After Grad - Episode 1

Pacesetter

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IBADAN HOLDS A SPECIAL throne in the history of histories, and Aramide’s knowledge of her hometown stemmed from Maami’s inability to contain the full extent of the pride she felt for her heritage. Ibadan isn't called the pacesetter city for nothing, she would gush all the time. She said her forefathers were hardworkers, who understood what it meant to source for their daily bread regardless of how menial their jobs might seem. Farmers, hunters, laborers; they bore their profession with noble self-esteem . When it was narrowed down to education, Ibadan was at the forefront of this as well, it was no surprise the likes of Wole Soyinka saw the need to journey all the way down from their hometown to the capital city of Ibadan. 

     Majority of the boys in those days were trained with all the strictness their polygamous fathers could afford; these fathers didn't hate their sons, they just wanted them to be responsible enough to woo any woman they so desired. The girls on the other hand, were nurtured to be submissive to their husbands. Only a few were passionate enough to be petty traders. The lesser few were even more passionate to be as educated and as responsible as the men. Just like Maami. 

     Growing up as a child, Aramide watched other mothers stay back at home, whilst their husbands left for work early in the morning

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. These women could barely read A to Z, they barely knew how to pronounce the simplest English words, and yet, they were so unbothered. In fact, she thought they revelled massively in their level of ignorance, staring daggers at women like Maami who neglected their homes and competed with their husbands. How wrong could they possibly be? What narrow-mindedness! 

     “My mother taught me to be of support to my husband, and not a burden to him,” Maami once told her little daughter who was barely seven years old then. She was yet to undress after a grueling day at the office. Maami’s hands moved with swiftness as she chopped the large tray of green vegetable. “This food has to be ready before my husband gets back,” she rattled off, though Aramide sensed a little bit of worry due to the apparent workload. Maami just had a way of juggling her responsibilities; as a wife, a mother, and even as a working-class woman, which was a trait Baami absolutely adored.

     From Aramide’s corner at the dinning table, she'd always noticed the way Baami cupped her mother's puffy cheeks, grinning to the point where his tribal marks began to stretch along with his milky integument. She could recall the time when those marks used to fill her naïve mind with wonder; a thirst of curiosity Baami was ever willing to quench. 

     “What are these lines on your face Baami?”

     “My child, they are called tribal marks. And we have different types too.”
     “So what type is this one on your face?”
     “It’s called tombo baamu.”
     “Tombo baamu,” Aramide repeated with a slight chuckle, brushing through the lines with her tiny hands. The six horizontal lines were inscribed on both side of her father's cheeks, coupled with an opposite single slant on his left side only. Baami said the tribal marks held various significance, from beautification, to several traditional rites, however, in his case, it was strictly for identification purpose. 

      “Can I have them on my face too?” Aramide innocently inquired. 

     “You don't need one, my child,” Baami assured. “These marks on my face is a proof of the ignorance of our fathers back then. Theres no way I could possibly let you wear the same scars.” Undoubtedly, those words were of trivial meaning to little Ara at the time. It wasn't until she grew a few years older that the message eventually lost its erstwhile obscurity. By then, Baami had already kicked the bucket. Aramide never got the chance to say a proper thank you.

     “Olabamiji Akanni,” Maami would often cajole her husband. Baami might've been prouder of his heritage than Maami, an Ibadan man to the core. During those long third term holidays, Aramide spent a significant part of them wedged behind the seatbelt of her father's green Volvo, driving out and about the vast stretch of Ibadan city, and without a specific destination in mind. 

     “Eleduwa will surely guide us,” Baami would say non-committally. And perhaps, that was the reason why Aramide could spend hours journeying in a vehicle without getting a tad bored. 

     Once, Eleduwa had guided them to the business district of Dugbe. The area was excessively rowdy, but that wasnt why Aramide found it so difficult to close up her sagging jaw. “That's the famous cocoa house,” Baami must've guessed the question running wild in his daughters restless mind. It's just that amongst the smaller buildings that came into view, the Cocoa House literally stood out with its twenty something storey building of tallness. At least, that was how Aramide could depict the scene. 

     “During the colonial era, most, if not all, of the offices were centred around this area,” Baami continued, and although, his gaze was fixated at the road ahead, he was so sure his daughter was all ears. Aramide was a good listener. She always has been. “That's why this place is known as a business district. Farming was the major source of revenue to the government back then, so you can say the cocoa house sprung from that, but most importantly, I want you to know that this tall building is a reflection of Awolowo’s brilliant idea.”

     “So they sold cocoa right?” Aramide’s inquiry came out in a hush tone, it was almost as if she was yet to take in the new information. 

     “More like exported,” Baami emphasized on the last word. “The cocoa didn't have much of an importance here in Nigeria, which explains why the cocoa, in it's raw form, was exported out of the country, and imported back in its processed form, like chocolate..”

     At that point, the little girl inevitably lost interest in the topic of discussion. “Can I get some chocolate?” she offered instead. Baami could only throw his daughter a cheeky smile. How much she missed that cheeky smile! 

     Aramide thought that just like Ibadan, her late parents were pacesetters too, having laid a foundation of what a fulfilling life looked like. Maami was an epitome of a smart, hardworking woman; skillful enough to penetrate the labour market, passionate enough to take the pressure as it came. And as her eyes got stung by beads of salty tears, she couldnt seem to shake off that intense feeling of failure. Baami and Maami, wherever they might be, must be so disappointed at her.

 

***

 

AUNTIE SHADE’s MATRIMONIAL home was situated at Bodija, and Aramide knew the route quite well. At fifteen, she'd been forced to accept her aunts open arms. Although, the words werent scribbled across her forehead, she'd unfortunately become an orphan.

     “My dear, make yourself at home,” Her mother's sister soothed, oblivious to Aramide’s mental insistence that no place in the world could ever be like her home. Baami’s two-bedroom flat might not be able to compete with Auntie Shade's bungalow, but it was home, nonetheless. It has always been, and it always would be. 

     Even though her paternal relatives selfishly begged to differ. 

     Those ingrates saw her father's demise as an opportunity rather than a tragedy. It didn't take long for them to ransack all that he worked tirelessly for. Whatever happens to his daughter was none of their business. Aramide couldn't fathom the resentment they felt specifically for her mother. As young as she was, she'd noticed the way Grandma eyed Maami’s cooperate wears and fancy bags. She'd seen Auntie Doyin cock a brow whenever Maami dared to mention an English word that sounded foreign to them. 

     “My family isn't used to having graduates as wives,” Baami once said, which invariably explained the pathetic set up. They must've felt oppressed by her mother's sophisticated aura, but had they moved closer, they would have realised how harmless Eleduwa made her. Maami was a graduate who didnt just know, but understood, culture. Her yam flour was way fluffier than Grandmas, her lafu was even much more perfect. Maami never forgot to sprinkle those locust beans into her ewedu, how could Aramide possibly forget the way it would draw and mix deliciously with her one-of-a-kind stew. 

     Still, her mother's courtesy didnt end there. When it was time to serve her husband, she would then bend as much as her plump figure could tolerate, and with a tray of her sumptuous meal secured in both hands, her lips would chant Baami’s eulogy with such fluency. 

     Aramide guessed that was why her mother gave up on life together with her husband. There was no way Maami would've lived without Baami. Baami wouldn't have coped without Maami either. Notwithstanding, she felt like they should've put her fifteen year old self into consideration at least. How difficult it was for her to continue dwelling on earth without them! 

     Dont get her wrong though. It was true that Auntie Shade couldn't be more perfect as a guardian. The woman was just so generous. Back then, when Aramide wore nothing other than a black hue, Auntie Shade never ceased from asking how she was faring. The grieving girl would stare back blankly most of the time, but it still never hindered her genuine interest. Aramide couldn't pass over those moments when her aunt would drop a tray of her delicious meal by her bedroom door, and that was after knocking for several minutes without any response. One thing Aramide was mostly grateful for, was the fact that her Aunt chose to sponsor her studies, against Uncle Dele’s strong will. 

     “She's a girl who would be someones wife one day. We shouldn't waste so much on her education. We can't afford to!” He whispered frustratingly to his wife. 

     “It's what my older sister would have wanted, and that's exactly what I am going to do. Even if it means I will have to bear the expenses. That girl wants to continue schooling, why should we advise her against it?” Auntie Shade argued. 

     “Ehen, I like what you've just said now! So long as you pledge to be responsible for her, that's your problem.”

     “I will bear it. The spirit of my sister will help me bear it!” Auntie Shade promised. And she fulfilled it. 

     “My dear, please listen to whatever your teacher has to say when you get to school shogbo?” Auntie Shade used to tell her every morning during her senior secondary school days. It was a far cry from the smile Maami would flash, coupled with the eulogy Baami would reel off, but Aramide welcomed the new affection all the same. The Methodist girls school stretched far away from Bodija, as Auntie Shade's compassionate heart wouldnt be settled until she'd ushered her little niece to the school gate in her baby blue Peugeot.

     By the time Aramide made it into a University out of Ibadan though, Auntie Shade's lecture inevitably changed. “Aramide, Aramide, Aramide.

Read " Zakia " by the same author ( Ishola Ubaydah )

. How many times did I call you?” She asked. 

     “Thrice ma.”

     She nodded. “My dear, it's the university you're progressing into now. Please remember the daughter of whom you are. Do not disappoint me Aramide, do not disappoint the spirit of my late sister. Just face your studies, and do away with any bad influence, any form of distraction, shogbo?”

     “Yes ma,” Aramide vowed. And it was this vow that restrained her from partying every night like the rest of the girls at school. It was this vow that flashed back to her memory whenever she'd procrastinated her study time long enough. Aramide couldn't pinpoint exactly if her utmost concentration at Uni was as a result of the fear of disappointing her dear Aunt who ensured she furthered her education despite her husband's opposition. Or the fear of not being able to meet up with the standards her parents had set before their unfortunate demise. She supposed it was a balance between the two; both reasons held their uncompromising essence. 

     Auntie Shade's house stared Aramide back at the face some few minutes later, and despite the heaviness on her flat chest, the twenty-three-year old still managed a small smile. All in all, she was back at Ibadan, the pacesetter city.

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