MORE WINE PLEASE

When I had the opportunity of relocating from Lagos to Owerri, I saw it as an opportunity to be nearer home. It has been a long time since I stepped my foot in my village, sorry, homestead. While, some people did so once every year due to the pressures of work, others traveled home twice a year, especially during festive periods (Easter and Christmas). But for me, not visiting home was a thing of pride. I wanted to acquire education, fame and fortune before visiting home to announce my ‘arrival’.

On arrival at the Sam Mbakwe airport, I took a cab to a waiting apartment somewhere in the heart of the Eastern Heartland. It was there I found out that the city I left seven to 10 years ago, had recorded very conspicuous transformation. There had been significant effort in tree planting and beautification of the city. Street trading had been outlawed and thus transportation to some extent in the heart of the city was easy. But what marvelled me was the indiscriminate erection of hotels in the city. Pubs, bars, and clubs were virtually a stone throw from each other turning a once quiet city to a hospitality state sorry a millionaire’s haven.  You could see them at dusk, pot bellied, drinking beer or some exotic wine with two or three of the fairer sex tickling them and laughing at every word that comes out of their mouth.

I did not want to start competing with these millionaires in bars and clubs. I rushed off to have a taste of the village. Lonely as it is, it provided an opportunity for me to do some assessment of my life and the village I called home.

Early in the morning, amidst the morning dew and cold, I took long walks (a health therapy). The two sets of people I always met were the hunters and palm wine tappers. On rare occasions, I met women carrying goods straddled on their heads or shoulders heading to the market or young boys with hoes and cutlasses heading for the farm.

It was on one of these days (in fact the fourth day) that it had dawned on me that I was yet to taste original fresh palm wine. My mind was at work immediately and I concluded what to do. I headed off that morning for my usual walk but at the back of my mind, purchasing fresh palm wine was top most priority.  The best time to purchase palm wine, I had learnt from elders, was very early in the morning   (to forestall any attempt of diluting the brew with water or any other chemical by either the tappers or the middlemen who buy it from them).

It didn’t take long for me to track down one of the known tappers from my clan. I joined him on his way back from ‘work’ and we shared banters. Immediately we got to his home, he gave me a big cup (bigger than the mug) filled with fresh palm wine.  He blessed it, poured some on the bare earth, I did same and we drank up after he had said some prayers.  It felt refreshingly good.  I immediately paid for a five–litre gallon and promised to return the empty keg in the evening.

On my way home thoughts flew into my head; what will I take with this palm wine to get maximum refreshment? Suddenly, I remembered roasted meat and oil bean or Ugba in local parlance. But ugba would be a long thrust. I decided to go for the meat alone. Off I went again in search of a hunter. I was lucky that I had two members of age grade whose fathers were hunters.  These age mates of mine practised once in a while when they were in the village.

My first port of call did not yield divided as the old man told me his catch was booked by a politician who was expecting guests later that day. No amount of persuasion made him bulge. Though the politician had not paid and I had the full payment with me, the old hunter blatantly refused. These politicians have even invaded our villages with their sweet tongues, I mused.

My second port of call was fruitful. I even asked myself why I had to go the extra mile of persuading a stiff-necked man to part with a good he was unwilling to sell to me.

I paid N800 and went off with a king-sized grass cutter weighing nearly 20 kilogrammes. The hunter had told me that it was because of my acquaintance with his son that he sold the rodent at a giveaway price. I gladly blessed him and left.

Cooking the rodent was not a very difficult task. I had a handful of female cousins disturbing my peace, running my daily affairs and robbing me of hard earned money in form of tokens and change. I called the closest, ‘Senator’ to do the cooking. She had said several times that her dream was to become a senator of the Federal Republic, even though her parents had primed her to be a Reverend Sister. She took up the nickname ‘senator’ to keep her dream alive.

My mouth salivated when the aroma of simmering meat penetrated the large parlour. I would enjoy a good local dish and wash it down with fresh palm wine, I thought.

No sooner had I finished thinking than I saw two of my friends Osy and Chijioke strolling in. My heart somersaulted into my stomach. Right from Lagos where we met, I had known them for their insatiable appetite. I didn’t know they were at home (even if I knew I would have avoided them and they knew).

But from what Osy said, they had gone to the same hunter I bought the rodent from to make a purchase and were informed that I had bought his catch.

Osy said, “You want to enjoy the grass cutter alone?” perceiving the aroma which stuck in the air for a long time he continued, “Whoever is cooking this meat must be a good cook. My appetite is already whetting. I cannot wait to pounce on the meat.”

I was yet to regain my speech so I remained on silent mode, smiled and waved them to cushions.

Senator had been chilling and pinching part of the palm wine (in cups) so that when I came to carry it, at least three per cent was gone! I saw the three per cent in her blood shot eyes and sheepish smile.

A few minutes later, the rodent was ready for consumption and served hot in local wooden dishes called oku. Trust Senator, she had pinched her share and I instructed her to keep some for personal consumption at a later time.

I would have preferred some quiet moment eating the well sauced meat and drinking the local brew in the garden because I wanted to appreciate and enjoy the naturalness and serenity of the environment. But the arrival of Osy and Chijioke put paid  to that dream.

We discussed about anything and everything that we could remember and I watched as the nearly full gallon of palm wine diminished.

Osy was the first to raise the issue and I admired his oratory prowess and brilliance.

“What beats my imagination is that the Lagos State House of Assembly adopted Yoruba as their official language”.

How could they have done such a thing bearing in mind that Lagos is the commercial nerve centre of Nigeria?” He queried.

Chijioke, who is a trader in one of the numerous markets in Lagos fumed.

“Don’t mind them. At every point in time, they want to show some form of superiority. But the truth is that when it comes to commerce and Lagos, the Igbos have it. From Alaba International market, the largest electrical and electronics market in West Africa to Trade Fair Complex, to Idumota, to Mandillas, Balogun and other big markets in Lagos, it is the Igbos.

In fact I can say rightly say that the Igbo stranger feels at home in any of these markets because he hears and sees people speak his language.

Do you know the amount of money we make for the government on a daily basis?

They should have even considered English or pidgin at least to be neutral....”

“Neutral?” I cut in. “What do you mean Ceejay by English or pidgin? Did you anybody force you to go to Lagos or is Lagos your home? You met people there and of course you hear about the Omoniile, the landlords and even the agberos which means that Lagos after all is not a “no man’s land” they have adopted their language, period.

Osy’s outburst surprised me.

“But you know that these people are so ethnocentric. In offices they speak their language like it is English even in banking halls. In big conferences some of the speakers of their extraction chip it in and you see everybody laughing or clapping.

Once you are in a jam or problem and you speak their language, that problem is 90 per cent solved when any of them sees or encounters you.

But that it is not the issue here. In the census conducted in Lagos in 2006, a paltry 47 per cent were Yoruba as 43 were Igbo; another 19 per cent represented people from other ethnic extractions while one per cent represents foreigners.

Since they did not make up to 50 per cent or half of the 17 billion plus population, it is only justifiable to choose a secular language that will be in the interest of everybody. One wonders what gave them the impetus to adopt the language in the first place.” Osy argued.

I knew this argument would go on for a long time and with some percentage of alcohol in our heads, voices were very high.

“Osy and Cj”, I started. “The truth is that the Yorubas are very conscious of protecting their language and their ethnic group. Call it ethnocentric or whatever you like, the fact is that they value and love their language and tradition. They value those things unique features and attributes that bond them or make them one.

Adopting the language is an official measure to ensure that the language is spoken freely without any inhibitions. 

Maybe Yoruba would not be written in official documents and passed around but adopting it is a means to encourage their people to speak their God given language anywhere, anytime and in any office.

“I ask you two here, how many Houses of Assembly in the south east have either adopted the Igbo language or done anything in this line?

While it is right to commend the Lagos state House of Assembly on this feat, it is pertinent to call on other lawmakers in state houses of assembly, especially in the South East ( where it has been  rumoured that in the next fifty years Igbo Language would go extinct)  to think in this direction. A stitch in time saves nine”.

Osy, nodding and gulping the dreg of the brew, shouted:

“More wine please”
“I support the last speaker”, Chijioke concurred.