Primary Four Farting

In my sixth year of life I mastered flatulence. I learned the ways of silent-deadly and how to use loud-harmless to diffuse a situation. In mastering flatulence I mastered life. 

I learned mccarthyism. I learned that he who smelled it probably had not dealt it (usually I had dealt it) but I understood that once the sacrificial lamb had been chosen, I had to go with it at the right moment. Never first, the forerunner is beheaded too often or derided for a madman. Not too early, for fear of being seen to be trying too hard to deflect blame. And not too late because not participating in the calling out of farters could see you quickly labelled a farter. I learned the flows and gullies of nuance, from the flows and gullies of farts and the flows and gullies of quickly shifting public opinion in Mr Adeyemo’s primary four class. 

The many lessons I learned from having an overactive colon have served me well in my relationships with people and my political career, but the most important lesson I learned was about justice and sometimes, the lack thereof. 

I sat next to a girl named Mary that year. She was taller than I was, had skin like lightly heated palm oil and wore glasses that had the string to keep them from falling off her face. Sometimes I was overcome by the urge to do something to impress her and I like to think that sometimes I did impress her. However whatever impressions I had made would be quickly blown away with each new rectal betrayal. I had a simple problem; skilled as I had become at hiding my methane indiscretions, I could never hide them from Mary. And it is not that she had some preternatural knowledge of my emission, she just had the singular displeasure of sitting next to me. But for some reason Mary never ousted me. She pinched me on the thigh a couple times to reprimand my duplicity, but she bore my effervesce in silence until one day she could not take it any more. 

I had an aunt (she wasn’t really an aunt, but she was my mother’s friend so she was an aunt) who used to make the most delicious eggs with chilli powder and corned beef. Her name is not important here because she once told me I had eti-ejo (snake ears) which made me cry until my mother told me snakes don’t have ears, which made me cry even harder because I felt stupid for crying in the first place. What is important here is that I would gorge myself on her eggs. Perhaps what is even more important here is that eggs and chilli powder make for quite the explosive mix. Perhaps the vileness of their digested combination can somehow be harnessed for the good of all humanity, but I know that day is far off. They tasted delicious going in, but they made my belly swell and burned with forget-me-not vengeance when they made their egress. But gorge myself I did. 

It was after one such Sunday of gorging myself that back in school I realised that there was a need to let a little steam from the engine. Shifting my buttocks to one side so as to use my weight to minimise the rippling (it’s the rippling that creates the sound, you’re welcome) I let out a beauty of a silent and deadly into the world. It was the kind of destructive masterpiece that made your belly ache and left the memory of itself sitting on the back of your tongue even hours after you’d put the ceiling fan on 6. It was my masterpiece, it would be my doom and I could tell from the moment the smell hit my nostrils. 

Mary gagged and looked at me in incredulity. I had begun my deflection routine, suddenly engrossed in the book before me but it seemed this time I had gone a bit too far. She accused me loudly. 

“Dimeji why did you mess now?” 

Perhaps I had done too good a job deflecting blame, perhaps it was whispered behind my back that I was a farter, but I could feel the swelling tide of the public wind shifting against me. There was nothing to be done but to put my head down on the table and wait for it all to blow over. 

It wasn’t going to blow over. This was the kind of fart that told of greater things to come, it was the kind of fart that hung on to your patella and coloured the amala that you would eat that afternoon in the faint green scent of egg and beans. It was the kind of fart that drove out all other senses with its own pungent immediacy. The class erupted into madness. 

“HMMM! THAT’S SO SMELLY!”

“HMM” “HMM” “HMM” “MESSY MESSY DIMEJI”

I just sat at the table and put my head down and didn’t say a word. I didn’t attempt to defend myself. I understood the weight of my crime, and I knew I had to bear it. I just sat at the table with my head down, waiting for the eternity of disgust at my actions and glee at my being caught to end. 

Mr Adeyemo’s deep voice cut through the noise. 

“Why is everybody except Dimeji screaming? can’t you all see how composed he is? can’t you all follow his example? All of you, get on your knees and put your hands up!” 

Sometimes I remember the look on Mary’s face when school was let out, murder sitting on the bridge of her nose, the point of confluence for the malice streaming from her eyes. I wish I could go back and say I was sorry, beg forgiveness. I wish I could say I did such a thing. Instead, I stuck my tongue out at her and said “ntoi”.

I forget

I forget what exactly,

But it’s something in the way it’s always summer.

The nights are always short because

The sun cannot wait to kiss your bare neck at dawn.

I forget what exactly,

But it’s something in the kink of your curls

And in the slight smile on your lips

And the slow curve of your hips.

I forget what exactly,

But it’s something in the way your eyes

Smile at the world,

Some greatness hidden in the brightly gleaming

Mahogany irises; freshly brewed mocha.

I forget what exactly,

But there’s something in the way Light

Softly touches your skin playfully

Dancing along the curve of your back.

Never drowning you in him: not ever.

He contrasts you from the mundane

And says, “look at her”.

I forget what exactly,

But it’s something in the music

Of the way you say the words you speak,

Dispelling the atonal sameness

Of these random sounds we call language.

Music waited on the fringes of reality

For you to be born so he could come

Say hello to your soul. And

You live in his arms, intertwined with him,

Like a braid.

I forget what exactly,

But it’s something in the clothes that you wear

And the way you braid your hair

And the way your black skin is a canvas

For the kaleidoscope of batik patterns

Floating on your head wrap.

I forget what exactly,

It’s something that is within you

It was given in your blood and

Lives in your skin

And demands what little

Breath I have left for life.

Olori-elewa.

"For all the black women I have loved and who have loved me." 

Vincent

Some men are big bellied because they never move. Others because of the dreams they had to eat barehanded so that the ones they love may survive. But men are not binary; they live in the spaces in-between things. He lay closer to having had to eat his dreams barehanded. But he was not a liar; how could he be with his belly in front of him a constant reminder.

He told me he threw an 80 fastball when he was 14. I didn’t know what a fastball was, but I listened because it was cold and I was hungry and I was lonely. He told me he was from New York and that parking was a bitch in the eighties. I told him he’d never seen a bitch like parking in Lagos. We became friends over that laughter. We became brothers when each night I would ride the bus back and forth several times because he too felt lonely at night.

It is quite the trade being a bus driver, moving thankless blobs of humanity back and forth ad infinitum. It is quite the trade being a student, so caught up in the rush of minutia that you forget to be thankful for the men and women who move you back and forth, between minutiae, ad infinitum.

But in the middle of the night, two lonely souls will meet on a bus and become brothers over fastballs and parking and where to take pretty girls on dates for free in Brooklyn. He told me he busted his arm learning to throw curveballs before he should have. He could have gone pro, but weary are those words. Arm in sling he had to eat his dreams. Had to get a job. You know how these things go. He ended up in the south.

He told me he coached baseball when he could get a moment. He told me that he would never teach a young boy to throw a curveball before he turned 16. I still didn’t know what a curveball was. I might find out one day. He died in a car crash. One reckless blob of humanity runs a red light and a brother you made in the middle of the night on bus rides, the memories of which grow hazy, is gone.

You will remember him for the story he told you of when he tried his first cigarette and his father caught him. Or the first time he tasted whiskey and his father caught him. Or the first time… you have started to forget. The minutia grow, it is inevitable that you will forget.

“You alright son? You like you need to talk to someone”

Landing in Lagos

You are immediately disoriented.

“Welcome to Lagos”, the Amharic tinted English crackles from the planes speakers, jerking away from you the few minutes of sleep that you finally managed to wrestle from the large man who has been snoring loudly in the two and a half seats next to you. Meron (by her nametag), the beautiful airhostess, who spent most of the flight shooting you baleful looks because your elbow kept bumping into her ass as she pulled her cart past you, gives your another dirty look.

You feel terrible and want to explain to her that it is impossible to keep your arm tucked in because half your seat is occupied by a snoring mass of Nigerian. Unfortunately Meron doesn’t seem to know too much English. The full extent of her vocabulary, which you got quite familiar with during your quest for alcohol to drown out the incessant snoring, seems to be “yes” and “no” and “more”. 

You collect your bag from the overhead storage bin while hoping that somehow it falls on the head of huge Nigerian. It would be painful for him no doubt, but no less than the five hours of torture he just subjected you to.

Meron is standing by the aircraft door. The standard issue airhostess smile plastered across her face slips off when you step up to leave. Enjoy the rest of your day, you say to her. She says nothing back. You stop feeling bad and wish her and her ass a good life.

Not much has changed in the six months since you were last home. There is a man standing next to an open vending machine, vending the things within. One broken vending machine, one job, and one infinitesimal increase in employment percentage: progress-progress; fitting for Africa’s newest-biggest economy.

You drag your suitcase behind you in no rush. In truth you’ve always held those who run to the immigrations desk in the highest contempt. We will all still be stuck here, sweating by the carousel two hours from now, regardless of the rushing. But ahead they rush, running down the escalator (de-facto stairs). You finally make it to immigrations and you’re the last one in line; at least you think you are until you feel the potbelly pushing insistently into the curve of your back.

It’s two and a half chairs from the airplane come once again to bring hell to you. You decide to ignore him. You shuffle your feet forward giving him a good amount of space. Yet almost immediately you feel his potbelly pressing tenaciously into your back: simultaneously a metaphor for impatience and a bad fuck(in truth, these are the same thing). You stand there seething, hating every inch of his midsection. You imagine yourself sprouting claws at the elbows and ripping into him, freeing him from the burden of the cursed child that must surely reside within.

You shuffle your feet forward, but this time the pressure doesn’t even leave your back. You now have a pot-back. Fucking beautiful. It can’t get any worse you think, but then two chairs decides to join in the conversation three rows over, about how much worse the Nigerian airport is than “insert name of western country short, balding, random just flew in from”. It’s the same text as the last time, just a different group.

“THIS AIRPORT IS SO DISORGANIZED… ”

OUR LEADERS ARE SO CORRUPT…”

“IF ONLY THEY WOULD DO IT THE WAY THEY DO IT IN X”

X = {AMERICA! BRITAIN!  CANADA! WHAT-WHAT! ILU-OYINBO!}

They shout at each other their precious civilization, legitimized by having been abroad, retreating with each shout. Behavior they would never dare exhibit in the “better” countries they just flew in from. Two-chairs shouts the loudest. His potbelly is jiggling now. You must admit, it feels good to have that back support after nearly forty hours of airline economy seating.

But enough is enough, you turn and stand perpendicular to him, arms akimbo, thinking that maybe with your elbow in his gut he will take the hint and back off. He does not. He presses into your elbow. It must be that you offended one of your ancestors when your arm brushed against Meron’s ass, or two chairs has decided that this is a game that he must win by any means necessary.

He leans even further forward to get closer to the conversation, chest pressed against your shoulder. You turn and face him.

Sir, with all of the respect I have left for you, have you heard of this wonderful idea called personal space? You may not know it, since you have been abroad so long and may have forgotten but in Nigeria the line does not move any faster even if you try to stand inside me.

Two-chairs doesn’t seem to move away, but somehow the belly retreats. The pressure is gone, you are healed, praise Jesus!

“Young man, you don’t talk to your elders that way.” He retorts after your back has been turned for the duration of five “STEP-FORWARD!”s.

Sorry, you mumble. Better to say sorry than to face the drama that could ensue should he decide to start shouting. Eventually it is your turn and you step up to the counter.

“Where are you coming from”?

Durham, North Carolina.

“Is that America?”

Yes.

“What did you bring for us? Leave it here”

Nothing O, sir. I’m a poor student on scholarship. My parents don’t have much.

“I know you’re lying but oya go, can’t you see there are people behind you?”

Yes sir, sorry sir.

You head over to the carousel, which has not even started rotating. And promptly begin sweating.You decide that you will learn the words “I’m terribly sorry about what happened, it really was the situation I found myself in,” in Amharic. That way, the next time you see Meron; you can properly apologize to her. Maybe that way the universe will forgive your sins, sanctify your elbows and be gentle the rest of the six weeks you’re home.

Lost in translation... really just lost

If the worth of a son is based on how often he calls his mother, then I am an extremely worthless son. Thankfully, other things like irrational, unconditional love factor into the grading process. But whenever I do get around to calling my mother, I squeeze as much information into our conversations as possible. I tell my mother everything.

I like to hold our phone conversations purely in Yoruba because Yoruba feels like home. During our last phone call, I tried to tell my mother that classes might be cancelled because of an impending snowstorm. I could not. There is no word for snow in Yoruba and that is how things should be. In my opinion, there should not be a word for the cold stuff in any language. Something so unpleasant does not deserve the honor of a name, but I digress. The point is that lately it is harder and harder to translate my first world problems into my mother tongue.

It is not that Yoruba lacks for expression. There are Yoruba ideas you can never fully unpack in English. How do you even begin to render the complexities of “Abiku” or the impish pepper that lies at the heart of “Agbaya”? Even my name, Oladimeji, I struggle to force into English confines. Whenever I am asked, “what does it mean?” I am tempted to reply “…just that. Oladimeji”. In truth the English language is too narrow to contain the nuances that are immediately obvious when I say the name to another Yoruba speaker.

But as I spend time away from home, I find myself having to switch into English more often than I would like during phone calls. How do you describe things like snow days? Finally finding the sweet spot on the shower dial? Insomnia cookie == life? The frustrations of Internet access at UNC? I could choose to do so, but the necessary convolutions detract from our communication. Also calling Nigeria is expensive; every word must count.

I don’t know what this all means, if I did I would not be writing about it. Maybe it is evidence of my growing multiculturalism, this switching back and forth. Maybe I should move to back to my father’s village, start a farm and never have to speak English again. Maybe this is really, really pointless navel gazing. But what I do know is that slowly, and these days more quickly so, my phone calls with my mother do not feel as much like home as they used to. These days almost nothing feels like home. 

Emmanuel

Dear Emmanuel, 

I have thought of you often these past two days. And my thoughts birthed words, yet I wish I had more than words to give. Perhaps life? I wish I could give you life anew. But know this, you Sir are loved and loved greatly. 

A man wants to be angry, but who shall a man be angry at?

A man wants to curse the gods for blind puppeteers but

Which gods shall a man curse? Because a man wonders at

The madness of a world where the fruit is given bitter and taken just

As it grows sweet? A man wonders at the madness of a world where

So many struggles end in a pool of placid water. A man shudders at the
Darkness that crept into the world when a light that a man saw
Bright burning? Snuffed out. A man trembles at the gaping hole in reality.
A man shudders, a man trembles, a man curses, cries and curses even more
But nothing a man would do can bring a brother back. It is the lot of all men
To die, but a man wishes that the flame knew the length of the wick.
Perhaps a brother would burn less brightly? But a man weeps for a brother because
A brother was brightly burning. A man weeps for a brother because
A brother would have lit the way for many. A man weeps for a brother because
A brother will be missed. A brother will be sorely missed. So a man will weep
But not for long. Because a man knows a brother would have picked him up
From where he lay weeping. So a man will smile, because the world may be mad
And the gods may be blind and the fruits may never taste sweet. But a man will
Smile because a man knew a Brother.