Black Is the Colour of Envy (I)

FICTION I came back to Nigeria to find freedom; to take advantage of the ocean-wide impunity that define its environment. I thought I was right until I stood at the western precipice of the earth and was about to make that free fall into oblivion. It didn’t make sense to a lot of people when I […]

FICTION

I came back to Nigeria to find freedom; to take advantage of the ocean-wide impunity that define its environment. I thought I was right until I stood at the western precipice of the earth and was about to make that free fall into oblivion.

It didn’t make sense to a lot of people when I declared that I was leaving America, the land of liberty, to Nigeria, the land of . . . well, the land of so many things. I first broke the news to my mates at our graduation dinner. The awe written on their faces at the mention of my plan to return was that of a man seeing a monkey doing Michael Jackson’s Moonwalk; or a goat killing a lion; or a woman in papal robe. Along with widely-open oval orifices, their faces also bore traces of disgust, pity, amazement, and confusion. When they found their speech, they aimed for my sanity:

“Hell! Are you nuts? Are you aware that there is only one America in the whole world?” Lizzy, my Chinese friend who came close to my heels as the second-best student at Villa Nova University, said.

“You need to see a psychiatrist, Longji. Or I could take you through a session of psychotherapy.” Benyamin remarked. He would readily be my last choice of a psychotherapist because his IQ ranked lowest in the class.

“This is not normal,” came Chika’s response. “We have to see a man of God. This could be an attack from the underworld.” She didn’t wait for me to say anything more. “Yes! Your village people might be after you.” I found a way to wrap up the discussion before she recommended one papa or the other for me. Chika was the only one who, many were sure, would most likely bury her degree in the vineyard of the Lord.

I worked as a waiter and a cab driver for three more years in Oregon before making up my mind to leave. During my final meeting with fellow diasporic Nigerians, I was cautioned to review my stance. The summary of the talk was that killers of destiny abounded in Nigeria and that the surest way of making it in this life was by staying in America. To those who I wasn’t shy of replying, I responded by asking whether Aliko Dangote, Mike Adenuga, Bishop David Oyedepo, Tuface Idibia, or Wole Soyinka made it in America.

When more and more prevailed on me to weigh my decision, I simply reframed it.

“I am merely going on vacation.” Shikenan. “And yes, I will be coming back.” End of discussion.

Deep within me, I knew it was a permanent vacation but the excuse saved me the stress of lengthy explanations. As I boarded the Ethiopian Airline at JFK in New York, I knew I was never coming back except for a visit, if the need arose.

Shortly before the ten years that preceded my educational sojourn in America, I was a student at Government Science School Kuru in Plateau State. I was in form two when my father was elected as a Member of the House of Representatives, representing Pankshin/Kanke/Kanam Constituency. Everyone began to treat me nicely in school, especially the seniors who used to bully us, little did they know that I was about to leave them for good. During the long vacation holiday that year, I was chauffeured to Abuja where my Passport and U.S Visa were arranged and I went to live with Uncle Sam while I attended Mount. Olive High School in Atlanta before staying on my own when I was at the University.

It’s been two years since my father contested and lost his Senatorial bid for Plateau Central District. He had sunk more than half of his fortune in the race hence he could no longer come to the U.S on vacation, plus the fact that he was denied visa when it expired, perhaps because he was no longer in a position of money and power.

Through Facebook I kept in touch with some of my friends whom I met at GSSS Kuru. I was particularly closer to Bott Chuwang, Nandom Yusuf, Dang Guful, Audu Hashimu, and Nonso Ejiofor who were also known as Botteh, Nas, Django, Shadow and Nosky respectively. Many thanks to Zuckerberg, we were able to reconnect while I was in the U.S. In August of last year, Botteh who had become a famous musician paid me a visit in Oregon. He had just finished his U.S tour in five states and decided to spend the weekend with me. I took him to all the fanciful places in the city and he handled our bills with ease without raising an eyebrow. It was he who kept me abreast with the success stories of our friends in Nigeria: Nas was a pharmacist working with Pfizer, a global pharmaceutical company; Shadow was with the Nigeria Intelligence Agency (NIA); Nosky had become a millionaire already by being among the top ten distributors of Dangote cement in Nigeria; while Dang, the least-earning of them all, took a lecturing job at the University of Jos. These were my contemporaries, all under thirty yet singing the life-is-good anthem.

And I? I was a goddam waiter in a five-star hotel. Chances were that any of them could have just bumped into me with a tray filled with champagne glasses in the hotel where I worked. As soon as I saw Botteh off at the airport, I resolved to follow him home. These were the very boys who made me king in our crew because I was taller, more handsome, and had more money. Now each of them is living the American Dream in Nigeria. I was black with envy, and envy led me home.

In December of the same year Botteh visited me, my plane touched down in Abuja. Shadow was there to drive me home to Jos. That evening I was thrown a welcome party and many of my old friends and relatives attended. The next morning, I took a walk around the compound of our supposed mansion and was dismayed at the sight of unkempt lawns, faded wall paint and the generally poorly maintained house. But this didn’t disturb me more than my degenerated siblings who, I learnt, for their sakes mummy was on hypertension drugs.

The relief I got were from friends and relatives who took turns to take me out almost every evening. From clubs, to theatres, to churches, weddings, picnics, birthday parties etc. The events corresponded with the festive season and, thankfully, I never got to spend a dime.

January came with the dawn of reality. In its first week the Honorable – my father, as he was popularly known – summoned me to his bedroom.

“Eh emm!” He cleared his throat to speak, heralding a serious matter. “You know we have not had a one-on-one conversation since you returned.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good. Now, when do you hope to return to America?”

“Me? Ah! Daddy, I have come to stay o!”

“Stay and do what here?” He demanded with both of his palms begging for an answer. It then occurred to me that I had never really thought about what I would do with my life in Nigeria. “Do you have the capital to start up any business?” he fired another question before I finished thinking about a response for the first.

“Erhm er. . .ah…” I was speechless. I had less than 200 dollars to my name.

“Anyway,” he paused. “Can you lend me one hundred thousand naira?” JAMB Question! Where the hell would I get that?

“I am sorry Daddy, but I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Eh! Are you crazy? After spending millions of naira on your education in the best country of the world, you come back here and tell me you have got nothing? Get out of my sight this minute before I break your head!”

“But Daddy…”

“Out! Go and join your self-destructive brothers out there. Go and drink goskolo and smoke wee wee with them. Nonsense.” It was bad enough for father to rain insults on me, worse was tagging me along with my drug-addicted brothers, worse was him asking me for money. I saw myself transform from being the prized possession of my father to his despicable son.

Yadok is a teacher, writer and poet. He is the author of ‘King of the Jungle’, a novel.

 

I went out of his room and out of his house. Honorable’s raging voice lost its strength as I covered more distance away the house. The street found me traversing it aimlessly.

“Bros, you fit find me something? Ah swear country hard.” A man about my age said to me. I had to turn around to be sure the request was directed at me. His teeth revealed stains of smoke and palm oil. From his sweaty eczema-infested face, one could tell he hadn’t had a bath in days or weeks. His dirty dreadlocks was surely a habitat for lice and dandruff. His clothes resembled that of a mechanic. I concluded he was a mad man but if wasn’t making sense in his request, I wouldn’t have given him the hundred naira in my breast pocket.

I reached Favwei Junction, where I saw a number of youths playing volleyball. Others stood at the roadside as spectators. I joined them. A pretty lady appeared and stood next to me. I was too angry to look at her twice and the pleasant smell of her perfume couldn’t seduce me either. When the ball reached our position, courtesy of a mishit, I caught a glimpse of her face. My primary-six crush.

Yadok is a teacher, writer and poet. He is the author of ‘King of a Jungle’, a novel.