Misadventures

Have you ever heard the wind whisper your name? “Oke . . . ” In the deafening silence of my dream, it was a very welcome change.  I hear the gentle whisper twice more before it suddenly becomes a howl.
“OKE!”
The pessimist in me says I’m half-awake.
“OKE!!”.
Now I’m awake.
“Yes Mummy?” I reply.
“Okewalechukwu! I arrived at your bed to give you a quiet wake up and you were making smeh-smeh with me. I said let me give you some few minutes and yet you are still there?! I am counting to three, better not let me finish.”
Kai! Which kind wahala is this?! Early on a Monday morning too. I wonder what set her ablaze so quickly .  .  .
“One!”
The warmth and comfort of my bed had made it like Bro Collins, who always cheated when we wrestled and refused to let me go when I tapped the ground, the sign of submission.
“Two!!”
I hear her footsteps coming in the direction of my room.
“Two and a half!!!”
Freedom!!!!!!!
The ube-coloured curtain that seals my room from the rest of our small house is pulled aside.
She stood in the doorway, the corners of her lips down-turned, on the verge of parting, the suppression of a smile. “Ok, so you’re awake?”

I set off from the house, lunch in one hand, trumpet case in the other. Mummy, it still felt strange calling her that, had made her special jollof rice this morning. When I asked why, she replied, with that playful glint in her eye: “when you realize, later today, that you forgot to eat lunch in your nervousness, you can thank me.” She didn’t really answer my question but then again, everyone told me that she sometimes answered questions in advance or with . . . .
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the loud sound of a truck horn.
As everyone turned to find the direction it came from, a large ball of laughter erupted from the group of Keke Napep drivers across the road. They had crowded around one particular Keke, which had Engr. Anjous in the driver seat. As the fits of laughter died down, he did a mock-bow before pressing a button on his handle-bars , once again filling the Monday morning harmattan air with the elephantine bellow of the truck horn.
“Engr Anjous! You don crase?!” shouted one of the pure-water sellers from the other side of the street.
“No o my broada! I just dey show this my super-horn! Na how I go take clear road today!!” he yelled back.
“Anjous! You and these your paraphernliums!” the seller said as he shook his head. As I looked in his direction again, Engr Anjous waved and I returned the gesture.
Engr Anjous wasn’t really an engineer. Not by training anyway. He was, however, always tinkering with his Keke. Only three weeks ago, I heard that he put what looked like a small fan on the top of his Keke and charged other drivers batteries off it during the early morning sea breeze. Everyone called him crazy for doing that but by the time Faji came round last Friday, and so many Keke drivers bought him drinks as thanks, he was the one laughing the loudest.

The laughter of Engr Anjous and the other Keke drivers melted away in the assault on the senses that was the motor park. Although it was only 6:45, long queues had started to form by the sides of many buses. As I headed toward the bus that would take me close to school, I walked past the square that had been nicknamed “CNN”. Here, several commuters stood over the open pages of newspapers they were too broke to afford.
“My friend will you remove your hand from my paper?!” spat a newspaper vendor at a man who had just tried to turn the pages of one his open papers.
“You know say na N10 a page, just pay if you want see the other side”, he continued.
“My broda, money no dey like that o”, replied the commuter.
“Ehn, then look but don’t touch!”, finished the vendor.
I smiled as I saw some commuters in the debate corner of CNN, angrily but peacefully expressing their opinions. One of the newspaper vendors had been reading the political section to those gathered in the debate corner, occasionally pausing to let his listeners punctuate his sentences shouts of “na wa o” and “chai”. Ordinarily I would have gone to listen for a little bit but today, the assessment I had coming up weighed heavily on my mind.

“Okesco!!!!” was the joyful shout of Bro Collins as he saw me approach his Danfo.
“How body?”, he asked.
“I’m fine, just . . . ”, my words trailed off.
“Ahn, Okesco! Wetin? Who stole the meat from your bowl of soup?” he asked.
I chuckled.
“Broda nobody o. I’m just afraid for this exam I have today”, I replied. “It’s for the place of lead trumpeter for our school’s marching band. There’s one other girl competing with me for it, and she’s really good.”
“So what? It doesn’t . . .” Bro Collins stopped mid-sentence. “Oke the bus is full, let’s start going, go to the front.”

“Chief (H)Oke!”
“Hello Uncle Sukirat”, I said through a half-smile. Uncle Sukirat was the driver for the Danfo Bro Collins worked as conductor on. The big northern Yoruba man with a strong h-factor and toothy grin was always seen with a Fila on his head. Some people said it contained juju that brought lots of passengers to his Danfo but I knew he just had a bad hairline and wanted to, as he described it: “(h)operate like (h)a big man.”
“Haaah, (H)Oke. Who thiefed the petrol from your car this morning?” he asked, inquiring into my apparent unease.
“Nobody Uncle, I just have a test today”, I said as he started the bus and we set off.

“’Ello burriful passengers!” announced Bro Collins as we started to move.
“Oga conductor”, one replied, “this one wey you dey wash us for morry, know say we don already bath o!”
“Hmm!” another continued, “are we safe?”
“No need to worry burriful people”, Collins said in the wake of his own chuckle, “it’s just my little brother here. Fear dey catch am, because he has test today, abeg anyone get word for am?”
“I have a brother who lives in Okija, near the shrine”, one passenger chimed in, “he can arrange something for. . .”
“My friend will you shut up there!!”, another passenger interrupted. “Idiot!!! You want to start teaching this pikin about juju?!” He kissed his teeth, a long loud hiss of disgust escaping his lips.
“Young man, just go there and show them that you have prepared for this day”, said a well-dressed elderly man at the back of the bus.
The other passengers hummed and nodded in agreement.
“Show them say Khaki, no be leather”, added another student who was dressed in uniform like me.
“Bros!” shouted a passenger who was wearing sunglasses in the bus, even though it was a very cloudy morning. “Wetin you dey fear, I can see that ogbonge swaggah for your body! Wetin sele? You knack that test one time. Two times sef, if they want it!”
All the passengers laughed in agreement. As the laughter started to die down, a middle-aged lady spoke up. She had the kind of face that told its own story and from the look in her eyes you knew that she had seen many things. All the passengers must have felt this too, for as she spoke, the bus remained quiet.
“Young man, what kind of test is it?” she asked.
“It’s a musical one, ma”, I answered. “I have to play a song on my trumpet without making any mistake. If I make a mistake I don’t get to be the lead trumpeter for my school’s marching band.”
“That does indeed sound difficult.” She replied.
“Yes, ma.”
“What’s your dream?”
“My dream?”
“Yes, your dream as a trumpeter.”
“I’d love to play like some of the Jazz musicians I hear on Cool FM.”
“Do you like playing the trumpet?”
I paused for a second.
“Yes I do.” I said. “I really do.” I felt like I had forgotten that playing was what I really loved to do.
“Well young man, go there and play your heart out.” She continued, “whether or not you get the position is immaterial.”
She saw the confusion on my face.
“By immaterial I mean that you enjoy what you do. This position would be exciting and nice to have but it won’t stop you from achieving what you really want with your playing.”
“Oke.”, Bro Collins spoke up, “we don reach your junction.”

I got off the bus and turned round to thank Bro Collins, Uncle Sukirat and the passengers. As I did so Bro Collins said: “abeg people make we give the man small claps for ‘im spirit.” The passengers clapped and cheered, as the bus began to pull away, Mr-Sunglasses shouted: “Make them no say you get ground! Water don pass garri today!!”
I looked fondly at my trumpet case, yes I loved playing.