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