Darkness came up in the village a little soon. It did not come alone. It came out with a half-moon as its companion, and the moon was tripping in the air like a snail. Outside the buildings were scores of people who straddled the benches, the bricks, the mats and every sitting object. A group of athletic boys amassed themselves together on the accustomed playground to chase and throw an empty bottle at one another. It was a rule that if the plastic bottle stroked you, you would fall the victim of hurling the container until it whacked a fellow playmate in the body. There were still these preteens who encircled themselves, on a wide sack, like a tyre, clapping their hands together and reciting some lines of kindergarten rhyme.
When the moon soon became full like a rounded ball, the village looked brighter. As a result, teenagers walked forward to see the old man whose solace was in entertaining children with stories about the history of the land and the powerful sages he knew across the realm. He had chosen those topics to inspire them to study well and be great.
The wrinkled, old man, who was once a warrior, walked out of his hut, balancing on his crooked walking stick made from a tree branch. He had a pair of dark shades pulled to his face like a blind. The shades had the same thickness as a window louvre. He sat upright on a brown sofa in his front yard, rapidly examining one face after the other. At a point, he felt sad as he thought about the world war that took place years ago, the same world war in which he lost his clothing, two sons and his beautiful wife in a single day. Only his daughter did not embark on a journey during the world war. Her name was Ajoke. She was now married to a wealthy man who hired a housemaid to be helping the aged man in the village. They did not want him to feel depressed, they did not want him to die too soon after the huge sacrifice he made. The housekeeper soon returned to the city when Ajoke's first daughter was in her late teens. She was sent to be schooled in the village, living with the old man. The young girl agreed because she was always happy around her maternal grandfather.
The old man sneezed to weaken down the sad thought streaking in him. He was sure it was not only his daughter that made him live long but also these children that flock to him for storytelling. They had a way of cracking him up and actively keeping his spirit so high. But he missed his deceased sons and wife. He coughed.
"Sorry, baba," the children chanted.
"Thank you, my friends and children," he replied.
Although he knew the reason for the gathering, he still asked the assembly why they had come. His visitors screamed 'Baba o' in a loud, unanimous voice and implored him to tell them a story, not about the history of the land or the influential people, but about why the tortoise was called the cleverest animal in the animal kingdom. The sound of 'baba o' amused the aged man whose face creased in a smile. He adjusted himself on the seat to start the story.
"Adigun!," Mama called from the backyard of their hut as she put down the pot of boiled yams from the fire.
"Mama," he jogged to her side from the front yard where he was picking out the weevils from the beans, where he was surmising what Aduke might have enclosed in the yet-to-be-read letter. He had not been able to go through it because the kiss she plastered on his forehead still sweetened his soul, adjourning his brain to reason beyond it.
He was not told to do anything when he got to the backyard. He knew what was expected of him, so he raised the pestle from the wall and proceeded to pound the sticky, rounded tubers in a wooden mortar. Mama stopped often to cool her hand in a bowl of cold water. Adigun mashed the tubers slowly, but he increased the speed of the pestle in the long run, his armpits and shirt clouded in sweat. Then, he rested the pestle against the uncemented wall to strip his pink shirt from his chest and hang it loosely around his hip like a belt. Only a dark singlet and a pair of shorts were left on his body. This was vital to let in the cool breeze from the air. After a while, he held the pestle and topped up the speed again; he had now felt the urge to go through Aduke's writing and he could not wait to tear the envelope.
"Pound it gently, my good boy, or you would take garri and fish head as dinner," Mama groaned when a sticky white mash fell on the ground. Knowing how hungry he was, he pounded slowly. Mama dipped a hand into cold water and pressed the mash into the mortar. Her hand spot no seed in the mash.
"Pound it a little longer," she said and made to wash her hand.
Adigun tilted his head and whistled away from the streaks of sweat from his face. He levelled his head and pounded on.
"It is okay," Mama whispered when she realised that the paste was well made. It would go well with the 'egusi' soup she had earlier prepared and the pieces of herring fish would add flavour to the eating.
Adigun raised the pestle from the mortar while his mother dipped a hand into the water to unravel the sticky white mash clung to the pestle. The kitchen was a rectangular shed. All its four parts, except the doorway, were closed with palm fronds to keep the passersby from prying in. From where he stood, Adigun could see the embers of the fire dying out, and there was a pot of herb balancing on the tripods of the fire. The herb was to be used, by mama, to send away the fever that had been stressing her for weeks. He walked towards it and fanned it until there was a flame of fire.
"Go in and supply me two enamel bowls,' Mama ordered when he was back from the kitchen.
He fled to the storeroom like lighting. His mind felt disturbed as did his brain. He seemed too distracted because the portrait of the main girl kept popping up in his curious mind.
Rather than heading to the storeroom to fetch the plates he was sent, he walked to his room. He stopped as he reached the mat side and bent over to hold the top side of his big bag and zipped the zipper apart. The aftermath has he pushed out a pair of trousers he wore the previous hours of the day and fumbled into its right pocket. He was searching for the brown envelope in which the letter was sealed. He succeeded. He slit and squeezed and even flung the envelope across the corner of his room, having only the letter in his hand.
He chuckled as he flipped past the second paragraph. He had never imagined that Aduke was a clown, that she could crack a person's ribs. He found the fine few lines humorous that a good laugh escaped from him and sounded out like the peals of the bells. In his mind, he hoped his request was on the verge of success. His eyes were set to read through the next paragraph when the high-pitched voice of his mother came in through the window, but the shrill voice was too blunt to strike through his ears, for there were several birds and nestlings whistling in the tree behind the window of his room. It was not until the second yell that he jumped out of the room, forgetting the plates he had been sent in to bring.
"Where are the....?" Mama angrily left the question hanging in the air and fastened her eyes to him. Adigun knew where the statement was to end. He shivered and pinched himself on the head. He neither waited for the half-spoken statement to be completed nor did he dare mutter a word before he took some steps backwards and then raced, as though he were running the 500-metres race at the inter-house sports competition, to the storeroom to fetch the plates.
"Are you moody?" Mama asked, placing the plates down on the ground. Her voice was plain.
"No, mother!' he lied.
'Then what seized you in there? I hope you were not masturbating?"
"God forbid, mother," he chanted, "It was a rat that kept me in there,"
"A rat?" Mama laughed.
"Yes. I saw and pursued it"
"I see. But where is it?" she asked and made to place the moulded mash into a plate.
"It fled away,"'
"A fake hunter!" Mama jested, "Your father would sure have smashed it if he was alive." She thought about Adejare and how much she had missed him. She prayed to Eledumare to keep making him rest in peace.
"But you said my father had a gun whereas I don't have," he protested.
Mama jumped up from the stool as soon as his response cracked her.
"A gun? To kill just a rat," her laughter had grown to a long syllable.
Soon, they were both silent for several seconds as a car sped by. Mama examined the car to know what was up because it was late. She figured out that they were going to see the king in his palace. Mama sat back on the stool, rolled the pounded yam and dropped it in the second enamel bowl while Adigun allowed himself to reflect, in particular, on that moment when his eyes were locked to Aduke's. He liked her voice and the kiss that still looked like a surprise to him. But he became worried about the tears she shed when he recited those lines of the poem. To him, It was an ambivalent gesture. He had no idea what her sparse tears insinuated, but he, however, was confident he would find a true lover in her.
"I am going in. Scrub the mortar, and the pestle and pull them to the storeroom," Mama instructed, standing up slowly and walking in the direction of the hut, through the backyard, with plates of the meal in her hands.
Adigun postponed what Mama said. He remained on the spot he was and resumed the letter at where he paused. He had read the first three paragraphs, so he began his reading from the fourth paragraph. When he was done, he felt stern and saddened in a way that his life was becoming remote in his imagination. He was no longer the bright lad he was a few minutes ago.
Before Mama went to bed, she served his meal and placed it in his room. The more Adigun thought about Aduke's intention to leave for the city soon, the more desperate he grew. He gnashed his teeth and headed for the side of his hand-woven raffia mat and collapsed on it. For five minutes or so, he reclined on the mat until he came face to face with his dinner on the stool. He hissed like a parrot, and looked at the ceiling and then at the wall clock. When it dawned on him that a new day was only five hours away, he was sadder. He wished the day had broken since he planned to go to see Aduke confirm her heartbreaking intention. He wanted to hear her say she was only playing a prank on him. Though he was not opposing her going to school, he could not stand the distance that fate was about to put between them. He loved her as much as he loved his mother.
He had not even dined his dinner, and he needed no one to tell him that Mama was going to get mad at him if she found out that the meal was wasted. Adigun rose to his feet, his eyes unfocused and his head ached and full of agony. He wandered to the doorway where a small seat was. He held it in his hand and dropped it before the larger stool on which his meal was. He sat down in an attempt to eat his meal. His strong appetite vanished as soon as a small ball of the pounded yam sagged down his throat. He paused for a moment and glared aimlessly at the meal before him. He twisted and pulled the hair in his head and helped himself to his feet. What followed was he gripped the plates and leaned over to the window and poured both the soup and the pounded yam and even the fish to the direction of a bush where he was sure no one would see it. As he did so, he walked to the storeroom and washed and rinsed the plates to stop his mother from questioning him as to why he did not lick the soup as he always did in childhood. When he was done, he returned to his room and lay asleep in despair.
Adigun had not planned to sleep for an hour, yet sleep had streamed into him and captivated him; he overslept. When his mother roused him at dawn, he was stunned to discern how far he had slept.
"Good morning, Mama," he yawned, his thought hastily whizzed to Aduke.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, Mama," he yawned a second time, using his hand to prevent the sour breath from flowing out of his mouth.
"You need to have a bath and put on wear. We need to get to church in time,"
It was still morning and It was different because there was sunlight in the sky. The church people were numbered on the streets. They were brightly dressed. There was a certain exigency in the ways they walked on the footpaths. Mothers dragged their children along noisily as though they were sacrificial lambs. They dragged them along and scolded them. They were all in a hurry to get to their churches as some had sins to secretly confess, testimonies to openly share, and sermons to patiently hear. Few of them went to churches in their big spacious cars and motorcycles. They drove and rode unhurriedly. They blasted their horns for the people who were on foot to scatter so that they could pass. And they were dazzlingly dressed, in fine agbada made from brocade material. They talked and laughed as they drove along easily on the rough, hard road.
Where Adigun and his mother worshipped, It was stated as a rule that people who were in their late forties and above, occupy the front pews for good vantage. As Mama, with his lad, was at the widest entrance of the church, she was welcomed so warmly by a neatly dressed usher who led her to the front pew. Adigun had also settled on a white, plastic chair, but it was at the rear. His strange reactions to the bustling activities during Praise and Worship were strange: when the worshippers were asked to shout hallelujah seven times; when told to dance with their feet slapping against the marble floor and their bodies excitingly stooping; when asked to calmly recite some lines from the missal; and when instructed to sweetly pray, waging war against the unseen forces, Adigun took no part. If you were in attendance at that moment, you would think he was paid to spy on the church-goers. The prayer session was still getting burner and even hotter, yet Adigun was so firm in the armchair, his right palm resting on his chin like a well-crafted sculpture. A dark-complexioned usher marched toward him and politely asked him to stand and pray. He obliged. His pair of eyes were half-closed, and his lips jutting out like a person who just rounded off seven-day fasting and was about to eat for the first time in those mealless days. As he prayed, his voice became fainter and thinner. It was now, however, clear that his mind was not in the church. Only his physique did. Perhaps, one would reason without a second thought, that his mind was obsessed with Aduke. He feared she might have left the village.
As the teaching priest preached the sermon, the gathering nodded. The sign was to demonstrate how his message had had a shift in them. While they felt that way, Adigun quietly hissed for so long that his teeth creaked. He noted no speech in the notepad he brought to the church. All he craved was to be excused to see the lady he loved, but it was a sterile wish as long as Mama was in the house of God.
Outside the church, the coconut fronds and the leaves of the trees rustled as the breeze blew. It was not long when the rustling grew in a way that the dust and the light debris were raised. The birds, the goats and other animals were forced to rush to the open sheds for shelter. Later, the sky became cloudy, changing daylight to twilight, yet the preacher was so diligent in his preaching that the haze seemed nothing to him. His action angered Adigun, who wished he had the strength of Samson to punch the unwavering preacher on the throat so that he would topple over and lose his voice and everyone would be spared to go home. But his mind was soon pleased when the preacher pronounced 'in conclusion'.
The service was now over. It was high time the worshippers left for home except for the elderly men and women who were implored to stay behind for a brief discussion. Mama was among the people that were to wait. She turned and signalled to an usher to draw her boy's presence to her.
"Go home now. Rain is coming. Pack the clothes from the lines. Don't forget the tray of fish and fresh onions placed on the kitchen roof, and make sure you prepare rice and fry stew. I shall join you when the meeting is over," Mama whispered within his hearing, and suddenly he felt elated.
He did not wait for further word before he jumped out of the church compound with his Bible and notepad in his hand. The speed, with which he left, surprised Mama who wondered if it was hunger or the clothes and the fish and fresh onions that made him run fast.
Contrary to what Mama said, he jogged to Aduke's housing with beads of sweat coating his face on the way. The hand-carved door was open when he reached his destination. He was tempted to go in, but he thought against his wish because of the wild dogs he noticed on the high verandah. As a result, he idled at the bottom of the rosemary in the hope that Aduke herself would come out. The cloud, from where the mist earlier threatened to fall, was now as white as snow. It appeared that the drizzle would no longer fall. It gladdened his mind because the clothes and the tray of the fish and fresh onions placed on the kitchen roof would not be wet. Suddenly a plastic ball reeled out through the doorway, almost falling into the nearby gutter, but Adigun grabbed it and held it in his hands, expecting the owner to come for it. He could see a person sauntering towards him through the passage. It was a child of about six years endowed with an oddly-shaped head that seemed too large for his body. Adigun half knew the boy. He had once seen him with Aduke. Aduke said the little boy was her neighbour that often came to play in their house.
"David, David, the big boy," Adigun teased, bending low to give him handshakes. David smiled and received his toy.
"Have you seen sister Aduke today?" He asked amidst fear. He had deliberately included 'sister' to her name because that was the way David addressed her.
"Yes," the boy replied in English.
"Where is she?" he asked, obtaining the ball from him and handing it back to him as if doing so would get him the right response he wanted.
"Sister Aduke has travelled with her big bag," David replied as he turned and kicked his toy against the ground until he stepped into the building.
His response did not go well with Adigun who returned home with grief.