First Gentleman with Wilson Orhiunu
Email: babawill2000@gmail.com Twitter: @Babawilly
If Lagos was Bethlehem then the landlord was the tax collector, King Herod was a Nigerian bank and Caesar was the Federal Government. The people will always be the people through the ages; they work hard, deny themselves to have money to pay the landlord.
Papa Nneka hated the banks and Federal Government with all his heart yet he could still find space in his overcrowded heart for hatred towards his landlord. Yearly rent reviews brought frustration while they all waited for Christmas and fuel. The petrol stations had long queues that perplexed everyone.
In the abundance of water
The fool is thirsty
One year ago after losing his job as a motor mechanic, Papa Nneka suddenly announced that he was leaving the “rat race”. He was no more prepared to work for the “crazy baldheads” anymore but would rather put on an iron shirt and drive Satan out of the earth. Mama Nneka initially thought her hardworking husband was going through a phase and that the new habit of smoking a “lickle herb” to aid consciousness would soon pass away. She gave him his space and he smoked even more herb.
Now they were about to be evicted from their two-bedroom flat as they were five months behind on the rent, and Mama Nneka was petrified for she had witnessed two forced evictions by landlords that broke her spirit. The two families had lived on Balogun Avenue which was a close-knit community for over five years. In this corner of Lagos, you had folks who valued their tenancy agreement document much more than they did their national identity. While living on Balogun Avenue and being a fully paid-up member of the residents’ association, some felt they couldn’t quite point out the advantages of being Nigerian.
Thugs stormed the homes and threw treasured personal effects on the road which the wind took further along while neighbours chased after. Papa Nneka shook his head when his wife told him of these ordeals she had witnessed.
It is a disgrace
For the human race
The community had Christmas parties where landlords and tenants shared drinks and food while they wished each other the very best for the coming year, the evictions made mockery of their community spirit.
Man to man is so unjust
Children, you don’t who to trust
Some will eat and drink with you
And behind you them su-su upon you
But what happened to No 47 was particularly violent. The home owner had taken out a loan secured on his home which housed three other tenant. When repayments could no longer continue, the bank sent a mini battalion to repossess the property. It looked like an act of war. A truckload of security men appeared on the street and introduced themselves by looping tear gas cylinders over the fence. The building was soon evacuated and sealed off and numerous posters were pasted on the gates and walls informing the public that the ownership had changed hands.
Mama Nneka cried her heart out but her husband was cool and reassured her. He smoked his weed and insisted that his family would not be evicted but rather deliverance would come. He started singing
Zion train is coming out way
Mama Nneka stayed up all night as their two-year-old daughter Nneka couldn’t sleep in the heat. The fuel scarcity had converted the festive season into a mosquito and darkness season while the dry harmattan air seems to usher in dry pockets. True to his words, the landlord had thugs arrive at the crack of dawn ready to evict and they met Papa Nneka smoking a joint at his front door. His wife ran out to meet him with a face that looked like it had seen death.
“Where is your Zion train you useless man. Where are we going to go now? I don suffer,” she began.
Papa Nneka seemed to have found the perfect antidote to Lagos wahala as he was unmoved. He waved his hand at her to be silent and with glazed eyes began to speak
We know where we are going
We know where we are from
We live in Babylon
We are going to the promised land
Exodus
Mama Nneka had not spoken to her husband for three weeks. They lived in the boys’ quarters of her younger sister and were forced to take food and some pocket money.
“It is only a loan” she would always say when money changed hands. That was the only way she knew how to cling to the little dignity she had left.
She left Nneka with her sister in the main house and went for a shower. She wore her blue towel across her chest but it barely reached down to her upper thighs. She put her right foot on the edge of the bed and began to massage in the cream into her skin. Papa Nneka watched her like a village hawk.
It’s been three weeks since I’m knocking on your door
And I still can knock some more
Ya see, in life I know there’s lots of grief
But your love is my relief
This time Mama Nneka spoke softly.
“Why don’t you get a job?”
I will my darling. I will start looking next week.
I wanna love
And treat you right
I wanna love you
Every day and every night
Nine months to the date, Mama Nneka was in the labour rooms sweating it out. Papa Nneka did not get the job. The doctors said it would be a Caesarean section and Mama Nneka’s sister said she would pay the bill.
Mama Nneka was burdened with the weight of shame as she was wheeled to theatre. The shame made way for the painful contractions every four minutes only to return.
Papa Nneka stroked her hand
No woman No Cry
Everything’s gonna be alright
