Garba 1

Author's Note: The idea behind this story is to provoke, and to be thought-provoking at the same time. The story is based on real events, I did get stranded in Bauchi when reporting for youth service, and was rescued by a fellow passenger whom I had assisted before we departed from Jos. I also failed to turn up with my call-up letter, and was told that I could not register without it, which meant that I had to go all the way back to Lagos to find the letter. The Garba character, too, is based on a real person, but the story itself has been fictionalised, (taking real people, events, or historical facts and rewriting them as a story (book, film, or play) by adding imaginative details, altering facts, or changing dialogue to enhance the narrative.)

The female voice on the loudspeakers finally announced that the flight to Jos was ready for boarding. This flight had been delayed for four hours already, and it was to the relief of us the would be passengers that we were directed towards the Nigeria Airways aeroplane that was to take us on this journey from Lagos Murtala Mohammed Airport. 

I was excited, the moment had finally come when I was leaving home, going to that far-off place that I had always dreamt of. I was going to Northern Nigeria where I had never been, for my one year of compulsory national youth service. It is the requirement for every new graduate of higher institutions in Nigeria to join the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) for one year of service to the nation. 

It is the practice for 'youth corpers' to be posted to parts of the country different from where they originate, or where they had gone to school, college or university, the idea being to introduce young people to other parts of the country to which they had never been, and which they would otherwise have no occasion to visit. I was posted to Bauchi State, a place I'd only read about in geography books and heard about on the news. I had recently turned 21, and I was leaving home. And I was bubbling with excitement. The nearest airport to Bauchi town was the one at Jos, about 120km away. The plan was that I would fly to Jos and then complete the journey by bush taxi.

The Jos Plateau is a very scenic part of the country. The landscape was all quite new to me, as I had never been in a highland area. I know now that the weather was pleasantly cool, sub tropical. But at that time I thought Jos was cold, having lived all my life until then in the coastal equatorial steamy heat of Lagos and Port Harcourt. So it was with a sense of wonder that I sat in the city taxi travelling from Jos Airport across the city to Naraguta from where I would catch the bush taxi to Bauchi Town. By this time it was about sunset, the flight from Lagos had lasted for only slightly more than an hour, but because it had departed late from Lagos, we had arrived in Jos much later than had been expected. 

The journey to Bauchi from Jos would last another hour, when I eventually got on the bush taxi that is. No matter, I thought, surely the NYSC must have an office open all night in the event that corpers travelling from other parts of the country arrived at an odd hour. It was the responsibility of the NYSC office to register corpers on arrival, accommodate them, and manage their posting to whatever job they were assigned. 

I knew nobody in Bauchi, indeed in the entire north of Nigeria, so I was counting on the NYSC office in Bauchi being open this evening when I eventually arrived. At the moment, I was too filled with wonder and excitement to think too much about what would happen. Or maybe I was too scared to even consider the possibility that the office might not be open when I arrived later this evening.

Soon I was dropped off at the Bauchi Road motor park (motor park - a bus station cum taxi rank in Nigeria) from where I was to catch my bush taxi. There was a row of several taxis, all going to Bauchi, but I could see that they were in sort of a queue, taking turns to depart. None could leave until the first one in the queue had departed having first filled up with passengers. When I arrived at the motor park, the driver of the taxi at the front of the queue had taken my bags and placed them in the boot together with the luggage of the other passengers who were already sitting inside the taxi. There was only one other empty seat remaining after mine, so I realised that I had a few minutes to spare before the taxi would leave while we waited for the last passenger to turn up. 

I was excited. This was a whole new atmosphere where Hausa was the main language being spoken, of which I knew not a word. I went a few metres to a little shop and bought a Coke to quench my thirst, and as I walked back to the taxi I heard someone behind me say "Excuse me..". 

It was nice to hear someone speak a language I understood, so I turned around and saw this tall young man dressed in traditional Hausa attire, a sky blue embroidered caftan with matching trousers, and that cap on his head that is so typical of northern Nigerians. This fellow introduced himself as Abdulrahman. He was a student at the Ahmadu Bello University in Zaria and was heading to Bauchi to visit with relatives. However, he had not done his sums properly and now found that he was a few Naira short and needed some assistance to pay the fare. I agreed to assist him, not that I had a lot myself, but it was easy, because I could see straight away that he was genuinely in need of help. He was decent, polite and I thought that this could easily have been me in his position seeking the help of a stranger. Together we paid Abdulrahman's fare to the driver and got into the taxi, both of us sitting side by side. So it was that for this journey into the unknown, I had earned the company of a young man of about my age who was native to this place. I was alone no longer.

As expected the journey to Bauchi took just over an hour. By the time we arrived it was already dark. Bauchi is not a large city, it is an old traditional Hausa settlement with an ancient city wall that surrounds the old city. However, with modern development the city had expanded outside the city wall. This was now a state capital and the road leading into the city was broad and brightly lit. Also it didn't feel cold as in Jos. 

Abdulrahman had explained that shortly after we left Jos we had descended from the Jos Plateau and that we were now on the vast Savannah that covers almost the whole of northern Nigeria. On the way from Jos I had told Abdulrahman who I was, and explained why I was travelling to Bauchi. He said he knew where the NYSC office is located and that the taxi would drive past in front of it. He suggested that it might be a good idea if I let the driver know, so that he would stop there and I could get off. I agreed and then he said a few words in Hausa to the driver, who nodded. 

When we arrived in front of the NYSC office in Bauchi, it was already about 9pm. The street was brightly lit, as every major road seemed to be in this town. But the building. There was not a single light in sight. Not even an open window. Abdulrahman had pointed out the bulding to me and as he did so, he must have noticed the shock on my face, because he immediately decided to alight from the taxi with me. 

I was in Bauchi with all my worldly possessions, late in the evening, in front of a locked office building, with nowhere to go, and no idea what to do next. I was thankful that Abdulrahman had decided to leave the taxi and stay with me, because the task of rescuing me from this predicament now fell upon him.

Abdulrahman told me that his uncle whom he had come to visit in Bauchi lived not very far away. He suggested that we should go to his uncle's house and stay there until the next morning, when I could return to this office and get myself registered. It was not as if I had a choice, so of course I welcomed the suggestion and so off we went, him helping me with my heavy bags. 

We got into a local taxi that took us to his uncle's house, a very nice house in a part of town that I assumed was where all the important people lived. On the way he told me that his uncle was the state commissioner for something or the other, sort of like a state government minister. The house was very nice indeed, set in a beautiful arid garden. 

The northern part of Nigeria is a semi arid zone that lends itself to arid gardening. I marvelled at the immense good taste in which this front garden had been created, and how lovely it looked in the floodlighting set strategically among the various cacti and succulents. Walking past the garden and the main house, Abdulrahman and I went straight to the back house, commonly referred to as the 'boys quarters'. This is usually accommodation provided for the domestic staff who worked in the main house, but in this case Abdulrahman's cousin, his uncle's son, had laid claim to one of its rooms. 

It was into this room that we entered after Abdulrahman had unlocked the door. Although it was not a large room, my first thought was that it contained too many items of furniture. It was apparent that its owner had gone to great lengths to assert to anyone who entered that he was not a domestic staff in this place.

Abdulrahman showed me around, the conveniences and such like, and then left to enter the main house to inform his relatives that he had arrived. I think he must have at the same time also told them that he had come with a visitor, because shortly afterwards he came back to the room accompanied by two teenage boys of about 13 and 14, who seemed eager to see who this person was who had accompanied their cousin to their home. They were friendly and I felt very welcome. Abdulrahman said supper was on the way and that in the meantime I could freshen up if I wished. 

Of course it had been a long eventful day, so I welcomed the opportunity to take a shower and change my clothes. Abdulrahman went back inside his uncle's house with two young cousins.

Returning to the room after my shower with only a towel draped around my waist I saw that the door was ajar, it was obvious that there was someone inside. I was a stranger in this place and didn't want to upset anyone, so I carefully knocked on the door and peeped inside to see who it was. There was indeed someone in the room, but not someone I had met before. He had his back turned to the door but turned around just as he heard me enter. He seemed surprised to see me, well, obviously he didn't know who I was, or what I was doing there. 

"Hello", I said. "I arrived a short while ago with Abdulrahman". 

"Oh..?", was his reply. He stared at me briefly then smiled and for the first time I got a clear view of his face. 

I was naked under this towel draped around my waist and was somewhat embarrassed that he was seeing me for the first time like this, but I extended my hand. He seemed to understand how I felt because after shaking hands, still smiling at me he left the room so that I could get dressed. Not very long after that there was a knock on the door and Abdulrahman returned with the same man who had been here when I entered after my shower. Abdulrahman introduced him to me as his cousin, his uncle's son and his name was Garba. Garba and I shook hands again, and I mentioned  to Abdulrahman that we had already met. 

Garba was not tall, not as tall as Abdulrahman. He wasn't even as tall as me. But he exuded masculinity, and he was very well groomed, with a neatly trimmed moustache and perfectly manicured fingernails. I couldn't held noticing.

A loud knock on the door and a woman entered carrying a tray on which was set a huge meal of rice and peanut stew with beef. The aroma was heavenly. The tray was set down on a mat on the floor, and the woman, obviously one of the uncle's domestic staff, left as quickly as she had arrived without saying a word. She returned a few moments later with a pot of piping hot tea, which I was told is called chai, and some mugs, and then left again. No cutlery was provided, and as is the tradition among the people of the north, all three of us sat around this tray of rice and beef and ate with our hands directly from the tray. The food was delicious, and Garba was very pleasant. And he kept smiling at me.

Anengiyefa at 10:09 am

That blue car

I've just taken delivery of that car I've always wanted, you know, that blue one with the leather trim interior and the wood effect dashboard. I didn't manage to sort out the insurance before the week's end and against the best advice of my friend Albert, I went spinning around in it this afternoon. And boy, it is something!

I haven't owned a car for the better part of 10 years, mainly because I convinced myself that I didn't need one. And there was a hint of the desire to do my own small bit for the environment. But driving around this afternoon listening to loud Aswad on the stereo, even though the traffic was heavy in parts of town where Premiership football was just disgorging its huge crowds of fans into the streets, I realised what I've been missing. Thoughts of standing all the way to my destination on a crowded London bus, or standing on a train station platform on a freezing cold wet morning flashed through my mind and I shuddered. It was nice and warm and comfortable in the car, and I've vowed never to go anywhere unless I'm driving there in this beauty. Within the last hour I must have looked out of my front window about 100 times already, just to make sure she's still sitting where I left her when I came in. I'm going out again shortly...

The Saxophonist 2

So I went back to the Shrine that Friday. And this time I made certain to go alone, as on the previous occasion I had accompanied a group of my friends from university. And of course I was sure to arrive early in order to enhance the likelihood of meeting Moses before the performance began (let's call him that for the purpose of this story). On arrival I made my way to the backstage area, feigning the innocuous wide-eyed curiosity of an excited and awe-struck Fela fan, primarily to bamboozle my way past the burly bodybuilder bodyguards who were the scourge of any foolish troublemaker at the Shrine. 

I successfully made it into this inner sanctum, not quite believing how daring I had been at the entrance. And as is to be expected there was a lot of activity going on, with Fela's female dancers darting about backstage, giggling, as women are wont to do, while preparing themselves for the night's performance. As everywhere else inside the Shrine, there was the ever present cloud of cannabis smoke hanging in the air, the lighting was low, so it was quite an effort moving around the backstage, from darkened room to darkened room trying to locate him. Thinking back now, I can only wonder how easy it might have been if this was happening today when everybody owns a mobile telephone. Back then, the thought of a personal mobile phone was still in the realm of science fiction.

Eventually out of the corner of my eye I spot him bending over something on the floor at the far end of a corridor. It was dark, you see, and I wasn't sure if that was him. Yet I was very sure that was him, Moses, that man because of whom I'd laid awake at night, every night, since last Tuesday when I first heard his voice and felt his touch. There could not be another person backstage at the Shrine who looked anything remotely like this man, whom I had been unable to keep out of my mind since I left this place three nights ago. 

So I moved closer, and had almost reached him before he sensed that he was being approached. When he looked up and recognised me, the expression on his face a combination of shock, surprise and delight. He beamed, flashing that dazzling white toothed smile at me. Oh Lord, I wished we were alone, I should have leaped into his arms. But no, I just smiled back, genuinely feeling a bit shy that I had taken the bold step of coming to find him backstage. He must have noticed too, so he made me comfortable by rising from what he was doing, walked up to meet me and said, "Hi baby", as he embraced me.

I felt as if I had died and gone to heaven. The hug had happened so naturally. I held on tightly to his body, feeling as if I had arrived at my destination after a long and tortuous journey, never wanting to let go of this man who made me feel so special. It was hard to think that I had met Moses only once before, because being with him now at this very moment was as if I had arrived at a place I had always wanted to be.

I felt so safe and secure. This man was strong, and he pulled me close, and I held on too, but we were both mindful that we were in a space that was accessible everyone who was backstage at the time, to all the members of the troupe of performers. Reluctantly, we let go of each other. 

I was shy (or pretended to be), so I turned my face downwards towards the floor, smiling. We didn't say much, we just let our facial expressions and our bodies do the talking for us. 

Moses crooked his finger under my chin and turned my face upwards towards him. I raised my head and looked up into his eyes. I knew he could tell that I had fallen desperately in love with him and he pulled me close again, this time being careful not to make contact with that part of our anatomy that is below the waist. I put my head against his chest and I could feel his heart pounding. We held on to each other again, tightly.

In my head I could hear myself saying

"My love, where have you been all my life? I'm so glad I've finally found you."

But that line of thought was abruptly disrupted when Moses suddenly jerked and let go of me. I looked up at him and followed his gaze down the corridor towards a female figure who was approaching us. She did not seem to have seen us, but Moses had seen her, and had reacted in the way that he did for a reason... (To be continued)

The Saxophonist

Author's Note: "This story is based on real events, but it's fiction. The setting and the characters are real, but the storyline is a gross embellishment of what actually happened in reality. Maybe it's a betrayal of what I had secretly wished would have happened, because I then made the fantasy in my head real by writing about it. In the story I speak in the first person; the other main protagonist is also a real person whom I had got acquainted with. Yes, it was really at the Shrine that we met, and yes, he was really a saxophonist. Now that my secret is out, I'll leave the rest to your imagination. The whole story is in seven parts."

Part One

He was tall and dark. And he was handsome. And it was to him that my eyes were drawn the minute the band started playing that sultry night all those years ago at the late Fela Anikulapo Kuti's night club, known as the Shrine in Ikeja, Lagos, Nigeria. The draw was magnetic. I'm not sure that I remember which of his songs Fela sang that night, or how lasciviously Fela's female dancers gyrated their nearly naked bodies; or how amazingly the musicians played Fela's mind-blowing music. It was him, just him for that night. 

The Shrine would on a normal night have a crowd of revellers something approximating 500, all dancing, singing, drinking and smoking, cigarettes and weed. This place was a haven for smokers of marijuana, which was illegal outside the walls of the club, but perfectly permissible inside. Indeed if you didn't indulge, you were considered odd. The crowd typically would consist of a large contingent of university students, (I was one at the time), several embassy types who were exploiting the opportunity to see Fela in his full glory for a pittance, as compared to what they might have had to pay to see him perform in Bonn or Amsterdam. It was also an opportunity for them to let their hair down and smoke a few joints, openly, without fear or shame. Then there would be members of the general public, the atmosphere buzzing with an electric anticipation until Fela started his performance, when everyone would be drawn in by Fela's magic and the wild party would begin. 

This was my first time at the Shrine, but I liked the atmosphere, the energy, the excitement of everyone around me was contagious and I got caught up in it. So the band started playing and the crowd went wild, but through all of this my eyes fell upon this magnificent specimen of the African male, in the far left corner at the back of the stage. I don't recall how it was that I was able to make my way from the back of the crowd where I had been standing when the music began, to a position beside the left side of the stage, close to where this man was playing his saxophone so magnificently. I guess I just needed to be closer to this man, even if only to take a better look. From the moment I saw him I had not taken my eyes off him for even a second. It was as if a spell had been cast upon me and I was in a trance. I did not realise that he too had picked me out from the hundreds of people in the crowd. But just then, our eyes met while he was still on stage. Then I knew. I just knew. 

Typically, Fela's performance at the Shrine would last for several hours and it was normal that halfway through the night there would be a break, as this was a live performance. At break time the musicians would mingle with members of the crowd, and this was the chance that we had to make first contact. I'm usually a bit shy and reserved, but on occasion I can surprise even myself by how bold I can be. Not that I needed to be too bold this time, because he too seemed keen to meet me. His gaze never left me after the music stopped, as I stood rooted to the spot, being unsure what to do next. 

To my great surprise, this man put away his saxophone, came off the stage and walked towards me, staring at me and without flinching. I moved towards him too. In no time, we were standing very close to each other, facing each other our chests almost touching, seemingly relying on the pretext that the crowd surrounding us provided us little room to manoeuvre our bodies. He towered above me and I felt his warm breath on my face as he looked down into my eyes. He too must have seen in my eyes how totally mesmerised I was, because without saying a word, he put is arm around my shoulders and with his eyes signalled that we should go outside. I was completely overpowered by the raw masculinity and strength of this man and I melted against his body as he shepherded me to the exit and then outside to the street, where several others had made their way, presumably for some respite from all that smoke inside the club. After the introductions, we were both pretty sure we were onto something. He couldn't keep his hands off my body and we stared and smiled into each other's eyes as we exchanged stories, still standing very close to each other out there in the open. It is not unusual in most of Africa for male friends to hold hands or embrace in public. 

I told him I loved the way he had played with the band, although this was not entirely true since I had been focused on him personally rather than on the music. As a member of Fela's band, he had been privileged to travel all over the world with Fela and since I had only recently returned from a holiday in Brazil, something which I'd had to scrimp and save for, for years, it gave us something to talk about, since he too had once been to Brazil with Fela. So we did find quite a lot to talk about in those few minutes that we were together. Our first meeting lasted for less than half an hour, because he had to go back inside to join the band, but for the rest of that night I was on a high. I returned to my position close to the stage and danced and sang to Fela's music, knowing that this man was watching me and enjoying it too. I was dancing for him, perhaps a bit provocatively when I think about it now, but as far as I was concerned, he was blowing his saxophone just for me. He was watching me dance and I loved that he was taking it all in. When the show ended, I could see that he was unable to separate himself from his duties with the band. So I left, knowing that I would be back on Friday.