Photocopies

There I was in the dark.

My eyes widened in unfamiliar darkness. I heard children running around somewhere upstairs.

I ran.

I ran up the stairs as fast as my legs could carry me.

I ran into a strangers house.

I had never been inside one before. By the time I had realised where I was to take the scenery in I had began feeling faint.

I was in a 'face-me-I-face-you'. It looked like it.

Walls blackened from years of stories untold.

"Have you peepo close the door?" She shouted

I didn't respond. I couldn't. I was a mute.

Through the spaces in the walls of the brick stair case, we stared into the street.

A woman in the house went downstairs to lock the door. She struggled with the simple hook at the back of the door

"As if that would provide any form security..." I muttered under my breath.

She came up the stairs and looked at us as she ascended.
"Ejo e ma binu ma..." I said to her in the most genuine yoruba accent I could come up with.
"Ah binu ke? Dont worry, what are we here for if not to help each other."

I did not know her from Adam.

This stranger had offered a lady and I her stairwell as a hideaway.

Was I still in Lagos?

I looked on through the spaces in the brick wall. I saw the streets, they were empty.

The police, civillians, touts, all gone.

How did I get into a face-me-I-face-you in the dark with a total stranger??

The man was suddenly running in my direction when he fell. I thought nothing of it.
I thought nothing of it until he twitched on the ground and a violet-red substance oozed from his body unto the brown earth.

Somebody shot him.

The policeman shot him.

The police was everywhere. Here, there, everywhere. They weilded there guns. Guns with necks as long as those of girraffees.

You see, I knew those were guns. I never realised they actually made use of them. I knew those weapons were not for fancy. But I just never thought I would see its use first hand.

Quiet had returned to the street. The woman who ran into the strangers house with me began crying.

"My pikin oh... she dey road. she just dey come back from school. I'm calling her now her phone number is not available. Chaaaii"

I wondered if her daughter was the second person I heard had been shot. I could just imagine her laying on the ground, school uniform stained. Or was she somewhere hiding just as we were?

I was back to being mute. I could not utter a simple statement to console her.

She asked me where I was headed when the riot broke out. I was still mute.

She must have thought I was rude.
I just could not find words, a first in my life.

All I wanted were photocopies.

As I beheld the man twitching on the ground, there was no thought in my head. None whatsoever.

Now that I think about it no one told me to make my next move.

I ran.

I ran so fast I could feel my heart thumping against my rib cage. There I was with all the important documents I had acquired in my little life. And I was just running.

I didnt care about where I was running towards, whether it was towards greater danger, I had no idea.

It was in the home of that stranger that I realised I still had my documents intact.
Minutes later I remebered why I had left my house. The photocopies.

I sited a small storey building during my survey of the street.

'MAKE YOUR COPIES HIA'

Do I bolt out into the adjacent house?

Guess what?

I thanked one of tenants of the face-me-I-face-you. Unbolted the door, shut my eyes and ran as the crow flies across the street.

Stupid.

But I had to get those copies made.
It was a small room. If I could imagine a prison cell, that was exactly what this looked like. But this cell had about 6 old school computers crammed in it with a copy machine.

A copy machine!

It was hot. It was hot and it smelled.

The room was filled with relatively young men all typing away. Rather copying and pasting the same messages to God knows who on the other side of the globe.

Waiting to get my copies done, I realised if the EFCC walked in there I was dead meat.

I was in the midst of 'yahoo boys'

I was right there with a folder in my hands, wearing pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. I fit right in. LOL

No cell phone to even call home with. LoL

Naaaahhhh. Two horrible things couldn't happen to me in one day.

I was finally done. Still stunned, I paid and did not even wait for my change.

I still do not know how I got home.

Back in my bed, pyjamas still on. I mulled over all that had happened in the 'safety' of my house.

I wondered who the man was. I remember seeing his eyes roll back as he bled to the ground. What did he see as he passed away?

Did his life flash before his eyes? Did he live to see me running for the hills?

Would I have opened my doors to total strangers? Strangers who were runing at top speed?

I doubt it.

All I remeber was that my concern was getting home with my photocopies made. Was that sheer madness or determination?

I mean I had one of the greatest deals of my life the next day to prepare for.
Cut me some slack.

Hold on.

Aren't the Nigerian police supposed to protect me? Why were they firing into the crowd towards me?

Why did I perceive this air of normalcy despite the chaotic circumstances? Could it be that people had become used to this kind of irrationality from the Nigerian police?

All I wanted were some damn photocopies.

Today, I realised that admist chaos there is still so much to be grateful for.

There are kind people out there. They live in the most unlikely places that we may look down on.

One never knows who HE would send to be our guardian angel.

On my way out tomorrow I would probably pass by that face-me-I-face-you. I doubt I would even remember what street it was in talk less of the particular house.

But tonight I will pray for that woman and her family. I will pray for the man who passed away. I will aslo pray for the lady who was looking for her child. The yahoo boys, the nigerian police, I will pray for them. For this country I will also pray.

I will pray that my children would not have to see what I saw today.

I will pray that they will not inherit the knowledge that the government and politicians of their fatherland don't give a shit about their lives.

That stray bullet could have hit me.

But it did not.

So I will do the only thing I know how.

Pray.


'DWN

Sun ré

Don't cry

don't cry

don't cry....

Error...! lol

Face full of tears and snot. I remember you today as I have everyday.

I wish I could talk to you again. Just one last time.

I miss you so much.

Mama your bébé is grown up. Your 'Dewunmi is all 'growed' up.

I remember holding your frail hands and your wise cracks about my untamed eyebrows. In the face of death you were still a comedian. I was your number one fan until the end.

It was hard. The first birthday, first christmas, new year, graduation. All without you. But here I am mama, years down the line.

I still miss you so much.

They said it would get better. But truthfully it feels just like yesterday. In fact it feels like its happening all over again today.

I honestly wish you were still here. But God loves you way more than I can ever love you.

I'm standing here at your favourite spot watching the rain drops making little ringlets in the puddles.

Watching those 'white-rose-like-plant-thingies' flourish.
I remember how you used to pluck one flower a day for my hair and tell me I was the most beautiful creature ever.

I hear you speak to me. I hear your smooth silky laughter.

I can feel you hold me. You tell me what you've always told me: "You'll be fine bébé..."

You were right.

You said you won't be able to speak to me as much from then on. You said you would always be with me.

I miss you so bad.

I remeber after you left, I would see someone who I thought was you in a crowd. I would chase the stranger down the street hoping it was you.

Hoping it was all a bad joke.

Hoping you were coming home later that night.

You never came.

I went from having strength to being frail and then I went to the Father. The One who comforts the sorrowed.

He told me you were fine. That He needed you to be with him.

He said to trust him.

I did.

I could swear I saw you yesterday. You sat right there on the wing of that 787.

Dressed in your african print boubou. A beauty to behold as the sun rose and cast its bright light upon your smiling face.

I heard you: "Adewunmi oyinlola oyemipo, ka ka ka ti n ya aja le nu... Sho o wa pa?"

The mischief, rife in your voice. LOL

If I had one more chance to see you I would just hold you.

I would just hold you to feel your touch once again.

There would be no need to speak. There would be no need for tears.

I would just hold you.

Through it all I have taken all of it to the Father. My hopes, dreams, tears...

He keeps telling me trust him and to hold on.

The one truest and greatest gift you left with me was the the knowledge of He that changeth not.

So mama here I am everyday sharing the lovely memories we had with anyone and everyone who cares to listen loool

I still don't know about that massive wedding you wanted, still on the hunt for 'le one'. -___- It's a jungle out there mama! Lol

But I'm here, I am now and I will never forget your words:

"Bébé don't ever settle for less than you are worth. You can do anything so long as your mind can conceive it. You can be everything and anything..."

I might have settled for less at several points in my young life. But that's why today comes once every year to remind me of all the values you taught me.

Everyday in my walk with the 'I AM', I pray that he fulfils all the dreams you had for me. And that in the hollow of his hands I attain all that I hope to.

I also pray that I grow to love and understand Him as fully as you've always wished me to.

Iya mi, sun re ó

'DWN

Irapada

"Stop pushing my head up and down, just cut it well now..!"

He sat in a plastic chair scratching the "lapa lapa" that had spread as wide as the map of Africa all over his scalp. The scaly whites of the infection fell like snow flakes onto his green and brown ankara shirt.

"Which kind dance you dey doooo... Azonto!" Yelled on the boy who was the barber for that sunday. He whistled on the tune of the song as he stretched from his 4foot height to reach the head he was trimming. I wondered how he kept the hair he cut out of his mouth with all his singing.

"Saheed nor cut abolo for me oh... Or else Ma fun e ni ese" The next victim.. Err sorry 'customer' promised saheed as he punched the air showing saheed a sample of his abilities. The other boys whilst waiting on their turns argued about the technicalities of the soccer match showing on the television.

"Allah hu hakbar..!!"

I turned to the left, a couple of boys had begun their prayers. On mats of woven rubber coloured orange and blue they worshipped, and gave thanks to their creator.

There I sat on a bench in their hall. The orange from the rays of the sun shone in. They shone illuminating the room, seemingly giving life to the dust particles suspended in mid-air.
The figures of the boys cast shadows onto the yellow wall. The shadows on the wall gave off strength and strongwill, they were those of men not boys.

It seemed like something from somewhere I had never been.

The boys were courteous yet curious. Each one passing by managing to mutter a quick 'Good morning ma' as they went about thier business.

Short, tall, dark, fair, boys from different tribes. All Uncle Fash's children.

He caressed the blue and white beads in the palm of his hands. Saheed was saying the rosary. His eyes deep set. Eyes that had probably seen it all. They seemed to have their sight set on something. Something very far of, far away, somewhere I probably could never imagine.

He probably had his sights set on somewhere in the future. Or was it the past?

"Here amongst us there are doctors, there is even a president here.."

Did they believe that? Was she just giving them hope for hope sake? I wondered if they felt this lady was telling tales. I wondered if there was truly a president-to-be of our country at this chapel service.

For the first time ever, I had met a church group that had come to speak to the boys. The woman who spoke to the boys spoke about taking ones life into his hands and making the best of a hopeless situation. She spoke of breaking free from perceived limitations.

You see, I don't doubt that statement. But some part of my mind did. I must admit, I doubted if any success stories were going to come out of this room.
I wondered what Saheed thought about the womans speech. I hoped he believed he could break free and probably he could be that 'president in our midst'

Somewhere in the far corner of my mind I asked myself if I believed the words of the preacher. Did I truly believe that Saheed could break free and be a success? I mean here he is in a correctional institution for boys. How was any breakthrough going to happen?

I had no idea of how long boys like Saheed where to be in the facility. But I had only mere ideas regarding the conditions which had turned them into Uncle Fash's children.

Some of these young boys had committed heneous crimes ranging from armed robbery to rape. Others had simply been the grass when their parents, the elephants, clashed and realised they could no longer fend for their wards. There were also those that were simply lost and could not find their way back home.

As always, I placed myself in their shoes. And of course, I could not even properly envisage being without the comforts of a home, of a family. How would it feel to be lost? To literally not be able to find your home, your family? To have to make unfamiliar people family, to accept a new destiny. How would that feel...?

It's not just about feelings. The scheme of one's life would definately change.

But for the young boys who had tasted the bitter cider of criminality so early, it is a chance for a turn around, for 'irapada' (redemption).

At the chapel service, I looked at the faces of the boys. Each one different, each face with scars. I wondered what stories lay behind each scar.

"Okeke! Okeke! Come here... Your mama wan see you." Called a domitory leader.
This call caused a flash, a lightning bolt in form of a boy to speed past everyone. If there was any form of hope for any of the boys, it was definatley a visit that did the trick.

The next boy Isa, was not in such a hurry to see his visitor. Isa was no more than 5 feet, he dragged his feet along the corridor, he tarried. This boy seemed detached from all the other boys. I assumed he was new. I wondered what contempt he had for his visitor. I overheard wispers that he had committed a crime against his own family member. Was that the family member who had come to visit?

The realities of the boys home had began to dawn on me. Of course, I was moved to realise how priviledged I have been. Here I was at front row seat watching the other side of life. But at this facility I had no new realisation. None whatsoever, or so it seemed.

"I will beat you today ehnn... You think you can get away..."
They had pounced on each other and were going at it for a couple of seconds. The guardians came in an separated the two boys. The boys had scuffed their ankara sunday wear. Dare and Abel were kneeling down now, facing a wall. They had defaulted. The correctional facility had a 'no-fighting' rule. Fighting around these parts was the greatest sin. The boys guardian seemed worried. He stated that the two boys were new and needed time to adjust and that they needed more counselling hours. It seemed like he was apologising, I felt it was unecessary to do so.

"When boys under these conditions have a little scuffle, everyone is terrified and they run away. But when the aje-butter kids fight people say they need counselling" said a guardian at the home. I laughed and realised the truth in his words.
We easily write off people under such circumstances. Was it a human thing to do? A trait?

I had done just that in the deep recesses of my mind. I had reconsidered the preachers words when she said that a president of the nation was in the chapel. What if he truly was there? It seemed corny and cliched.
But what if a future president was there in that chapel standing next to me in ankara sunday wear? Would I treat him any different if I knew who he was? Would I 'famz'?

Was I wrong for writing off Saheed, Isa, Okeke, Dare, Abel in my heart? Or was I just being realistic that they might all amount to nothing just because of the nature of their formative years?
Did we donate to the boys home just because it was the cosmopolitan thing to do? Or maybe it was because it was the world-peace-united-nations thing to do?
Or were we donating to rid ourselves of the guilt of living so lavishly?

Uncle Fash had provided for the boys. It was their home. They went to school, played ball in the afternoons. They were fed properly, clothed and of course sheltered. Several of the boys had learnt all sorts of arts and crafts. Some started a cane furniture business and proudly displayed their craft. Others made tie-dye 'adire' fabric whilst others were masters at tailoring the fabric. It was mandatory for each boy to learn a craft, a means of income when they leave the facility.

"Come unto me all yea who are heavy laden and..." His voice echoed throughout the hall as he read a bible passage during the service. That was samson.
He said he loved to read and was hoping one day to be a writer. He had suffered horrible burns all over his body in a fire that had claimed the lives of his parents.
Another version of the story was that he was set on fire by a member of his family that night but he survived. No one had come looking for him, from the night of the fire, to the hospital and now here at the facility. No one.

Over time I have found strength in the most unlikely places and people. This was no different. These boys evoked strength. The had nothing, absolutely nothing.
Nothing but the clothes, food and shelter Uncle Fash had given them. They had their whole lives ahead of them with nothing. But in that nothingness lies the greatest strength of all.

This situation was a perfect example of the birds in the sky. No one goes out of their way to feed them or care for them. But they still grace the skies, they are still existent in all their radiant beauty.

This place has truly been a home. A home for the lost boys.

Say a prayer for them this festive season and at all times. And if by any chance you are in Nigeria, make it down to Lagos and head to Kudirat Abiola way, Oregun. Stop at the welfare bus stop, go in and share some goodwill with Uncle Fash's boys, Our boys.

I realised one thing though.

I realised that the outcomes of the lives of the children here was not in my hands or in that far corner of my mind. The outcomes were in their own hands. It was their choice to harness their strength to propel them to the lives they desired, right at the top.

Musiliu was leaving the home the following week. He had started a tailoring and embroidery business. He was about to be airborne. From being a petty thief to Uncle Fash's son and now owning his own business.

This was his big victory.

This was his 'Irapada'.

'DWN