8. I was a coward long before I knew the meaning of the word. I was more interested in why the tortoise shell, instead of my country's democracy, was cracked.
My dad was the brave one. "Stand up to injustice or else you will have to sit through tyranny" That was what he used to say. "Our country is a farm and justice is the only manure that we can grow on. Injustice is only a weed that must be rooted out for growth to occur". My dad walked the right path. The good path. That much I can say. He was a designer of justice. Whenever he unravelled any thread of injustice, he made sure to change the fashion of the narrative. My brother and I grew up listening to him. "Justice! Injustice!!” The world my dad painted with his words was glum.
Bereft of hope and promise. To me, it was scary. From an early age, I found a way of to escape from his world. I hid in stories. I hid in folktales. Not the Cinderella kind. The oral African folklore. The tales housewives tell when children sit around fire and wood. The tales that came with music.
The house I grew up in was quiet. My father was mostly in his study, shuffling and writing. My brother and I slept in different rooms. We had a nanny to fill in for my dad. Only bouts of emotion from my dad's study would disturb the silence from time to time. My mother had died when I was younger. She had been shot. Dad was an editor then. The hospital had refused to help her because he had no police report. Mom lost a lot of blood and died in the waiting room. The tragedy was
the motivation that pushed my Dad into the field of writing and activism. He started by writing against the ills of the health sector laws. Dad had studied abroad. He had so much hair. I'm sure he didn't come because no object could walk through that bush of a hair without getting burned.
Since Dad was mostly in his study, my brother and I grew up with much liberty. I had no idea what my dad was writing about when i was seven. In my puerile imagination, he probably helped in painting the stories in my primary school comprehension passages. The tortoise and the hare, why the bat flies at night and why the mosquito dances around the ears. The stories I preferred to the ones that dad used to tell my brother and me. I asked my brother once "What does daddy write about?" I was seven and he was eighteen. His answer was not as animated as I had hoped.
"He writes the truth"
"What truth" I asked.
"He writes the truth about the government" He said.
"What truth? What government?"
"You are a child. You won't understand"
I went away with my disappointing answers. I hoped that Dad would stop writing about the truth one day and write more on why the tortoise shell is cracked.
Dad never stopped writing the truth. Once, in class, my headmaster had used my Dad as an example when he was ministering on the nature of integrity. Pride filled my boot, belly and pulled my lips wide apart till I was sure my tongue was naked in the smile I had created. My dad did try his best In giving me different books to read. Karl max, Achebe and even Shakespeare. But I was already mesmerised by the absurdity of the African folk stories. The world where animals sing and the endings always pull a smile.
When I was ten, the country held an election. In school, they taught us that the government was chosen by the people. It was called Democracy. But Dad's definition was different. Once, we sat in the sitting room listening to the presidential debate. Dad pulled a question out of the silence.
"What is democracy?"
In my desperate attempt to prove my intelligence, I gave the answer we were taught In school. Dad nodded his head in negation. He leaned his head forward and peered at my brother and me.
"Democracy was once a virtue. Now it is but a propaganda by old men with big bellies." He said these men misused public funds for private benefits. He said Nigeria insult Democracy by practicing electoral violence. Election are far from fair. He said. "We have bent so low that we now appreciate mediocrity". When he finished speaking, I allowed my imagination play with his words. I imagined government officials eating dirty public money till their tummies became full and their skin drooled.
Before the election, my dad took my brother and I to an event. He was the guest speaker. He had spent the evening before rehearsing his speech on the election. He had been asked to comment on youths who were planning to boycott the election. He cleared his throat before he started talking.
"Let us not vote. Let us sit at home and spread out legs across mud walls. Let us ignore the election and embrace our fate of destitution. So that we can bath in misery and poverty for another four years. Let us not vote so that our children might count bullets instead of pages. Let us ignore the heartbeats of widows because the politicians utter unwritten and unremembered vows. Let us ignore the uncompleted road projects that have swallowed the lives of our brothers. The buoyant economy with fast rising numbers that has helped to increase our poverty ratio. Rest your head in your dying wooden bed and ignore the election. After all, our daughters have misplaced ecstasy for happiness. We are now used go the long rows and cries of incessant hunger at the IDP camp.
The bandits that mount our Brother's head on spike in the north is of no concern to us. After all, the bokoharam making our people homeless is just a story to keep the evening news interesting.
Why should we vote? Of course you are comfortable with your chewing gum minimal wage. And your sons that are now paralysed by strike is just another excuse for your farm work to be easier.
I envy you, when you are worn out by the stress and fatigue of your misery, you unburdened your thoughts on your bottle of whisky. Soon your ignorance will give account on the last day".
His speech, embedded in poetry had attracted a loud standing ovation.
I remember the Election Day. For my dad, it was a sad day. My brother and I watched the news as my dad walked frantically around the sitting room. He was using his favourite words again.
"Justice! Injustice!!” There had been an incredible rate of electoral malpractice. Armed men in black masks had attacked some constituents and killed some people. I remember thinking of those dead people. Slipping their hands in ballot boxes without knowing that it was going to be the last decision they ever made. I wondered if they had made the right or wrong choice.
The days that followed, Dad wrote long letters and spoke less. He had more visitors. They were regular whisper of his favourite word. "Justice! Injustice!?". He rarely locked his study and he spoke to us more. During a study break in school, a girl said to me "The government will hurt your dad if he doesn't shut up". The teacher quickly broke in to separate us from hurling more words at each other. The next day, I sprayed pepper on her bottle water.
Dad came to my room that weekend. I was solving basic jss2 mathematics. He saw my books. An arrangement of folktales. A contrasting image of his study filled with books that I couldn't make sense of. Dad never told me any folktales. I wonder if he knew any.
"You will be traveling to Ijesha. You will stay with your aunt. You and your brother. You will be safe there". He said.
"Why aren't we safe here" I asked.
He sighed, patted my head and said goodnight. I wonder if he didn't tell me why we were not safe because he knew I would rather be trapped in my world of folk said, where danger could be easily averted.
Dad was arrested the week we went to Ijesha.
It was all over the news . Popular Nigerian activist and writer arrested by government. A blog on Twitter even called dad an American activist. I didn't knew Dad had become American because he studied abroad. He had orchestrated a peaceful riot against the recent concluded election. The government had accused him of terrorism and influencing actions of violent revolution. We went to his trial. My brother and I. He looked unkempt. His hair bushy as ever. But this eagle wasn't broken. He spoke confidently and he had laughed once when a question was thrown at him. "It absurd to think I have such connections" he told the Judge. Dad's demand for bail was rejected.
His next trial was after six month. It was more or less a repetition of the first. He looked weak. My aunt said the government had been trying to bribe him. He had rejected several offers. He is strong.
God will deliver him. Aunt had said. Her lips shook. She was a bad actress and the fear in her was evident.
Aunt never allowed us to see Dad. She said he was in a bad state and it wasn't right for his children to see him. She didn't want us to see him weak, broken. Dad died in jail. Before he died, my aunt had gone to visit him a week earlier. He had slipped a note into her hands when the prison guard wasn't looking. It was a note addressed to me. I read it over and over when my aunt gave it to me.
"Dear Ire,
I see why you love your folktales. It is indeed a world of peace, quiet and happy endings. Unlike the one we live in. But one day, you will have to leave that world and face the real world. The one we are unfortunate to be in. I pray you find the courage to face reality one day. Some day. My regards to your brother. Remember, we must stand up to injustice or else we will have to sit through tyranny"
Written by Festus Obehi Destiny
9th December 2019. 21:57
Hugs and eyes.