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When We Made Men Page 3
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CHAPTER 3
Uncle Jimi
I stood still as the old man peered into my face, not like papa did. Papa looked into my face in a lifeless stare that hid no hint of his intense powers of observation. Papa’s stare was more like the way you would stare into the microscope in the laboratory while you tried to straighten out the alimentary canal of a housefly.
Quite fixed, little warmth but with plenty of concern.
This kind of papa’s stare could fit into any category from love to scientific observation of an animal ready for decapitation. I do not doubt my grandfather’s love for me, however, Uncle Jimi’s stare made it look like papa had wanted to choke me all along and Uncle Jimi was the kind stranger who came along and delivered me from papa’s grip with his enchanting smile and disarming grip.
A knight in smiling armour; brandishing with fearless abandon, the weapon that has endeared him to millions of Nigerian children.
His eyes were luminous, dark brown, almost watery and reflective like a cat. He had a short wisp of white hair, no facial hair, even and impeccably white set of teeth. He was dressed in native attire with diamond shaped red patterns on a white and yellow background. The dress was sown in a traditional native Yoruba style known as “buba ati sokoto” which consists of a quite large shirt and shorts that reached slightly beyond his knees completed by a matching traditional “fila abe eti aja” and black suede shoes. He immediately was the perfect model of a black Santa Claus. He was simply marvellous there, addressing me as alagba and I knew not how to respond to such magnificent greeting. I simply bowed, not saying a word all the while. The man’s grip relaxed considerably, obviously now sure that I wouldn’t be prostrating. That’s my grandson, I told you about’, I now heard papa’s voice sounding with a bit of glee as he obviously seemed to be watching us two. He had set up this meeting, to be a special treat for me and I was very proud of him. You couldn’t beat papa’s thoughtfulness, even if you tried a whole month thinking how to do it. Uncle Jimi simply smiled turning once again to look at me where I now stood close by my reading table. He caught a glimpse of my Alexandre Dumas novel and picked it up, looking at the title and laughed again. Holding the novel in his hand, he then said in a deep, thoughtful and sweet manner.
It’s easy to see the relationship. You both are physically twins. E da bi ibeji, the boy resembles you and obviously shares your ideologies and dreams of always saving the situation. He brandished the novel again at me saying, “this is probably your grandfathers biggest source of inspiration”, so I see you both have a lot in common.
“He likes fighting to save every situation, especially political ones” he said winking. Grandfather pouted playfully.
If we don’t save this country, our children will all die, either of hunger or poverty in the future.
“And also causes troubles while fighting his battles, hopefully you don’t”.
However, I wonder why I can’t find you reading Ogboju Ode ninu Igbo Irunmale, Igbo Olodumare or Ireke Onibudo. I can tell the man is a jolly old fellow and suddenly discovering I hadn’t said a word since his entrance despite the lovely banter and exchange going on. I simply screamed out loud “Uncle Jimi”. Though I had meant that to come out as a small greeting either acknowledging the man’s presence or registering my participation in the conversation but it did neither. It stopped the entire conversation and laughter altogether, chilling the room for a brief three seconds.
Noticing my error, I smiled sheepishly and Uncle Jimi got the cue and simply said, “Should I tell you a good story?”
Papa smiled at the man’s thoughtfulness, obviously seeing the first fruits of his plan coming out quite earlier than he anticipated just as the mango fruit grew ripe with the first rains of the year when children were still covered in large blankets. “That’ll be fine” papa said. Uncle Jimi simply walked to papa’s table and gave him a sheet of paper and said, “When we return, I’ll knock”. Papa simply nodded and escorted us to the door. I ambled along with Uncle Jimi and soon came to a door which had a simple but queer label. As I escorted papa through these passages from the car I see several doors with names on it, it’s either Dr. X or Prof. Y or something like that. In some extreme cases, we come across doors to a laboratory or studio or an unmarked door, like papas’. I know papa is a highly influential academic and would really not welcome the extra introductions that could draw more people to his office. But here we have a hole and it looked quite funny because the fonts didn’t even look ‘academic’, it was more like something out of Harry Potter.
GRIOT’S HOLE
I marvelled, wondering what was inside. Uncle Jimi brought out a key, slipped it in and turned. The door opened slightly and we entered a large space that I could least describe as breathtaking.
Uncle Jimi
I stood still as the old man peered into my face, not like papa did. Papa looked into my face in a lifeless stare that hid no hint of his intense powers of observation. Papa’s stare was more like the way you would stare into the microscope in the laboratory while you tried to straighten out the alimentary canal of a housefly.
Quite fixed, little warmth but with plenty of concern.
This kind of papa’s stare could fit into any category from love to scientific observation of an animal ready for decapitation. I do not doubt my grandfather’s love for me, however, Uncle Jimi’s stare made it look like papa had wanted to choke me all along and Uncle Jimi was the kind stranger who came along and delivered me from papa’s grip with his enchanting smile and disarming grip.
A knight in smiling armour; brandishing with fearless abandon, the weapon that has endeared him to millions of Nigerian children.
His eyes were luminous, dark brown, almost watery and reflective like a cat. He had a short wisp of white hair, no facial hair, even and impeccably white set of teeth. He was dressed in native attire with diamond shaped red patterns on a white and yellow background. The dress was sown in a traditional native Yoruba style known as “buba ati sokoto” which consists of a quite large shirt and shorts that reached slightly beyond his knees completed by a matching traditional “fila abe eti aja” and black suede shoes. He immediately was the perfect model of a black Santa Claus. He was simply marvellous there, addressing me as alagba and I knew not how to respond to such magnificent greeting. I simply bowed, not saying a word all the while. The man’s grip relaxed considerably, obviously now sure that I wouldn’t be prostrating. That’s my grandson, I told you about’, I now heard papa’s voice sounding with a bit of glee as he obviously seemed to be watching us two. He had set up this meeting, to be a special treat for me and I was very proud of him. You couldn’t beat papa’s thoughtfulness, even if you tried a whole month thinking how to do it. Uncle Jimi simply smiled turning once again to look at me where I now stood close by my reading table. He caught a glimpse of my Alexandre Dumas novel and picked it up, looking at the title and laughed again. Holding the novel in his hand, he then said in a deep, thoughtful and sweet manner.
It’s easy to see the relationship. You both are physically twins. E da bi ibeji, the boy resembles you and obviously shares your ideologies and dreams of always saving the situation. He brandished the novel again at me saying, “this is probably your grandfathers biggest source of inspiration”, so I see you both have a lot in common.
“He likes fighting to save every situation, especially political ones” he said winking. Grandfather pouted playfully.
If we don’t save this country, our children will all die, either of hunger or poverty in the future.
“And also causes troubles while fighting his battles, hopefully you don’t”.
However, I wonder why I can’t find you reading Ogboju Ode ninu Igbo Irunmale, Igbo Olodumare or Ireke Onibudo. I can tell the man is a jolly old fellow and suddenly discovering I hadn’t said a word since his entrance despite the lovely banter and exchange going on. I simply screamed out loud “Uncle Jimi”. Though I had meant that to come out as a small greeting either acknowledging the man’s presence or registering my participation in the conversation but it did neither. It stopped the entire conversation and laughter altogether, chilling the room for a brief three seconds.
Noticing my error, I smiled sheepishly and Uncle Jimi got the cue and simply said, “Should I tell you a good story?”
Papa smiled at the man’s thoughtfulness, obviously seeing the first fruits of his plan coming out quite earlier than he anticipated just as the mango fruit grew ripe with the first rains of the year when children were still covered in large blankets. “That’ll be fine” papa said. Uncle Jimi simply walked to papa’s table and gave him a sheet of paper and said, “When we return, I’ll knock”. Papa simply nodded and escorted us to the door. I ambled along with Uncle Jimi and soon came to a door which had a simple but queer label. As I escorted papa through these passages from the car I see several doors with names on it, it’s either Dr. X or Prof. Y or something like that. In some extreme cases, we come across doors to a laboratory or studio or an unmarked door, like papas’. I know papa is a highly influential academic and would really not welcome the extra introductions that could draw more people to his office. But here we have a hole and it looked quite funny because the fonts didn’t even look ‘academic’, it was more like something out of Harry Potter.
GRIOT’S HOLE
I marvelled, wondering what was inside. Uncle Jimi brought out a key, slipped it in and turned. The door opened slightly and we entered a large space that I could least describe as breathtaking.
The Heartbreak Diary