I Remember

I REMEMBER! Seun Touch®* Whenever you get to my village, please remember to tell Àwèró for me, that the thoughts of her these times are the ceaseless cockcrow that breaks my every lonely day. Please tell Àwèró for me that life is fast here in the city, life is as fast as that kite that used to carry our chicks away back in the village; it is that fast, if not faster, Àwèró. Life is as fast as we used to run those days when we played hide and seek in your father’s big compound; here I have to hold on lest life in the city passes me by. Àwèró, I remember, those first green days of our rustic innocence- when holding your hands was heaven, while we ran errands down the uneven paths to our mud brick homes. I remember those days, before the crash and booms of distant hollow metals and heavy thunders of white men’s guns, when you used to laugh your heart out while I ruffled at your backyard your pitch black hair. I remember, those days when I ate stolen mangoes, only with you, somewhere in the evenings on the way back from the village farmlands. I remember, Àwèró, those years when I watched you dance with other village girls out in the moonlit nights. Oh Àwèró, do they still dance at night? And do you still dance with the girls? Do you still wriggle your waist in the front of smiling young men- it makes me jealous to ask you this- but Oh! I miss the moonlight dances! I wish I was there to dance with you and to watch you dance again. I remember us growing as children then in the village market (what about the king’s market Àwèró? Do they still sell wàrà1, àádùn àkàrà2-elépo3 and the delicacies of old? Or have they taken over everything like they took over our oil and our cocoa farmlands?); I remember our little love then growing with us in our little hearts. I remember, my father and my mother and your mother and your father, who saw no more to us than childhood friends, I remember, they thought we were very innocent but Oh! In our eyes those days, we were wiser; at least we felt things in our minds in those days that the few words we understood in our mouths could not explain. 1 2 3

cheese Fritter made from black eyed peas or another pulse, or sometimes from fish - fried in palm oil

I still remember those days like the of name of my master’s dog, here in the city, it still drums in my heart Àwèró every time I invest a moment to thinking about you. Indeed thinking about you here Àwèró, is sweeter in my blood than several cups of ògógóró taken together! I remember the night the village teacher came to my father’s house, to tell Papa to send me to school in the city. (By the way, how is he now? - Mr. Fákúnlé, he must be so old now. If he is still living please greet him for me.) Do you remember Àwèró that he came to your father’s house too-but your father refused to let you go; till now I do not know why. Was it because you were a girl child Àwèró? Was it because you were not a boy? School is good Àwèró, I wish you had come, though life in the city is so fast. School is I remember, they thought we

still so good, here we learn big Englishes like

were very innocent but - Oh!

amalgamation, assimilation, registration and

In our eyes those days, we

matriculation; (you may try to practice some of

were wiser; at least we felt

these words with your friends there in the village.)

things in our minds that the

But life is so fast here, Àwèró, I should soon be

few words we understood in

coming back to the village. Not for any mischief

those

again this time, but because I have almost finished

days

could

not

explain…

with the white man’s school.

Still, Àwèró, I wish you had come to school, why did your father refuse? Was it because you were his only girl? Till now, I do not know? But I don’t think this will affect the love I have for you, though I have met many city girls. Yes! City girls very unlike you in the village, city girls who put several things on their faces to make us see them better from afar, they are not like you- no! - They even do not wear ileke4, they are not like you. I have seen city girls, very big in size that they make my lips tremble to talk to them, they drive all around the city in big cars, - city cars, not like the trucks we had back in the village. I wish you could come to the city Àwèró, I wish even that you could come quick. Because this week we are not going to stay at home every night- me and my masterthis week I will be driving Ògá5 all round town with his big city girls, this week city people celebrate love the city way. Oh Àwèró, love in the city is different from that in the village! 4 5

Beads worn around the waist Yoruba word for master

Love in the city is expensive- yes you buy it with money. I wish you could come quick Àwèró my village love, so I can drive you round in Ògá’s car while he is busy with his city girls. I know you cannot come but still I am not sad, because I will be back home soon. How is your mother Àwèró? And your friends with whom we used to play in those days? They must all be grown up too now. Every day in the city I remember – Ògá tells me- I am not a boy again myself; Ògá tells me everyday that one day I will have a family; every day Ògá tells me to try to have a wife someday and not be like him. Every time we talk these things Àwèró, I think about you. Are you still the village girl you used to be Àwèró? Will I be proud when I see you again? Can we still run around the riverbanks with the evening sun as our only witness? Can you still turn your face to your father’s fence and tell me not to leave you

…this week city people celebrate love the city way. Oh Àwèró, love in the city is different from that in the village!

Love

in

the

city

is

expensive- yes you buy it with money. I wish you could come quick Àwèró my village love…

for the city? Can you still shed a tear like that night and tell me how your heart runs so fast for me Àwèró? Are we still in love like we used to be? All these I do not know, but I know that soon I will be home to see you again, my village love. I know I will see the pélé6 on your ebony face when I get to the village again, please shed no tear. Please postmaster, when you get to my village, tell Àwèró to learn how to write a letter too, so I can hear from the face of white papers, the whispers of that her voice from far away.

6

A type of tribal mark felt by some in the village to enhance beauty

* Omotoso, Oluwaseun Adedayo, Columnist and freelance writer. Omotoso, Oluwaseun Adedayo is the Principal Partner of Image-Anew® Nigeria, an organization geared at human resource management and cultivation of seeds of leadership in young minds. His works have been published in national dailies and a couple of websites. Omotoso is presently working on his novel, The Rusty Metropolis. See personal blog, www.oluwaseunayofunmi.blogspot.com. For feedback; [email protected]; [email protected]; +234(0)8053240248;+234(0)7033324004