With
each day came great expectations, and with great expectations came great
disappointments but not with Sargent Wole Bamidele. Though not a God, all
expectations so far found their fulfilment in him. No suspects of any rank as a
police officer had ever slipped his watch. And none when being interrogated by
him had failed to spill the beans. It went beyond exaggeration to say he was
best in what he did, to the extent mates and citizens coined him the sobriquet
officer-no-failure. He had always been at the top of his game, his reputation
as ever followed him.
With
the same fragrance and dedication to fatherland Sargent Wole Bamidele made
ready for work after breakfast with her wife whom she married at the age of
twenty three. He married her dark-skinned, tight-bellied, and beautiful; but
now loose-bellied, dark-skinned nonetheless still beautiful—an aftermath of two
expulsions. Their kids did boarding and only came home at weekends which they normally
spent either at the beach or in a restaurant whenever he was off duty. Money,
as they said, answers all questions of life.
“So wetyn bin dey delay the delivery?”
asked a standing uniformed Wole adjusting his uniform before the mirror.
“Nothing wey me I sabi.” Chioma answered.
That
was the truth. She, Chioma, understood nothing of the delay. The only thing she
understood as a woman was trade. She was Igbo, and trade ran in the blood. Her
selling point being her insistence on communing with customers in pidgin
despite being impeccable in English as, as she would call it, an ‘alien’
language.
“I holla them, dem yarn say dem go deliver
tomorrow, say make I no vex.” she said.
Wole
shook his head in disdain. “You see:
na dis tin dey tire me for our people
matter,” he said, “imagine na after
dem collect money for person hand dem dey get problem on delivery. If person
act now, dem go talk oga police don come.”
“Abi, wetyn man pikin go do.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “carry my briefcase give me, mey I dey go
work.” Chioma handed the black briefcase over with a warm hug and a kiss
that sent Wole on his way.
Making
pidgin the official language came as what they in their own view called a
measure to preserve and nourish Africa heritage. To them, the burden of the
white’s man language was becoming unbearable. Too many rules to obey and
follow, too many confusion. Pidgin on the other hand made life simple: with a
simple act of inflection and a crisp intonation of cadence a speaker could
easily decide for himself the meaning he would give his words without clouding
the understanding of them. If life should be complicated, Wole had always said,
it shouldn’t be with language. Language should be as it was with Pidgin,
simple, usable, flexible and generally understandable.
Not
hesitating Wole hopped on his motorbike and zoomed off the compound. He
decisively took the mountain route despite the day to allow himself an eagle
view of the town which, of course, was somewhat a shortcut. The route, though
unarguably dangerous: a den of kidnappers and home to masked faces enough that
no villager plied it, it still, in all, didn’t deter him. No one, he thought,
can dim himself fit to waylay officer-no-failure. Little did he know and
understand as often said that death was no respecter of any man. And hoodlums
that plied the route were, in no uncertainty, death defined and personified.
But then, if bullet failed, jazz would never fail. In that lay his hope and his
strength.
Closing
in on the mountain Wole held his brake, pleasurably allowing himself a
pleasurable overview of the town that witnessed his birth and childhood. He sat
on his bike comfortably and allowed cool air to massage his hairy skin. Things
had really changed: the magnificent houses, the routes, the schools, all these
were not there the last time he took this route which was two years ago before
he joined the police force, which, to him, spelled much about the government of
the day. He imagined what God would feel like whenever he viewed the world from
above; it sure must be pleasurable. God himself knew he felt like spending more
time alone there, doing nothing but watching admirably how much the town that
gave him much had grown. But same, he knew he had to go; maybe one of these
weekends he would take a lasting look. So he started the bike and headed closer
toward the mountain, skillfully changing his gear as he approached the tunnel
which nature herself had dug in the mountain; it was a very long one that led
to continuums of thick bushes creased by what would be a tiny path. Atrocities
on this route either took place there or in the impenetrable thick bushes where
he was headed. Had Chioma known he would be plying the route, Wole thought, she
would not have allowed him. Things like that were better kept from women.
Better.
Few
metres into the mountain Wole felt what would be his phone rang in the small
apartment of his pocket where he kept it causing him to momentarily hold the
brake once more. The disturber as he muttered in his mind was Mercy, the DPO’s
daughter. They had only met once and for sincerity, twice. He hissed and would
reject the call when the memory of his last discussion with his boss came
bulging his mind.
It
was a Friday night and the DPO had scheduled a meeting with him in the Floral
Elite Hotel. Normally a person of his rank should be excited about a private
meeting with the DPO but Wole wasn’t. The event of the past days rendered the
flavouring a sickening aroma, taking the piquancy away. Him meeting Mercy
Orubebe the DPO’s daughter grounded the response of this indifference. His
meeting her was, as it turned out, the opening of the Pandora Box.
The
fateful evening witnessed Mr. Wole seated in a sofa with a glass of wine in
what would be the ever spacious visiting room of his boss, Francis Orubebe. He
had invited him to spend the evening with them given the reason the family
enjoyed his company the last time he came, and that her daughter had personally
requested he be invited to spend the evening with them again. Of a truth, Mr.
Wole as he would prefer to be called was more of a comedian than a Sergeant,
but the personal cliché suggested an underlined overtone which his sincere mind
waved off.
“Hope
you are not offended for keeping you waiting.” A lady of misleading appearance
said in bewitching voice as she joined him in the visiting room in a calculated
all the same enticing steps.
“Oh,
not at all.” Wole answered, cautioning himself not to wear those coy smile. He
couldn’t afford it.
“My
dad,” she said toasting her glass of wine, “told me about your achievements as
a police officer.”
“And
I must say,” she continued, “that I am really impressed.”
“O
really?” Wole said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say till he got some
confidence.
“Well,”
he said, “someone must do the job. As per the antecedents, what can I say: they
are nothing but courtesy of your father; he has been all the more supportive
and inspiring.”
Mercy
smiled in acknowledgment. “Well, that won’t be totally a lie given that my dad
had had this…what word… unrelenting spirit of a mentor since his Sergeant days.
However still, I believe nonetheless, it is your willingness and readiness to
serve fatherland that made you this successful giving the short years of
service. So, you should, pleasantly, take the credit for it.”
Nice
talk Wole thought before giving in to an irresistible indulgence crammed by a
short brief atmosphere of acquaintance. He was accessing her. Her pink lovely
lips, dark dovelike eyes, and her tits craning uncomfortably under her
cleavage. Her hips he imagined would be soft, tensed when touched by those
fingers. Not his of course, maybe her husband, boyfriend, whoever she gave
indulgence to. He went below, deeper in his imagination and then stopped. His
wife was once like that, beautiful, pretty and lovely but never sexy.
“Well, maybe. But I strongly believe it is not
yet time.”
“Anyway,”
he said, “why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”
Mercy
told him all about herself starting with her childhood where and where she
spent them. She told him about her age which betrayed her look—she was older
but looked younger. Her education, where and where she had them. The kind of
job she did, her likes and dislikes, favourites and past relationships. Her
fears, moments of joy, rarest shocks of life. Wole listened all through till
she was done. He felt somehow sorry about her past relationships.
“That
was very inhumane.” Wole said, surprised at his judgmental position.
“Well,
he left his mark. Love can be quite blind.” She smiled.
“Anyway,
my heart has healed: I’m moving on.”
“I’m
glad to hear that.” Wole said. “So, if I may, when is the wedding coming up?”
“Wedding?”
She laughed. “Not so fast. One don’t get burnt twice, not by the same fire. For
now, all I will need is a friend. Someone like you, perhaps.”
Events
of the early evening threw Wole into an internal conundrum. He didn’t quite
understand. Why him? He asked repeatedly. Why him! He didn’t like the idea of
the gods playing with him this way. A woman asking a man out was nothing but a
bad omen. Why would the gods seek his downfall! He didn’t understand. He had
done all the gods required. Mercy was too much an offer to be turned down—too
beautiful and lovely, yet they sent her to him. He still couldn’t
understand. Yes he was comely, but a
lady wooing a man, a married man for that matter was something he had not seen
before—in all these thirty years he had spent on earth. It could either be the
gods or the world was turning into something else itself. He had seen scarcity
of water plagued his town as a child, that of food as a student, of money as an
adult, of fuel as a Nigerian but never scarcity of men. Or, he thought, is
scarcity of men hitting Nigeria? Clearly enough, the name Wole didn’t sound
Jewish, in case one would assume the prophecy was all about him—the particular
one that spoke about seven women taking hold of a man to marry them. He was
really disturbed. If it were the gods, he would pay them a visit, but if it
were a question of the world changing, then there was much to be feared. Wole ended
up with a weary sigh. He would see his boss tomorrow. Something told him it
might be nothing but a staged drama.
The
messenger of dawn didn’t quite disappoint, it was as ever quick to break its
message which Wole barely waited for. So expected with the bottled soul
terrorizing obfuscating thoughts, the effects of which could have been lessened
had he shared what transcended with his wife last night. A problem shared, they
said, is half solved. But a more realistic Yoruba proverb made Wole wiser: such
things were not meant for jealous ridden hearts as women often had.
Getting
to the office Wole learnt the DPO was on a two day inspecting tour areas under
his jurisdiction which implied he wouldn’t be back in town until Friday. He
noticed the day Friday sounded in his ears ‘tomorrow’ as in the ‘leaders of
tomorrow’ when spoken by a Nigerian politician—it was never going to come. He
couldn’t wait, he knew, as the ‘big’ was becoming more difficult to contain
within instead, he pulled a call through to the DPO to see the chances of
scheduling a meeting. And within the first ring Francis Orubebe was on the
line.
“Hello
Sargent Wole.” Orubebe greeted almost generously.
“Good
morning sir.” Wole returned almost politely.
“Hope
all is going well over there.”
“Yes
sir,” he said, “all is going well.”
“That’s
good.”
“And
sir…” he said.
“Yes:”
“I
learnt you won’t be in office till…”
“O
yes, yes, yes…there have been of lately reports of officers collecting bribe on
our roads while some are becoming more unpunctual. So I have decided to do an
improvise inspection of reported areas. But hopefully I should be back in town
on Friday.”
“That
means, you won’t be available in office till Monday sir.”
“Monday
itself,” he said, “is not certain.”
“But
hope there is no problem.” He added, noticing the uneasiness.
“Not
really sir. Just wondering if there is any possibility of seeing you,
hopefully, on Friday. “Because,” he began, “there is a matter I will like to…”
“Mercy?”
The DPO cut in with no ajar.
“Yes
sir.” Wole answered in his lowest crescendo.
“Flora
Elite Hotel at 8 in the night.”
The
venue scheduled was to Wole an unknown place but somehow he managed to ask his
ways around. How he survived the last two days without spilling a word of what
transpired to Chioma remained a miracle to him. What however baffled him was
the DPO unsurprising mood. Was it a test as suggested by his mind, but it
couldn’t be a test; what shmuck in the world would set her daughter an object
of experimentation with a full grown man? That would be stupidly idiotic,
crass. But then, if the latter were true, he would then be in a bigger mess.
Because not only would his marriage be at stake but all he had built.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Tell us what you think.