“Apeja l’odo s’oo tunde Jalolo, jalolo…”- the chorus to old Yoruba fable of APEJA L’ODO.
I am a fantasist! For real! I am of the sinewy, fastidious or, of the irredeemable strain. A fantasist like me must have a way to control some of the autonomous activities peculiar to the human species. Blinking, sneezing, sleeping and breathing are some of the peculiarities I have managed, over the years to have certain controls over. It’s of a sorry worth, if or, when the purpose of constantly expecting dramatic moments to happen is defeated because an untrained fantasist allow himself or herself to succumb gladly to the whims and caprices of human nature. For you snooze you lose! You blink, you miss it!
I’d travel to heaven and back without leaving my earthly spot many times that I can count. It’s only that sharp, left backhand: a good connecting slap to the temple, from my usually frustrated mum that constantly transported me back to bustling reality. I’d hoisted up soccer trophies at certain intervals of my life in daydreams and night-dreams. They were my dreams! I owned them. My favorable endings are never acquiesced to none but me! I played the part of the unexpected, unusual hotshot who somehow managed to score the needed winning goals! I was that typical dude, a clear underdog, but with enough balls to end it all as the dedicated hero of the day! I saw myself drank Krest Bitter Lemon straight from the Championship trophies each winning moment. The venue every time was either at the main pitch of the Liberty Stadium or The National Stadia Surulere; few times at night, under the heavy flush of bright-light from those strategically placed floodlights, well supported by the unashamed pride of the full moon.
I played the part of the unexpected, unusual hotshot who somehow managed to score the needed winning goals! I was that typical dude, a clear underdog, but with enough balls to end it all as the dedicated hero of the day! I saw myself drank Krest Bitter Lemon straight from the Championship trophies each winning moment. The venue every time was either at the main pitch of the Liberty Stadium or The National Stadia Surulere; few times at night, under the heavy flush of bright-light from those strategically placed floodlights, well supported by the unashamed pride of the full moon.
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The venue every time was either at the main pitch of the Liberty Stadium or The National Stadia Surulere; few times at night, under the heavy flush of bright-light from those strategically placed floodlights, well supported by the unashamed pride of the full moon.
I keenly thought of myself once as a skilled fisherman. Take it from me if I confess proudly and publicly, that I never confined my “fine fishing skill and business territories” to the calm waters of Asejire, Ogun, Oba or just about any other little waters; measuring slightly above pockets of roadside puddles or, such that could be likened to over-brimming floodwaters- or those artificial ‘rivers’ owing their size, fury or sustainability to the regularly, intolerant West African monsoon. My ambition to be one of the best there ever was took me to giant Rivers, like the Niger, Zanbezi, the Nile and perhaps to the surrounding turbulent Coastal oceans.
So you know brethren; it wasn’t the biblical story of Peter the Fisherman that got me interested in the trade. It was that flirtatiously imaginative Yoruba fable of “APEJA L’ODO” that got me crazily onto the business. I remade the story. I casted myself as the fortunate APEJA who found wealth in the funny mouth of a Talking Fish; the same fish he’d spared after a ‘gentleman’s agreement’, followed with a promise of untold wealth if the weird fish got released back into the ocean. APEJA did release it! And he indeed became fabulously rich! The riches could have lasted many lifetimes, and he would have retired into the surety of everlasting wealth, but for the advice of his greedy wife! APEJA lost it all and went back to his penurious state- the state he was certain he’d left behind; broken, dejected and he probably died a sorry death. In my character as APEJA; I learnt firsthand the misery of greed. I learnt the dangers of not owning one’s own mind. I felt the torturous heat that comes with marrying, or unequally yoked with a fire-breathing Dragon, as a wife. I felt way, way, back then the present multiple miseries of one Jonathan: the diabolical Saint of a once fishing village; the fake superhero with no gusto, no cape, no wits, no notable insignia, and definitely with no muscles. All he has is his wife, the female Lone-Ranger with the fiery, but comical ‘CHAI!’
The further motivation to make a wooden canoe a place of rewarding duty came from the most unlikeliest source! From that Edo-born musician. Victor Uwaifo, the Joromi crooner. The guy who supposedly had an “In flagrante delicto” with a busty, luscious Mermaid. I guess he ‘worked’ the part-fish/part-woman so well, perhaps to a point of climactic exhilaration that that one joyfully gifted him with a magical guitar, that tuned itself impeccably to any song. Of course good songs pay aplenty! I’d always wanted to have an encounter with a Mermaid. I’d always wanted to be a musician. I’d always longed to be a fisherman with a foolproof brimming net; a curved-tip, gliding wooden canoe; and two moderately long, sharp paddles. One for constant use and the other- simply as a spare!
A fantasist finds joy in sadness; paradise in hell; faith in faithlessness; hope in hopelessness and beauty in ugliness. The mind of a fantasist can never be trapped. Even Death is incapable! For the corridors of wanton foolishness and that of bountiful wisdom are bound to give him the needed escape route. I am a fantasist and I am sold for my nation: Nigeria! You see the end, I dare say I see a new start!
The picture of the old Jebba Bridge and Fishermen On The River Niger, courtesy of NNP 1981-2000.
