I still to this day can’t get myself to make two knives clash in that same mad, frenetic, but well calculated exercise of iron sharpening iron I witnessed, probably a million times very many years ago!
The fascinatingly quick hands of Buoda Ajagbe as he effortlessly let the already sharp knives go against one another, like two fierce antagonists was something to behold! It’s close to being enthralled by a Card Shark; or a man well versed in the sleight of hands, or a street magician adept at reordering one’s focus point away from reality, by the quick timing of the seemingly, simple art of misdirection! Buoda Ajagbe was on his onerous value, as entertaining as the spinning-cone or Òkòtó that we learned to play but couldn’t grasp the highly-simplified physics behind its distributive energy.
My frequent trips to his stall in the small Orita-Ikereku market was as a result of my mother’s then booming restaurant business. He was a tall, skinny, gangling figure with about a ‘double-zero’ BMI. His lack of intimidating physicality belied his indecorous personality. Irredeemably uncouth with a remarkable mouth that definitely needed to be rinsed with a copious mix of Iodine solution, Hydrogen-Peroxide, a liter of gasoline, a cup of kerosene, a glass of warm water and if possible, a shot of Gammalin-20! That’s how filthy his mouth was! Nothing new about that anyway, for an Ibadan man with a less-saucy mouth, according to my grandad ‘is definitely an illegal, a likely common sojourner, or even a Bastard probably hiding away behind the bulging facade of the legendary, Ibadan hospitality!’ The Ibadan city in a twist of sublime paradox glorifies all beautifully- in its gargantuan, yet ugly indecency! It’s at Ibadan that they truly call a damn spade a damn spade! No sugarcoating. No pussyfooting. Therefore an “Oko is Oko! Wherefore an “Obo is Obo!”
We owed it to ourselves in those days to light into any challenging fool with a good blend of curse words! And we owed our lives to some pair of good legs that’s proven well to run tirelessly in the event the mouth miscalculated and some pair of fists, pocket-knives or other sharp or ‘weaponised’ objects emerged to settle the score! You had a problem with our way, you were free to move residence to the nearest town or you could ship yourself to the closest neighboring big city-Lagos!
Watching Buoda Ajagbe, I learnt words and mannerisms I made sure to keep away from my home, or out of the earshot, the line of sight of judgemental adults, let alone those of my parents if it ever crossed my mind to live or grow up into fruitful adulthood. And it didn’t help matters that our ‘razzness’ was further compromised by the wide distance between Orita Challenge and the then posh suburbs of Bodija or the legendary Old Quarters, or even Idi-Ishin!
I still marvel at the vintage recall of Buoda Ajagbe during idle moments on how he kept his long, scarred fingers close to the tender meat he cut yet never incurred any superficial, or bodily harm. The deftness of those fingers to stay out of harm’s way even when it seemed they were just right there in the way was purely magical! And how he managed to keep those fingers safe from his small, razor-sharp machetes and his well worn chopping block was another thing! Appeared he chopped recklessly, but his timing was impeccably sound as he mindlessly but with that typical butcher’s finesse; such they don’t teach in any vocational school, he still multitasked! Saw him many times cut, chopped and carried on with any of his female customers in one of his usual racy banter. I cringed each time his strokes met its mark. The illusion of him chopping his own fingers seemed too real for me to dismiss or suppress. My vicarious safety measure from a watchable distance added more to the Buoda Ajagbe butchering drama.
Buoda Àlùkò, his closest friend and business partner had a hand he kept usually wrapped in a white handkerchief. It was a revelation the day I saw that hand without its ‘blanket-cover!’ Three ugly-looking stubs (stood where some fingers used to take positions), in contrast to two healthy remaining ones. It was entirely pointless to ask any silly question on how that happened! A fool could outrightly tell the result of a professional hazard when confronted with one! Those fingers clearly weren’t amputated cleanly in any hospital! It didn’t look like it at all to me! They looked horribly like the aftermath of a freakishly, butchering accident. One that likely occurred while ‘brodaman’ perhaps attended to the carcass of a cursed cow, during a tedious dissection on a cursed chopping slab devoid of deep concentration! Whatever it was, Buoda Aluko was a light-complexioned dude with a terribly pockmarked face and just seven fingers! The thumb and the first two fingers, all gone! He carried around a horrible face to wake up to or to routinely behold! The irony of the Aluko craziness was his willingness to wear the notorious ‘Omo-Eléran’ toga with no shame or reproach! His exaggerated sense of self manifested itself on Fridays when he came to his business adorned in new colorful Ankara fabrics- an Aso-ebí between only him and Ajagbe. He routinely flashed thick wads of cash around and he made salacious, but indecorous passes at the women while talking trash at any disagreeable customer on the same breath!
For an impressionable kid, I loved- those neat rows of different knives as they were laid diligently on the wooden, dirty butcher’s tables. Same goes for their intrinsic anatomical knowledge of the objects of their business. Same goes for the wads of cash they owned not but chose to flaunt anyway. I loved the weekly, freshly tailored colorful attires too! I loved the endless stories of their sexcapades- who got caught with another butcher’s woman; the superstud that was good in bed and the pitiful one that flawlessly sucked! I loved watching them at any of their impromptu parties as they lavished their individual carefree attitudes on the joyous, but indecent moment- as if that was some currency to spend and perpetually live off. It helped further that the parent Butchers Union, overwhelmingly supported my soccer Team- The evergreen IICC Shooting Stars. Afterall thier Chairperson doubled as the Chairman of Stars Supporters Club. Therefore an Eleran or a meatseller to me never could do any wrong!
And truth be told, we all seem to carry around a frantically, energetic Omo-Eléran living rent-free within us all. The indecent dude begging to be let out for fresh some fresh air from to time. I just let mine out! I think its best to allow your’s some playtime as necessary!
