THIS LIFE
I know of an aged man who lives in a dilapidated house, so dumpy, it depreciates his health. Flies hover both the used and unused plates together with the cups in his room. I could see the stain of faeces on his bed sheet and his saggy white lace trouser. When he walks, his legs shake so much that I am scared it will break. Rumour has it that he is a retired principal. Thirty-five years of his life, he dedicated to serving the government who now deserts him. “That is not even the case, he must have someone who should be looking after him. At least, people call him Baba Lagbaja for a reason. Is this Lagbaja dead ni?” I thought.
One fateful day, I decided to clear my doubt and interview the old man. I packed his food in a warmer as I always do. I prepared his favourite food because I know that the best way to a man’s heart is his stomach. When I got there, I saw his lifeless body lying on the floor with creamy foam gushing out of his mouth. I screamed with all my power that people ran hurriedly to where I was. Nothing could be done to save my oldster friend for he was long gone. One of the sympathizers noticed a neatly-folded sheet of paper beside him. “Did this man commit suicide? He could have waited for God’s time. He would soon die anyway” a man with a brown set of teeth beside me murmured, looking unconcerned. “Oga ade, read out what is in the letter jare” shouted one of the itching spectators. Everybody was so anxious to know what the dead man has written. The man unfolded the sheet of paper and read aloud;
“I am a rich man who owns three magnificent well-furnished houses. I know you will be wondering why I live in such a time-worn house then, if I have four grand houses.
My wife and I dedicated our lives to constructing these buildings. We spent our last penny to make sure they are in good conditions, but we were deserted in our own buildings. We were treated like strangers in the houses we built with our sweat and blood.
My three children, after spending our life investment on them, turned their backs on us. The one who lives abroad told us that a prophet banned him from sending money to us because it will bring him nothing but ill-luck. My wife and I were treated with outmost contempt by our first fruit, the one whose debt resulted into selling off my precious car and my wife’s invaluable gold which she inherited from her mother when he wanted to travel out of the country. “We still have two more children, thank God he is not the only one we gave birth to, all hope would have been lost” so we thought.
My wife went to a shock which later led to her untimely death when our daughter told her she was responsible for her barrenness. “Mama, how could you be so wicked? I saw you killing my children, your grandchildren, in my dream last night!” she screamed. “I can still perceive the smell of fresh blood in your mouth, you witch!” she said angrily as she pushed her mother and stormed out of the house. Tears rolled down my wife’s face. This is the woman who has fasted and prayed for this daughter of hers not taking into consideration her depreciating health. She even consulted an herbalist which her belief is strongly against. My wife died leaving behind three children but was buried like a barren woman. None of her children poured sand on her face.
Six month after their mother’s death, they all came home claiming to be chased by their mother’s ghost in their dreams. They all contributed immensely to give their mother a befitting burial. They spatterred paint on the house in order to make it look a little bit presentable to their visitors. Lots of fat cows were slaughtered; competent caterers were hired to prepare several dishes. They never brought home food stuffs for their mother and me when she was alive. They even bought me an expensive lace to wear for my wife’s burial while my wife was buried in a shoddy satin white cloth.
After they dispersed, I never heard from them again until I was informed about my second son’s death which was caused by a fatal accident few months after their mother’s funeral. They blamed the death on the neighbours who find pleasure in cutting short the lives of the people we refer to as “Omo Ologo” in our environment. I was never close to him anyway. He had always lived a solo life even when they were living with me. He was lucky enough to get a wife just like him, a woman who wants none of his family members around. I never heard from his wife or my grandchildren after his death. His death was another excuse for my children to forsake their father’s house. I know I have very few days to live in this world and there is no use poisoning myself but I heard about how God blame people who take their own lives and I wish to table my matter before Him and ask Him why He gave me such undeserving children. Please, good neighbours, make my resting place beside my lovely wife so that I can truly rest in peace.
“Welcome to the world which values the dead more than the living; a world where the dead troubles the living” said a woman whose back is bent due to old age and is supported by a shiny wooden stick.