "I must be dreaming. Let me make the best of it while it lasts", thought Ifedayo. He sincerely hoped she couldn't hear his amplified heartbeat. That clinched the deal. This chic had a voice like crystals in waterfalls, creating a dizzying sensation, and she spoke very good fluent English with a mouth-watering accent. The goddess snapped her fingers at his ears and waved her hands in front of his face, saying "Hello! Anyone home?" "How did you know my name?" A young man suddenly ran round the corner, got to the riverside, and oblivious to the presence or existence of any other entity at the riverside, he picked up a half-eaten loaf of bread from the dumps. Dancing from side to side, with sweat massaging his face, the young man split the half-loaf in two and crouched to make an unholy sandwich. He stood up feeling relieved and tossed the newly-packaged fish-snack into the river. Adeshewa giggled playfully and pointed at the young man, but Ifedayo didn't seem to notice; he was trying to control his mind from entering the physical realm and doing a wild jig, as he stood beside Adeshewa in her brand-new swimsuit, ready to teach her to swim. He spread his arms wide apart and carried her on his back. Feeling her rapid heartbeat against his strong back, he began the swimming demonstration; stroking and wading through the polluted waters...the many waters that the wise King Solomon said cannot quench the power of love. THE END Share this article on your favorite Social Bookmarking websites
Powered by !JoomlaComment 3.26
3.26 Copyright (C) 2008 Compojoom.com / Copyright (C) 2007 Alain Georgette / Copyright (C) 2006 Frantisek Hliva. All rights reserved."
|
