What you don’t know about me

My earliest memories were of landscapes, or put in a better perspective, hillscapes: beautiful scenery of hills and valleys; the freshest green foliage infused with flowers of diverse make amongst the tallest palm trees imaginable, all swaying gently or violently, as the elements will have it, in a land that could rival any ever seen by man.

Both my maternal home and my father’s hometown are situated in the hills of Anike. While my ancestral home sits atop a windswept plateau, my maternal home was situated in a valley—my use of the word ‘was’ is acceptable here because as a result of the tragic influence of modernity, the people of my maternal homeland have moved en masse to a barren hill a few miles from the land that was their ancestors abode. Their new abode’s only importance is the fact that an asphalt road dissects its white soiled length.

I weep for the town of my youth that is now a ghost town, abandoned by its inhabitants. It is the only ghost town I know in Nigeria, but this story is not about it. It is not about my homeland either. The story is about my life, my situation and me. This story walks the path of my fears and caresses my elusive salvation. To write about this, I must travel back to those early days, I must call to mind those things that captivated my soul’s root, the sights that I saw cradled in mother’s arm, looking out at the valleys bestriding hills that seemed nearer than they were.

I could tell you about the trips to Ezi-agu, the farm where spirits were said to dwell and where on moon light nights, farmers trudged to harvest the late yam meant for the barn. No! That will be dragging you into the mud bath of long befuddled memory. I rather prefer to talk at length about my childhood and its peculiarity.

But, where does one start? Yes, I think we should start from my very first and last act of stealing, not for any reason, but because it is a good place to start as any.

I was not caught stealing. Far from it, I successfully palmed the 5 kobo and bought ‘chart’, a banana flavoured sweet with a sturdy wooden shaft that offers a good handhold while you battle with it (I have not seen the like of it in ages, it must have gone with many other memories, into oblivion). In addition, I escaped with the big opiola mango left in a big iron pot to ripen. I recall that it was while I was enjoying the rather juicy fruit at the bush ward side of our mud compound wall that a thought struck me. Why not ask mother? I must have looked rather comical with a big wet dripping mango sticking out of my little mouth, my eyes so wide open it must have radiated the brilliant light of discovery. “Why not ask mother?” I know that she will not say no and even if she initially says no, I can pester her until she agrees. I immediately set out to try out my hunch. It worked. I have not had any cause to steal again.

I recall the joy of running downhill to the stream to fetch water. That, is the easy part and not as fun as being allowed by the bigger kids to lug a can back up the incline. I remember vividly the several falls as we graduated from carrying 1 litre cans to 1 gallon and from that progressively to 25/30 litres ‘the ultimate for any adult’. At first, we needed help to lift them onto our heads—a competitive business if there was ever one. Later we could all do it easily and turned our competition to who can run or walk fastest with a full can on his/her head. The unwritten rule was for the age grade ahead to show the younger ones the way that we followed with enthusiasm.

I recall the masquerade games, were I usually had the honour of wearing the mask. Yes, I was energetic and carefree, a leader of my peer group and a noted face at the moonlight games. But, all these were before polio came knocking on my leg’s door.

Before this, I have started playing football, a goalkeeper I was and people still remember the skills I exhibited at that early age. I was fearless and was always selected amongst the first six during our 4-6-year-olds’ monkey post matches.

When did polio come? I can’t say. Perhaps my father knows, but he is not here anymore to tell. Mother doesn’t know, she says three years, or four years. She knows one thing for sure: it was before primary school.

I cannot recall all that happened or the sequence of events even if I tried, because time and age has made all of it murky and tattered to my mind’s eye. Telling it like my mama tells it would not do much good either for she cries bitterly anytime she narrates it that her tale is left with too many sob breaks to make much head of. The summary is rather simple and plain—as stories of polio, attacks usually are. She left me with a niece as she headed for the market one day and returned to meet me on the floor trying bravely to rise on a flabby leg to welcome her. She said that she immediately knew that something was wrong with my leg but did not know what it was then.

The story is that after some consultations I was diagnosed with polio and at about three and a half years lost the use of my left leg.

Mother did everything she could. I know she still blames herself to this day. She feels it is her fault, had she not gone to the market maybe, just maybe, she would have seen the sign before it is too late.

They did not know it was not too late, who was there to tell them about therapy, about the whirlpools, pedals and support straps that would have helped my strong spirit.

I see the look of intense sadness that crosses her eyes when we talk about things I can never do. I noticed how she looks away when the need to use a cane comes upon me like it does more often than not these days. I know she agonizes about it day and night. I know but I do not say anything. I rather not say anything that will deepen the pain, hers, everybody’s, mine.

Yes, I at times get mad at a world that fails to understand a handicapped person’s frustration. Yes, I could have being a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, an engineer, even a musician, but perhaps you should try to imagine a situation where I have a choice. What if I wanted only to be a soldier, a policeman, a footballer or even an athlete? No! Do not tell me I am lucky I am alive or that I can, and have survived.

I still I wake up on certain days to the stiffness on my hip, I beg for sleep other nights as a numbing pain keep my eyes alight. The taunts that followed me from childhood are a part of me now, I have accepted the moniker ‘the lame one’ and it is who I am and that begs no lie.

I surprise a few people these days with the truth about my ‘swagger’. They thought my limp is a sort of fashion style that they would love to emulate. Suddenly my limp is now a fashionable style that is in vogue. Pardon me; will you like to learn my swagger?

You know, the funniest thing happened the other day, I heard over the radio that the government was trying to administer a polio drug to some babies and somebody, probably a traditional chief or holy man, advised people against the proffered vaccine. I laugh at his stupidity, I see him as a mental cripple who needs to see more of us around in other to convince himself he is whole. Aaaagh! I wish I was close enough to hit him.

You know some diseases have cure, but polio once acquired is to the grave.

I look out my window in the concrete forest that I now live in, I wonder at the grit and scum that evades everywhere and wrinkle my nose at the nauseating stench from open drains. Yes I miss my home in the hills, there where the sunset is full of colours and the air is sweet and filling. That thought takes my mind away from the throbbing in my left leg.

I want to go back, but sustenance keeps me tied to this wreck of an existence.

What else about me don’t you know?