26 May 2006 |
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All week long I keep thinking puppies. And the funny thing is I haven’t seen one for quite a while. Of course, I see these full-grown stray mongrels everywhere—they’re my neighbours here at Labour Garage on Then today, I’m still chewing the last bit of akara that served as a very inadequate lunch, and I’m trying to make out the story on the oil-stained piece of newspaper the akara came wrapped in when the cutest little puppy ever comes dashing straight at me, chased by one of those big strays. I don’t waste a second. My duty is clear. I came into this world to save this puppy. If I have to die doing that, then so be it. Quickly I shove the soiled newspaper page into my pocket, grab the puppy, pick up my longest stick, and brace up myself for a fight with the stray. Of course, the coward backs away. Or maybe the dog just doesn’t want to start a turf war with me. In this forever-rowdy corner of Area One, we all know who owns which space and we respect that. Whatever it is, Gulliver—which is what I name my puppy—and I are soon cuddling and I’m kissing him and he’s licking my face and the only thing that spoils it is when I remember I’m still hungry and I start thinking Gulliver is probably hungry too. Desperate times call for desperate measures. So, even though I’d been warned to keep away from African Palace Restaurant, which is opposite Labour Garage on the other side of Tall Mercy with the big bum whom I like is at the desk. “Hey Mercy, abeg gimme something to eat, now?” “My Madam will kill you if she finds you here.” “Just anything, now, Mercy, abeg.” “Go to the back. I’m coming.” With Gulliver in my arms, I make my way to the back and wait for Mercy. We wait a long while but she doesn’t show. So I go in through the back door. I’ve been in here once or twice before but now the place doesn’t look like anything I remember. It has been transformed into an exquisite banquet hall. It’s now really a palace not just a top class restaurant. Chandeliers, swanky tables and stewards with plastic smiles glide about in glittering white uniforms. The place is choked with famous faces, among them, Mr President. A silver-haired steward guides me to the only empty chair at a table just three tables away from the President’s table. “There you are, my friend,” I think I hear the President say. “We’ve been waiting for you. Now we may begin.” Speechlessly, I make my apologies for being late even as it occurs to me that nobody told me about this dinner. I want to tell the President it’s an honour to dine with him but words fail me and I’m as subdued as a chastened puppy. Puppy! Where is Gulliver? In my excitement I’d forgotten all about him. Now I look around but he’s nowhere to be found. Gulliver, where are you? The thought that that ugly brute might be harassing poor Gulliver again saddens me no end. But something here soon cheers me up. Stewing directly opposite me in remarkable discomfort, a self-important but really nondescript presidential aide sits wrinkling his nose at me. Why he should be so distressed by my presence, I have no idea. I look at him askance and his scowl deepens. I wink at him in unconcealed delight! Then, becoming more attuned to my surroundings, I hear the ravenous clatter of cutlery and the food-modulated chatter of animated diners enlivening the hall. I look around and take in the spectacle. I’m no gourmet but I know we’re having first class cuisine. This is the President’s dinner, isn’t it? “It’s actually a special banquet. Given by the President, of course.” That’s the fellow on my right. I must have said something out loud. “Oh.” I’m too embarrassed to say more than that. “Yes,” says Fellow-On-My-Right who’s swathed in a flowing white brocade gown, “it’s in honour of the visiting Governor of Shangdong Province—in the “Oh!” I decide that I like this fellow. “What’s important to me is tucking in some of this good food right here, right now.” “That’s important to me too,” I say, digging in with gusto. “Would you care for some, sirs?” Fellow-On-My-Right and I simultaneously glance into the silver tray being offered by a steward who has magically appeared between us. Looking as exotic as one of those unreachable meals in glossy food magazines, I have no idea what food is in the tray. “By all means!” I say, carefully spooning a healthy helping onto my plate. Fellow-On-My-Right helps himself too. I am happy that like me he’s not the shy type. It makes this business easier. Straightaway I try a bit of the exotic-looking food. For all its appealing out of the ordinary appearance, it is beef. Good old beef. But it’s chopped so thin and has been so exquisitely garnished I should be forgiven for believing I’ve finally tasted the food of the gods. And by the gods, I swear it tastes great too. Feeling momentarily guilty that the puppy that I came into this world to save is not here with me, I furtively slip some of the spiced beef into my pocket; Gulliver, there can be no doubt about it, will be pleased. I look around and study our Chinese guests through whose august presence I’m having this rare opportunity, for reasons unknown to me, to partake in this sumptuous feast that is sure to linger in the mouth long after it has exited the stomach. Tonight’s guests are a world apart from their hosts, and one is not just talking about physical distance. Even though it is obvious that a half-hearted attempt has been made to mix diners, we are nevertheless separated by the polite nods that people who speak different languages tend to exchange often. “So how is Smile and nod, nod, nod. “ No matter, there’s a good answer: Smile and nod, nod, nod. I assume that some in the Chinese delegation understand and speak English, though it appears most do not. Even worse, there doesn’t seem to be a single Nigerian in the gathering that knows “hello” or “good evening” in Chinese. I certainly don’t. But, then again, that is hardly important to me. I soon spot the official interpreter, a Chinese man, of course, sitting close to the President and the Governor who seem to be managing to carry on some apparently interesting private conversation with the help of the interpreter. The rest of us continue to dine with more unanswered questions greeted with broader smiles and ever more expressive nods. I’m briefly preoccupied by the rather pertinent, albeit inwardly posed question, “Why am I here?” I turn it over in my mind as I savour the splendid flavour of some seafood that I have no intention of even bothering to find out the name. Opposite me, it’s very evident from his ever-deepening scowl that the presidential aide has been troubling himself over this same question and clearly hasn’t found an acceptable answer. Since I cannot provide the answer myself, I wink at him again, set the matter aside for the time being and engage myself in further depleting the world’s supply of sauced shrimps—which I can identify— remembering to stealthily stuff some in my pocket for my darling puppy. Whatever reason is to be thanked—or blamed—for my presence here, it would eventually make itself known, though I hope it would choose to do so much, much later. Soon, it is time to toast and the President’s spokesman has his boss promising to make him campaign manager for the next elections. This is on account of the spokesman’s grand introduction of the President, which evidently goes down well with the chief host. Language and distance, the President assures us, cannot stop his administration from doing business with “Oh, so that’s why they’re here!” says Fellow-On-My-Right. “Could have fooled me,” I say. “I’d have said it’s to practice pantomime.” The Governor, whose province is probably larger than Nigeria, though I have no way of knowing for sure, responds—as we learn from the interpreter—more or less in the same spirit as the President and ends with the words “shem shem” which everyone—without waiting for the interpreter—interprets to mean “thank you”. Whether the interpretation is right or wrong is irrelevant. Soon, many of us are nodding politely and saying “shem shem” to our guests as we shake hands after the toast. Outside, the President’s spokesman promises we are about to be thrilled by talented dancers from different parts of the country. Since no fuss has as yet broken out over my being here, I get a front row seat and prepare for a lacklustre affair, certain that a government-organised dance can hardly be entertaining. But I am quickly happily disappointed. Even as the skies threaten to ruin everyone’s cheeriness, there’s no holding back the Cultural Troupe as its members come on swiftly, jiggling to the rhythm of determined and fast-paced drumbeats that soon drown out the rumbling skies. As first up, the Cultural Troupe is exceptional. The young men and women of the troupe display a tight sense of choreography as they go through their titillating moves in unfaltering harmony. Then they step forward one at a time and execute some deft manoeuvres that bear testimony to their vaunted talents. I am truly enjoying myself because their gaiety—matched by the vibrant beats—has an infectiousness to it that has caught on. One can see that not only the visitors, but their hosts as well, are pleased by the performance. I know I’m as happy as the proverbial lark, who or whatever he or it may have been. The next act though leaves something to be desired. Known as the Tangale Bit-Bit dancers, their military-like gear gets high points but their performance—according to Fellow-On-My-Right who’s now actually on my left—is rather bit-bit and never quite hits the high note. “They seem to be more at home with parade-style marches than really dancing,” I say. “I agree,” says Fellow-On-My-Right. “But something of this nature is probably responsible for that saying about one man’s meat poisoning another.” Now I’m chuckling. “With my full stomach,” I say, “I’m in great danger of having this bit-bit dance poison me, though, thankfully, into nothing more permanent than sleep.” Fellow-On-My-Right pats my back and we laugh together like the old pals we’ve become. If the Bit-Bit dancers get little love for not throwing their legs some more, the next group doesn’t even get one’s attention. “My dog Gulliver could do better than this,” I say. “You have a dog named Gulliver?” Fellow-On-My-Right asks. “Why do you call him that?” “He’s actually still only a puppy, yet he’s already a giant—leaps over full-grown dogs in one bound.” Fellow-On-My-Right roars with delight and we backslap some more in merriment. Now the skies are rumbling louder and the on-going dreary presentation seems the perfect invitation for the gods to unleash the heavenly floods. “Experience,” says Fellow-On-My-Right, “has taught that under circumstances such as these, the ‘car-less’—and that includes me—should beat a hasty retreat.” “You’re right,” I say, though not just because I’m ‘car-less’ too. “You know,” I say, spreading my palms, “I’m not quite sure how I got invited here in the first place.” Fellow-On-My-Right gives me a quizzing look. “I could say the same for myself,” he says, “except I know for sure I wasn’t invited. I just took the place of a friend who’s a junior presidential aide but couldn’t make it because he’s got a fever.” “Well, I’m not going to ask anybody else.” “I suggest you don’t,” says Fellow-On-My-Right. “I also suggest you leave immediately. Maybe you’re the fall guy for a crime that has not yet been committed. Imagine if the President is assassinated and you are found with the murder weapon.” “Get out of here!” I say, slapping his back once more. “You’ve been watching too many movies.” “Best get going, my friend. You never know with government people. As for me, I’ve got to beat the rain. Bye.” After we shake hands and Fellow-On-My-Right gets up to leave, I decide to go with him. After all, as far as I’m concerned, the show has bogged down. Moreover, I am strongly inclined to leave on my own feet now because I have a growing feeling that when this inexplicable situation—which has worked so well in my favour—is discovered, I shall cease to have the right to such commonplace luxury that is often taken for granted. As a matter of fact, I’ve just seen that scowling presidential aide whispering with visible anger to some square-faced guy and pointing at me and I know that can’t be good. But there’s one more act and I hear this solo performer has the hottest show in I’m standing now—to the loudly expressed annoyance of those behind me—and Fellow-On-My-Right is already out of sight. As the rumbling in the sky begins to drown the drumbeats, the solo act comes on with a run and fantastic multiple aerial flips. Immediately one understands why she’s got top billing. She, by herself, is a show! I resume my seat at once. Wild horses—and I swear this by those gods whose meal I earlier shared—will quickly be slaughtered by my bare hands should they attempt to drag me away. And that goes for all the president’s men too! Meanwhile, her quadruple aerial flip deposits the dream performer on her feet in front of Mr President and his chief guest. We all clap and roar like lusty teenagers. Over six feet tall with a figure like those ancient hourglasses you see only in encyclopaedias, this dancer—who looks somehow familiar but is surely far too exotic to be anyone I know—is truly a dream in the see-through raffia gear she has on. With her dark skin glistening in the floodlights, she rotates around the makeshift arena and begins to jiggle her slim waist in a suggestive dance that soon has one salivating. I’m thinking things I really shouldn’t be thinking as I watch her—among them that she might select me as a partner to continue the provocative dance she is performing—when she executes another astonishing quadruple aerial flip and lands right in front of me. Now I know why she looked familiar; she’s Mercy! My heart virtually stops as she stretches out a hand to me. With jittery puppy legs, I rise and take her hand and move towards her. At this instant my mind wanders to Gulliver. Will I survive this to continue saving him? Oh Mercy, please have mercy on me. Now I know for sure I’d been a puppy in a previous life. And I know why I never made it to ‘doghood’. An exquisite phantom like this killed me early. That would explain why my heart is palpitating so. Gingerly, Mercy draws me into her for a dramatic embrace. In a moment of cerebral naughtiness, I imagine how nice it would be to get a hold of her from behind and piston-motion into the certain softness of her perfectly round bum. At that same moment the skies open up and out of the corner of my eye I see the scowling aide and his square-faced buddy making a beeline for us. As Mercy and I make full body contact, the rain makes contact too and the aide and his pal grab me with brute force and I wake up with shock. “I told you never to come in here again!” Mercy’s Madam screams at me. And she has just poured a bucket of water on me. “You always come in here disturbing my customers and then you fall asleep right outside the backdoor! What kind of man are you?” “I just…just wanted something to eat,” I mumble. “And I’m the Salvation Army? Go away!” I scurry away from the restaurant, still hungry but at least happy to see Gulliver still in my arms. He’s been caught in the spray too so he’s wet and eager to get down. I set him down and he begins to shake the water off. I follow his example and as I brush down, I see something sticking out of my battered jacket pocket. It’s the rumpled and stained newspaper page. I fish it out and study it. It’s part of a four-month-old leisure pullout from a weekly tabloid. I look at the headline. “Spiced Beef, Sauced Shrimps and ‘Shem Shem,’” it says, with the rider, “Our exuberant correspondent goes dining with the President and the Governor of a Chinese province.” I should have known. Laid off from work, evicted and finally robbed of virtually all my worldly goods, the streets have been my home for a while now. Still wet, wondering why I can’t shake off all the water like a puppy, I see Gulliver barrelling towards me, yelping like crazy. I didn’t even know he’d drifted away! Now what do you know? It’s that brute again. I pick up Gulliver and reach for my stick. Does the bully want a turf war? No. He backs off. Gulliver licks my face and it’s the nicest thing on earth. “Shem shem,” I say, hoping it means what I think it means. —Ends—
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