Episode 3:
The Woman with a Chronic Greeting Problem
I could not hide
my surprise, and almost forgot my manners.
“Goo-Good
Afternoon, ma,” I said to Mrs. Williams with a slight curtsy. If her
presence at our gate was not enough shock for me, Mrs. Williams a.k.a Mama
Tokunbo, shocked me even further when she returned my greeting with an
exuberant,
“Ah, how are you
my dear?” and actually tried to hug me. I took two steps backwards in
fright.
Where on earth was
the real Mrs. Williams and who was this
impostor?
Two questions I
would apparently never get answers to just gawking at her by the gate.
You see, Mrs.
Williams was the selectively snobbish type. If you greeted her on an
exceptionally good day, she might wave at you, manage a smile and go
about her business.
On most days, she
simply ignored my greeting altogether and pretended to be suffering from a
temporary loss of hearing.
I had complained
about Mrs. Williams’ bad habit to both parents on several occasions and the
advice each parent gave me was unquestionable proof of the profound difference
in their personalities.
My mother advised
me to stop greeting her because respect was reciprocal and in her words, “it is
not by force to greet people.”
Furthermore, and
perhaps more importantly, my mother had suffered the same rubbish treatment
from Mrs. Williams and had stopped greeting her. Her decision would be
revised if and only if Mrs. Williams happened to
greet her first.
That life-changing
event was yet to happen.
But my father took
a different approach.
“Just continue
greeting her. It’s the way we raised you. You don’t want to get
used to being disrespectful to your elders.”
“But Daddy,
respect is reciprocal,” I protested. “Why should I bother greeting a
woman who has no intention of returning my greeting? I might as well greet the
broom, the dustpan and the rake in the yard!”
“No, Enitan you
can’t do that. She’s older than you. Greeting an elder is not a
suggestion. It’s a requirement. Remember you will also grow to be
her age one day and you won’t like it if young people withhold their greeting
from you.”
I did not argue
with my father on the issue anymore, but my prevailing thought at the time was:
“Well, I won’t be
a bitter 40-something year old who is too big to open her mouth and respond to
the greeting that’s being offered to her.”
Without telling
either parent, I took a decision and picked my mother’s advice. I
resolved to greet Mrs. Williams, if and only if she greeted me first.
Or at least, until
she snapped out of her selective deafness.
I had gotten used
to this “Greet today, No answer tomorrow” relationship with this woman, with
her lack of response to my greetings forming the majority of my experience.
But that Sunday
afternoon was different.
This woman wanted
something.
She did not fool
me for even one second.
What that something was
that had forced her to start acting all familiar, I was determined to find out
by hook or crook.
“Mummy and Daddy
nko? Are they around?” Mrs. Williams asked in a voice that suggested that like
a good detective, she had made sure that whoever she was coming to see was at
home and not out visiting or running errands.
But since she
asked, I had to answer.
“Yes, ma.
They’re both at home.”
“Oh, that’s great!
I need to speak with them,” she said, stepping into our compound, and waiting
for me to lock the gate before leading her indoors.
From the gate to
the sitting room, Mrs. Williams fired questions at me, the kind of questions
that adults seem to carry everywhere with them and reserve for anyone they
categorize as a child who ought to be in school.
“How is school?”
“Your teachers
nko?”
“What do you want
to be when you grow up?”
“Are you facing
your books?”
The last question
was uttered in a tone that suggested that while a young girl was in school, she
had only one option: face
book, or face
belle.
In case I doubted
her, she made herself clear when she explicitly stated, just before we set foot
on the threshold of the house:
“Don’t listen to
all these small small boys. Face your books. Girls who don’t face
their books will end up pregnant.”
I wondered if Mrs.
Williams had offered the same unsolicited piece of advice to her own daughter
who as young as she was, had started getting considerable male attention,
mostly from the same pre-teen guys in her age group.
To all her
questions, I gave her the briefest answers possible, speaking in monotones when
I could help it. But nothing could dampen her mood.
Oh, Mrs. Williams
was certainly on a mission. A small fry like me was not going to stand in her
way.
As soon as I took
her to the sitting room, I ran upstairs to inform my parents who were relaxing
in their bedroom, that they had a visitor.
My father
immediately sprung to action, getting up and wearing his leather slippers as he
prepared to go downstairs. My mother, however, who until then had been
gisting excitedly with my father, said in a crumpled tone:
“I’m not
coming. Baba Yemi, you can go and talk to her.”
“Ahn ahn, Asake,
don’t do that! Let’s go together. Whatever she has to say must be very
important for her to come and see us like this,” said my father.
“Too bad.
That woman doesn’t deserve the courtesy of my presence. She won’t greet
or answer my greeting as if they have glued her lips together, but now, she
knows how to carry her wogo
wogo legs into my
house when she needs something, abi? Baba Yemi, please attend to her. I’m
not coming,” said my mother firmly.
“Okay. So … so
what do I tell her? She knows you’re at home. I’m sure she will ask for
you.”
“Tell her I’m
sleeping, or don’t people sleep in their houses again?” said my mother,
grabbing a magazine and propping herself up on a pillow as she flipped it open.
My father sighed
and shook his head sadly before leaving the room.
He went to the
sitting room and greeted Mrs. Williams who unsurprisingly returned his
greeting. She refused all offers of drinks or any kind of refreshments,
saying that she had something important to discuss with him.
While they were
exchanging pleasantries, I had slipped out of the house and made my way quietly
to the side of the house close to the window of the sitting room. I had brought
a single companion with me: an apoti.
It was the same
wooden stool my mother always sat on when she was plucking tete and soko. For some odd reason,
she always plucked gbure standing on her feet.
With my apoti positioned strategically under the
window, I sat on it and listened.
Mrs. Williams
cleared her throat and said:
“What about Madam?
Isn’t she around?”
“Oh, she’s
sleeping,” said my father.
A brief silence
followed and then, she went straight to the point.
“It’s Tokunbo I’ve
come to see you about, Mr. Ladoja.”
Although I had had
no idea why on earth Mrs. Williams would want to pay my parents such an
unexpected visit, I was still very shocked when I heard the subject of her
discussion with my father: Tokunbo.
What did he have
to do with us?
I listened closely
knowing the answer was forthcoming.
“Mr. Ladoja, it’s
Tokunbo o,” she began in response to my father’s question, “What is it?” As she
let out the third deep sigh in a row, I could imagine the strong scent of her
perfume – a musky scent – filling our antiquated, yet comfortable sitting room.
As I listened, I
heard my father in a low tone encouraging her to speak.
As if she needed
any convincing!
However, she took
his words to heart and spoke up.
“You know Tokunbo’s
father and I are no longer together,” she began in Yoruba. In fact, the entire
conversation was rendered mostly in Yoruba, with English playing a minor role.
“Oh, sorry to hear
that, Madam. I didn’t know.”
“Ah, it’s okay,”
continued Mrs. Williams, in a mournful tone, as if the man had just left her
that very afternoon, when in fact, they had been divorced even before she and
her children moved to our neighborhood.
I could almost
have hissed from where I sat.
But I didn’t.
She continued.
“And I’ve been
managing all these years with these children. I’m not complaining o,
after all, they’re my own children. God gave them to me.”
“Right …” said my
father, who had taken a seat opposite her, an observation I had made before
taking my seat on the apoti.
“But you know
Tokunbo is growing up … he’s growing fast and he’s a boy. He needs
someone to … someone to look up to,” said Mrs. Williams, slowing down a bit,
and choosing her words with added care. “He doesn’t have a father, but …
You see, I thought of you–”
“How do you mean?”
said my father, a ring of alarm in his voice.
I could have asked
the same question. What was this woman driving at? What did my
father have to do with Tokunbo’s upbringing?
“Yes, sir. I
mean … When he came home for mid-term, Yele … She’s my daughter … She went with
him to Iya Kafilat’s place and told me … I hope you don’t mind, sir–”
“No, no. Go on.”
“Okay, she told me
that she saw you advising Tokunbo to stay away from the bad boys, those
delinquents in this neighborhood. You know them, sir,” said Mrs.
Williams, making as if she was about to start reeling off their names and vital
statistics one by one.
But my father
stopped her and said he remembered the day.
I had no idea of
this meeting between my father and Tokunbo, but I made a mental note to somehow
extract more details from him in a way that would not expose the fact that I
had even overheard this conversation.
Meanwhile, my
father took over the discussion briefly and re-capped exactly what he had told
Tokunbo that day.
“Iya Tokunbo, you
see, I was just strolling down the street that evening just to, you know, get
some fresh air, when I saw a group of those boys, smoking and drinking at Iya
Kafilat’s shop.”
Iya Kafilat was
the owner of the convenience store which was closest to us. Hers was not the
only one on our street or in our neighborhood. Not by any means.
But it was her
shop that was closest to our own end of the street. In short, she put the
“C” in convenience, at least for those who valued it and had no intention of
traveling over any long distance to buy regular household commodities like
soap, bread, sugar and toilet paper. Apart from these items, Iya Kafilat
also sold soft drinks.
However, against
the wishes of a few people in the neighborhood, she also sold beer and other
“hot drinks”, which according to these dissenters, attracted the wrong crowd of
people, mostly men, to our street.
When she started
her business, she put a single bench outside her store for occasional patrons
who wanted to relax and enjoy their beverage of choice. But as business
picked up, Iya Kafilat’s shop got a face lift as she expanded. She rented
the empty plot of land beside her shop, got the owner to cement a portion,
which was better than his original plan to just add gravel to the lot.
Then, she bought several white plastic chairs and tables, along with
complimentary yellow umbrellas. These improvements essentially
transformed her shop from a mere convenience store to a local hangout.
Eventually, when
she started selling beer and hot drinks for the sake of extra profits, there
was a steady trickle of shady-looking people, drop-outs and ruffians, the sort
of people who parents usually warned impressionable young people to stay away
from.
It was one these
shady characters who was calling Tokunbo by name, the day my father happened to
be passing by.
“I called him when
I saw him going towards them,” my father continued, “and pulled him aside.
I know you raised Tokunbo well because he greeted me so-o-o well.
He almost prostrated for me and I said to myself, that boy has good home
training.”
“Ah, Daddy, e se o,” said Mrs.
Williams in a cheery tone. I imagined she was smiling as she thanked my
father. “I’m really trying my best,” she said.
“But I told him
that those boys are glorified criminals, awon
omo jaku jaku, and he should never answer them again, no matter
what they ask him to do. Iya Tokunbo, can you believe he did not even
interrupt me? All he kept saying anytime I paused was “Yes sir, yes sir.”
Oh, Tokunbo is such a good boy!”
I noticed that
while my father was praising Tokunbo this time around, his mother was unusually
quiet.
Something was
wrong, and the next words that sprung from her lips confirmed my suspicion.
“Hmm … Daddy,
wahala wa o!” said Mrs. Williams bringing my father’s praise train to a
grinding halt. “The Tokunbo you met that day is no longer the same
Tokunbo o.”
“Ehn? What do you
mean? Between mid-term and now, you’re telling me he has changed?” said my
father, disbelief coloring his voice.
“He has been that
way since the beginning of this term. I don’t know why. He won’t
tell me anything. Mr. Ladoja, Tokunbo’s grades have dropped, he has been
fighting in school and has gotten into so much trouble I’m afraid the school
will soon ask him to withdraw.”
“O
ti o! It can’t be!” my father shouted. “Which Tokunbo? The
same Tokunbo who was so respectful? No, it cannot be.”
“Daddy, it’s true
o. You don’t know the children of nowadays. They can be very
cunning. I am scared, Daddy … I am so scared for this boy. That is why I
have come to see you, sir. Please don’t let this boy spoil in my care–”
And here, I heard
some movement. I could not tell what was going on, until I heard my
father vehemently insisting in loud tones:
“No, no, no!
Please get up! Get up! You don’t have to do that, ke. E
dide! What is so terrible that you have to do that?”
I knew I could
picture what was going on, but curiosity got the better of me. Risking
getting caught, I rose to my feet and peeped through the window into the
sitting room.
What I saw was
exactly what I had imagined.
Mrs. Williams was
on her knees, both hands fiercely latched onto my father’s ankles, shaking with
sobs, begging him to help her.
Over and over again,
she pleaded:
“Daddy …. e jo o! E ran mi lowo.
He’s my only son. Please, Daddy! I don’t know who else to turn to.”
I couldn’t believe
it.
This was the same
Mrs. Williams who, it seemed, drank a potent brew of pride, liberally mixed
with snobbery, every day, and yet here she was in our sitting room, begging my
father for help with her troubled and apparently, wayward son.
On her knees too!
Wonders shall
never end.
Eventually, my
father succeeded in convincing her to take her seat and calm down.
A white
handkerchief mysteriously appeared from somewhere on Mrs. Williams’ person, and
she began to dab furiously at her eyes. Then, she decided that maybe she
should resume begging, but my father foresaw it and leaping to his feet, told
her to stay seated.
At that point, I
could tell my father was conflicted.
He would have
wanted my mother to be there to support him, but she had already stated her position
with respect to Mrs. Williams. This raw display of vulnerability and
helplessness by Mrs. Williams completely disarmed my father, but it might not
have had the same effect on my mother who was tougher to deal with than my
father.
So, Mrs. Williams
sat down and awaited my father’s verdict.
But not in
silence. No.
She kept talking
in spurts.
“Tokunbo … He has
no father. I mean, his father left us. His uncles don’t care.
They never liked me before I married their brother, Tokunbo’s father. And
Tokunbo too … He doesn’t listen. Even if … e jo … Daddy, e ran mi lowo, sir!
Look at your own sons. They listen to you.”
“Madam, it is by
God’s special grace alone that me and my wife have raised these children.
It’s not our doing.”
“Yes, sir.
But you can help. Please don’t let my son lose his way. Don’t let
this boy become a vagabond.”
Seeing that these
words were the likely precursor to a fresh round of pleading coupled with heavy
sobbing, my father preempted the emotional landslide by holding up his hands
and telling her to calm down before saying:
“Alright,
Madam. So, how do I help?”
That was all she
had been waiting for. Her tearful voice suddenly became sharp and even
retained some of the grit we had come to associate with Mrs. Williams.
“Yes, sir … I was
wondering if maybe you could … could mentor him, sir.”
“Mentor? How?
We’re not even related and how are you sure that’s all he needs?”
“He listens to you
sir. Right now, that is plenty. And you live right next door to
us.”
“But isn’t Tokunbo
in Ijanikin? How will I mentor or advise him from here?”
“Emmm … You see,
sir, this will be Tokunbo’s last term at Ijanikin. I have made
arrangements to transfer him to a private school nearby.”
“Oh, so he won’t
be in boarding house again?”
“No, sir.
He’ll be a day student, going to school from home so that at least, I can keep
an eye on him.”
“I see …. I see,”
said my father. I could tell that he was weighing the options and
processing what Mrs. Williams had just told him.
A long silence
followed, punctuated every now and then with Mrs. Williams’ dry sniffles.
Even if she was still dabbing at her eyes with that handkerchief, there
were no more tears now.
“Okay,
Madam. Here’s what we’ll do. I will need to discuss this with my
wife–”
“O-Okay, sir,”
said Mrs. Williams. I could hear more than a hint of glee in her voice.
“–And we’ll let
you know our decision. I know it’s me you have asked to help, but I’m
sure you know I can’t take this decision without my wife’s support. So,
don’t worry,” said my father, exhaling as he rose to his feet. I suppose
she took the hint and did the same, as she thanked my father profusely,
showering blessings on him and my mother.
“No problem,
Madam. Ma
a ranse si yin. I’ll let you know before the middle of the
week. Set your mind at ease, okay?”
“Daddy, e se gan-an o.
God will continue to empower you and strengthen you, sir. You won’t
use your eyes to shed tears over your children. God will continue to give
you more and more wisdom, sir,” Mrs. Williams chirped sweetly. My father
responded with “Amin,” at the end of each prayer.
As he walked her
to the gate, he inquired after her daughter, Yele.
I couldn’t quite
make out what they were saying, but I heard her say,
“–You know girls
are easier. She tells me everything.”
And even then, I
knew that couldn’t be true. No girl tells her mother everything
especially girls of her age.
Still, Yele had
gone through a lot of trouble to give her mother that impression.
However, I wasn’t
concerned with Yele.
Tokunbo and the
troubling news his mother had brought to us were foremost on my mind that
afternoon.
Who would’ve
thought? Quiet, supposedly shy Tokunbo was a terror in school.
“Looks can be
deceiving,” I concluded.
After Mrs.
Williams left, my father returned to his room, and the minute I heard the
air-conditioner in their room come on, I knew he had started giving my mother
the load-down of the Tokunbo-inspired gist.
Turning on the A/C
was something my parents did whenever they wanted to have a truly private discussion
in their room. The hum of the 2nd hand, Tokunbo A/C was usually effective at drowning
their voices, especially since they had to shut the windows of their room for
the cool air to circulate.
It did not occur
to me to listen to my parents’ conversation. I knew what my father was
going to tell my mother, anyway.
I sat downstairs,
pretending to read a novel, waiting patiently for my mother’s reaction.
It came swiftly.
“Ki
le wi?! Mentor tani? Nibo? Not in this
house! Baba Yemi, I said not in this house!” she thundered.
I could hear my
mother’s voice firing angry words at my father, blaming him, scolding him for
even giving that woman audience.
“You should’ve
driven her away with a stick! That’s how people drive away wild animals!”
“But Asake, aren’t
you a mother? How can you talk like that?”
“Baba Yemi, yes, I
am a mother. Abiyamo ni mi. But this
woman is up to something. This is just a cover up for something
else. Don’t you see it?”
“See what? You’re
over-reacting, blowing things wayyy out of proportion, as usual. Thank
God you stayed here.”
“What does that
mean? Ehn, Baba Yemi? Or are you in cohorts with her? Are you planning to take
a second wife? Abi, is that your plan? Like father, like son.”
“Asake, I’m not
going to argue with you over this. I am tired of telling you that I’m
nothing like my father.”
“So what is in
this for you? Why don’t you just let her be? Doesn’t she have relatives who can
mentor her own son? Don’t tell me she doesn’t have brothers or uncles or
cousins or even pastors who can help her. Anyone else but you. Why
must it be you, her neighbor?”
“There’s nothing
in this for me. I have the opportunity to help re-direct and reform the
life of a troubled young man and I will do it. You know me well,
Asake. I will do it.”
“E
pele o, Mr. Reform and Re-direct! Have you finished training your
own sons?”
“Wo,
Asake, leave this matter. I’m hungry. What are we going to eat this
afternoon?”
“Food? With the
matter on ground you still want to eat? See this man! Go and meet Mama Tokunbo
to feed you, se
gbo mi?” said my mother.
I heard the jingle
of keys and the stomp of angry feet.
“Where are you
going?” my father demanded.
“Oh, don’t you
know? I’m going to the market, of course! I will go and buy a B-I-G sign board
that says “Boys’ Reformatory Home” ehn … Then on my way back, I will call
Rasaki, that useless carpenter who is a disgrace to his profession, to come and
… Gbo! Gbo! Gbo!”
said my mother imitating the sound of a hammer hitting a nail on wood, “–place
the sign above our gate. And in a few days, that sign post will collapse like
that rickety dining table Rasaki made for us. May it fall on your head
and Iya Tokunbo’s head! Nonsense! E
ka re o! Baba Reformatory.”
Then, she hissed
and walked out.
As she neared the
bottom of the stairs, she called my name and I responded. Glaring at me,
she said:
“Oya you, come and
open the gate for me. Do quick!”
I obeyed and
watched her car disappear down the street in a fury of screeching wheels.
“E-n-i-t-a-n!” my
father called.
“Sir!” I replied.
“Put water for eba
on the fire for me. That efo your mother made three days ago, is it
still remaining?” he called out from the top of the stairs.
“Yes, sir!”
“Warm it up for
me, kia kia.
Nobody will starve me in my own house.”
As I hurried to
the kitchen to put my father’s meal together, there was only one person on my
mind: Tokunbo.
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