Bayo George

This house is really big. My room is very big too. Mummy says if I behave myself that Mr. Kareem is going to buy me a lot of toys and chocolates when he gets back from his travels. I will wait for him till he gets back. He always keeps his promise and I can’t wait to show my toys to my friends when I get back to school after this holiday.

I wish we can stay here forever; I don’t want to go back to our house again. Mummy says heaven is finer than this place but I am yet to see heaven because it is high up in the sky. One day I will tell Mr. Kareem to take me inside a plane and we will go up and see the place. I know he knows the way because he says he has been there before with a woman named Rose but I have not seen her yet.

He called my mummy yesterday. Mummy was very excited, she was just laughing on the phone. Mummy use to laugh like a baby sometimes, she will just be laughing anyhow. Anyway, it is good to laugh; she says it makes people look younger. But I don’t laugh too much and I am still very young. Maybe when I grow up, I will be laughing very well, so that I can be small again.

Mummy is rushing to the toilet sink to vomit and spit again, something is wrong with her but she is telling me that everything is fine. She thinks I’m still a small boy. Whenever I vomit, she says I’m sick and takes me to the hospital. Why is she not doing the same? She is sick too and it is obvious.

Very soon she will come into my room and ask me if I am awake. I will pretend as if I am still sleeping, and then she will tease me and carry me to the bathroom. I will call Mr. Kareem today when mummy is not in the house and I will tell him that my mummy is not feeling fine. My mummy likes to hide things from people and I really don’t know why.

Mrs. George walked into her son’s room a few moments later, just as the little boy had predicted. She called his name and teased him, then proceeded to carry him to the bathroom.

“Mummy wait… wait, please put me down,” Bayo said.

“No, I am not putting you down, it’s late already, and you need to bathe.”

“But I’m on holiday and there’s no school today,” he challenged.

“It doesn’t matter, it’s late already,” she retorted.

“Mummy wait first, I will, I will, but we need to talk,” he sang and swung his legs.

“What is the matter?” His mum asked and put him down in front of the bathroom door. “Is it about your missing tooth again?” she asked.

Bayo folded his arms and pouted, then signaled with his little finger to his mum to get down to his height level.

Mrs. George smiled and squatted beside his son.

“What is it little man? I’m all ears, tell me,” she smiled.

“You are the one who is supposed to be telling me something,” he challenged while pointing his fingers towards her face.

“Really?” his mother asked.

“Yes” he said with his arms now akimbo.

“Ok, what do you want to know?”

“Do you have a headache?” he asked.

“No I don’t, is anything the matter Bayo?” she grinned.

“Do you have stomach pain?” he continued.

“No, nothing is wrong with me sweetheart, I am fine.”

“You are not fine… I know that you are not fine.” He countered.

“Hmmn, doctor Bayo… How do you know I am not fine?” her mother enquired and smiled.

“I saw you vomiting yesterday and today again, you rushed to the sink to vomit again,” he pointed and said.

“So, you had woken up already before I came into your room but pretended to be asleep?” she playfully challenged and tickled him. He smiled and held his mother’s hands “mummy wait, mummy stop…” he giggled and laughed.

“Do you know hell fire is real and all liars shall go to hell?” his mother enquired.

“I only pretended mum, I did not lie,” he defended. “It is you that is lying…” he challenged, “…go and pray now so you don’t go to hell,” he quietly retorted.

“But you didn’t ask if I was vomiting baby, you only asked if I had stomach pains or a headache, which I do not have,” she smiled.

“You see sometimes mothers vomit for no…” she paused then continued. “…mothers vomit sometimes when they are sick or pregnant…” she said. ”…but I am not sick” she added.

“So, are you pregnant? He asked.

“I think so,” she said.

“Is the baby a boy or a girl?”

“Bayo, Bayo…” she sighed. “I …don’t know and I’m not God.” she replied.

She opened the bathroom door and ushered him inside. “Can we bathe now sir?” she sarcastically remarked.

While she bathed her son, she smiled at the thought of him growing more inquisitive with each passing day. He was already showcasing the abrasive traits of his lawyer father and although he did not trouble her much, a part of her wished the foetus inside her ovary was female but it would delight her more to have another boy and guarantee a stake in the Karim mega fortune.


Excerpt from my novel yet to be published.




His boss’ daughter comes to the office one day and they both have a chat, it was awesome, he felt she was fantastic, she thought he was cool and then the chats proceeded to e-mails, phone calls and messages on whatsapp.

For most part of his childhood at Ibadan, he’d endured a hard-knock life. His father was a short tempered and ferocious man, who also drank and shouted a lot. His mother sold Shea butter and local cosmetic products and sometimes in a week would make no sales at all. They mostly managed on daddy’s meager income from his skills with the sewing machine.
While in primary four, a teacher constructed a sentence in an English language class and used his name.
“Taylor’s father is a very good tailor who sews many clothes.” The woman had said.
Whether it was for grammar’s sake or subtle sarcasm, his young brain couldn’t tell but he found it neither exciting nor funny when some of his colleagues giggled and laughed as well.
“Taylor, omo baba tailor.” they jested and jeered. It hurt him up to the point where he couldn’t utter a word.
Some of these boys’ parents sewed their clothes at his father’s shop, he thought. How mean? How cruel? How disrespectful of them to laugh at his father’s job?
Someday he’ll make tons of money and keep these fools quiet he vowed.
Then his father died a few years later and his life turned really worse. The poverty that struck his home had a big club and a lulling balm too. It hit him hard with academics and school but heated and mildly soothed his pains with the one semi-balanced meal he ate on each and every day.
Through sheer hard work and a willingness to be in charge money-wise, he took up all sorts of jobs, got himself through higher institution and was exceptionally good at what he did.
There he discovered he had another endowment apart from his brain and strength, when he won the contest for the most handsome in school. This also brought the attention of the opposite sex too.
One of them was Naomi, a prospective accountant who topped her class in the same institution as well. He fell in love and felt really loved for the first time in his life.
He couldn’t get a job after graduating for about two years. In that same period Naomi was with the Government and doing very well. He left Ibadan for Lagos later on, to seek a better life.

One day a man saw him while he was addressing a group of students during a presentation on Global Warming and its Effects. He gave him his card and his story changed; the man became his boss.
His boss’ daughter comes to the office one day and they both have a chat, it was awesome, he felt she was fantastic, she thought he was cool and then the chats proceeded to e-mails, phone calls and messages on whatsapp.
He loved Naomi still but feared a looming dump because he couldn’t explain why she cancelled several dates and sometimes wouldn’t pick up or return his calls.
Kike was falling in love with him, a blind man could see and a dumb one could also tell but he never felt a connection with the olive skinned and ravishingly beautiful girl.
Soon they started seeing each other however and to his surprise, her father supported the affair. Then one thing led to another, he played ball for the first time with a virgin damsel and a very good footballer he was because after the panting, prowling, twisting and turning, the whispers, squeals, tackling and moaning, eventually he scored.
Naomi reached out to him two weeks after Kike had told him the supposed bad news. They arranged to meet and meet they did and he promised himself to lift the lid but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the situation of things with him, the instant he set his eyes on her.
Ooh God! She looked radiant and more beautiful than ever, he thought.
He played along with the hope that Kike; a career oriented lady would in good faith terminate the pregnancy but got a stinker when his boss inquired about his plans for his pregnant daughter.
Introductions were done and a date was fixed for a clandestine wedding far away.
He should have said something; he really should have but preferred not to see Naomi lose her smile, not while he was now aware that she’d been very busy all the while and her feelings for him were very true.

As he stared at his daughter, who was quietly sleeping beside his wife, he remembered his first love and his lips slowly widened from side to side.
The small diamond shaped dimple on Naomi’s cheeks were the last images that constantly flashed in his mind, from the last night they were together before he left to marry his baby’s mother.
He had subsequently called and apologized for his errors; he knew he had hurt her deeply. If he had only done something differently, something like, not getting drunk with Kike or slipping on a condom that night but it was useless when a knife is dropped after it had made a cut.
Some nights still, his thoughts hover around Naomi and the true love they both felt for each other but sadly, it wasn’t the kind of love he shared with Kike, his wife.

Excerpt from my book (WHAT NEXT?) yet to be published.

Afolabi Oluwaseun Johnson

E4 enterprises



Why this blog?

This is the post excerpt.

I read and sang in my dreams so many times and back then it meant nothing to me. Now i understand better as i put words together, as sentences turn into paragraphs and paragraphs into songs or stories from one day to another.

I intend taking you through my imaginary world as well as a little bit of the real deal and also hope to pass my messages across via music, a language i know you understand very well.

Afolabi Oluwaseun Johnson

The Player

Not all lives that cross produce a union that is strong but when the strength of unification is sturdy and fails to compare with any other alliance or fusion between two individuals of separate sexes, that sort is worth a separate cosmos in the universe of love.

He could not compare what he had with Naomi, with that of Tristan and Isolde because he felt theirs had jagged barriers, much more than that of the Brit and his Irish sweetheart. Of Achilles and Briseis, Romeo and Juliet, Lancelot and Guinevere, Napoleon and Josephine, Paris and Helena, Cleopatra and Mark Antony and Orpheus and Eurydice, he still could not choose a love story as unique as his and Naomi’s. Maybe he over exaggerated a little bit sometimes or it was just the way it was because as hard as they tried to keep it professional at work, they could not help but steal glances at each other. It was an intense and passionate affinity like no other.

As he drove into his compound and got out of his car to the mechanical embrace of his wife, he knew his many lies would find him out someday but prayed Naomi would be gone by the time it eventually ensued.

“Hey babe how was your day?” he asked and kissed her.

“Not bad” she said as she collected his satchel. “How was yours?” she enquired too.

“Great but I’m starving baby,” he sulked.

“Dinner’s prepared already; I know you don’t play with your tummy,” she teased.

“Yeah, you can say that again… how’s my sweetheart doing, where is Deborah?” he enquired about his daughter.

“She’s taking a nap inside the house. She’s trouble… she didn’t let me concentrate at work today,” she whined.

“That’s my champion,” he said excitedly to Kike’s contorted face. “I wish she wasn’t sleeping so I can give her a warm embrace.”

“Really?” she muttered.


“Are you sure you want to tow that satirical road because it looks to me like Deborah’s business is someone’s tonight.”

“And so…” he challenged as he opened the door to the living room. “…haven’t I been handling business well before?” he asked as he pulled off his shoes.

“No problem baby,” his wife sang and smiled, then proceeded to the kitchen.

He laughed at her, he thought he’d scored a point in their ‘game of tease’ but suddenly stopped and bit his lips. “Deborah please… do not poo tonight I beg… I hate changing her diapers, Damn!” he quietly yelled and gnashed his teeth.

While they took turns in meeting their daughter’s welfare needs, his wife mostly assisted with that part of the responsibility towards their little girl’s well-being and he had said too much tonight without thoroughly thinking ahead.

He ate his meal, they laughed and yakked and played with Deborah who woke up later in the evening and was in an excited mood but not after she’d had a lengthy breast sulk.

He couldn’t do much that night but he put in the best he thought he could and as he left to take a shower, a message came through on his phone. His wife picked it up and only saw the sender’s name. She later dropped the gadget in frustration as she couldn’t fully read the message that had been sent in. His phone had a password and she’d guessed three times already but could not figure it out.

Excerpt from my book (What Next) yet to be published.

Character Description (Mr. Kareem)

Good morning Mr. Kareem,” Taylor greeted. He shook the man’s outstretched hand with a feigned smile.

Mr. Kareem grinned and made a little grunt. “I’m sorry your weekend’s taken again,” he apologized.

“There’s no problem,” Taylor replied. “Can we get started sir?”

“Sure, why not?” Mr. Kareem said with a somewhat surprised look.

Mr. Kareem, a tall and light complexioned man in his late-fifties, had been married twice to women who were as eccentric as he was. He met the first at a club house and married her two months later. Both couldn’t manage each other three weeks after tying the knot, as their once sweet love unfathomably turned sour. There was tremendous speed in their passionate and romantic meeting but it was no match for the terrific acceleration in their bizarre separation. It hurt him.

The second woman he married about a year after the first one left had been a onetime secretary of his. She bore him a daughter and later disappeared with some of his belongings. He couldn’t place the reason behind that as well but it did not hurt him as much as the first.

He subsequently hired several other secretaries with whom he had flings but none lasted more than two years with him.

Most left due to his disregard for courtesy with his frequent vocal obscenities as well as his atypical sexual perversions. Although, he was also quick to pull the trigger too, as he hired and fired at will.

He was fond of bragging about faithfulness in marriage, when in actuality; he only had not married again since the second matrimonial incident. He preferred affairs with divorcees to married women and also had a fetish for young campus girls.

Within the close circle of wealthy friends, his gross perversion and wanton debauchery were things he was comfortable with and also unreservedly proud of.

He had inherited his father’s Steel and Textile Company and multiplied returns through crude business ethics and an occasional kamikaze approach over the years and with assets and investments in several billions of naira, he was just that kind of maverick his father would have been proud of had it been he wasn’t six feet under the ground.

Although an atheist, he never completely discredited the place of miracles and other extraordinary phenomena in the ordinary human and the world in general. “If species can adapt and evolve over time, that’s a miracle in itself,” he had once affirmed. He however did not attribute these wonders to an extra ordinary force or spiritual being, claiming that miracles happen to upset life’s supposed normal flow and balance.

He also says that he does not wish to live beyond his eighties because he feared he’d become a waste of space at that point as he’d have said too much and done all there is to do on planet earth. That he also wouldn’t want to waste his time repeating or reminiscing worldly adventures and vowed to hasten his own death a few years prior, if he felt a surge of unnecessary energy and spryness on attaining that age with a lot of bourbon and cheap cigars. These, he hoped would conveniently do the trick when that time was due.

“Life’s too short” he’d heard a lot of people say but why make it longer by trying to live a very lengthy life? he’d always pondered.

“I have issues with the fall back plan in our proposal,” Mr. Kareem said.

“How do you mean sir?” Taylor enquired.

“We cannot return the whole money put in by investors if the business runs at a loss,” Mr. Kareem replied.

“Do I see pessimistic tendencies here?” Taylor grinned.

Mr. Kareem laughed. “No f****** way boy, I’d rather prefer you see me as the pessimist now, than lose my investments because of an unreasonably worked out and f***** up exit strategy,” he shifted uneasily, “I mean it gives me no f****** advantage at all.”

Taylor tapped his head with his fingers. “What do you suggest we do then?” he enquired.

“That’s why you are here,” Mr. Kareem shrugged. “Let’s figure this out together.”

“Have you notified our lawyer?”

“He’ll be joining us later today,” Mr. Kareem replied.

“Honestly, I feel we could run this without bringing people in,” Taylor said

“Let’s bring others in boy,” Taylor’s boss retorted. “I need a lot of payers and experienced hands on this one.”

“Okay,” Taylor said.

“You look a bit groggy. Did you sleep well at all, boy?” Mr. Kareem enquired.

Taylor yawned loudly.

“Or you were busy screwing my daughter and topping up on my grandson?” Mr. Kareem continued.

“Jesus Christ!” Taylor exclaimed. “Please shut up.”

They both laughed.

“There you are,” Mr. Kareem grinned at his secretary who had just gotten into the office. She greeted and immediately apologized; then blamed the traffic as she’d mostly always done for her punctuality related issues.

“Hey Taylor,” Mrs. George greeted. “You look tired… This old man’s working you like a horse right?” she chuckled.

“Am I?” Mr. Kareem countered.

“I just need a cup of coffee, I’ll be fine,” Taylor smiled.

“Make us some f****** coffee young woman,” Mr. Kareem said with a quick snap of his fingers. “And don’t take too long.”

Mrs. George who was at Taylor’s side patted him on the back, dropped her bag and left the room after she had playfully rolled her eyes at her unconventional boss.

“Move your butt…common,” Mr. Kareem said with a smirk on his face.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” She said as she cat-walked out of the room, the same way she’d done while entering.

Mrs. George, a divorced mother of one and Mr. Kareem’s personal secretary was dark, slender and had a small beauty spot at the base of her left nostril. She had a short cropped hair, almost wholly aligned with her temple and thick lips which were mostly adorned with sweet smelling balms or an occasional red lipstick. She was very beautiful in her boss’ eyes and her presence at the office, especially the business side of things was of less importance to him. She worked better when the day had ended, especially when everyone else had left the work place. Her job role had no definite description, salary structure or a signed code of conduct form.

She was a devil in his kitchen and an ape in his bed who knew how to meet his stomach and sexual needs and demands. It was her second year as his secretary and lover, and unlike the other women before her; he was convinced she was going to stay longer. He wouldn’t be firing Mrs. George anytime soon. He just knew it.

She had something which most of the other women he’d been with did not have, something he’d missed in a long while.

He was definitely going to keep this one and probably say a last goodbye to womanizing and bachelorhood at the youth of his old age.

Afolabi Oluwaseun Johnson


Excerpt from my yet to be published book (What Next?)




This is banal, this is blank
It is without a lesson for the moral human mind
This is a very long Confession
One I feel reluctant to begin even as I relax and pretend to unwind

Before you get to the next line, I must quickly warn
This is going to be very long
Long enough to make you pause and ponder…
The kind of influence I may seem to be momentarily under

This is nude, it is annoyingly rude
You might never want to again associate with this dude
Here, are shocking acknowledgements, sinister, graphic and crude
Like Arsenal (0) on Sunday, getting her Liver pulled (4)

This is evil, this is vile
Malicious and way bitter than the human bile
Malevolent, nigh horrific, with many regrets and sorrows
A quintessence of thoughts and actions, near vague and somewhat shallow

This is dark, very… very dark
Darkness unfazed by light’s imminent presence
Shining and unyielding even in extreme brightness
Blackness in its purest form, intense blackness of darkness

This is hell, so very unwell
Your heart is racing, keep it steady,
From over here I can feel it, I can tell
Wait for it; let it hit you like the alarm or that sound from a jingle bell

I’m sure you’ll hate its conclusion
The plot, its twist and shitty bend
But I already warned you not to read THIS
Its aftermath is yours and yours alone to deal with

My fingers are playing around on this keyboard
What if I told you there was no confession at all
Return to this moment; let’s get back to earth my good friend
Tell me it worked… tell me I got you wanting a revelation

This is the end of THIS piece please…
I guess it wasn’t that long after all
I’ve got no concession or declarations
Just smile and walk away, let’s pretend you obeyed the title instruction

Afolabi Oluwaseun Johnson
E4 enterprises.


I wanted to become a pilot as a child

I loved planes and eagerly wanted to fly.

As I grew older, my love for planes waned

because of what I could do with a ball at my feet.

And then, I saw a professional do an amazing skill.

I vowed I was going to do the same

But broke my leg while attempting to

For months I was in pains

And later found comfort in a girl who came around at that time

Her name was May

She was so fine, she made me smile

She was like ice cream, slowly cooling me down

She was the matchbox and I the match stick

And whenever our paths crossed,

There was always a kind of fire

Someone once said

“All things end badly, otherwise they’ll never end”

That was so true in our case because

Our fire never really burnt big

Its flames were reduced to sparks and then smokes

And as time went by, we slowly drifted apart

Young love, young aspirations and passions became memories past

Naivety and childhood fantasies were

Driven away by life’s harsh realities

I lost my innocence over the years

Couldn’t judge my actions by rights or wrongs

Only evaluated them by the most appropriate approach for a particular moment

At a point, it felt like I was chasing shadows

Like the world, at me was shooting arrows

My frustrations made me close my eyes to the misfortune of others.

I even trained my heart to be still in adversity,

Forgetting quickly that a quiet conscience

Gives strength and clarity.

Then I saw this line in a book I read

“He, who has courage and faith, never die in misery”

So I decided in my heart to acquire courage

To search for beauty, discover happiness and regain my balance

To have faith in every step I take

And increase my quest for knowledge

To get a grip on my flaws and be my best in every way

I observed and learned, studied from every of my defeat

I also had petite celebrations in the few battles I won

I never surrendered, never lost sight of what I desired

I took the bull by the horn, faced my challenges, never ran

I was opened and filled with the desire to succeed

Focused and persistent, knowing at the end I’ll win

Without the plane or the ball or that girl I dearly loved

I never gave up in my pursuit of happiness

I now utilize my power of imagination to the fullest,

Evident in what you can now see.

Jack of all trade, master of none

Sounds more like a pre-conceived notion to me

Do diligently whatever your hands find

Quit complaining, be cheerful and don’t be mean.

In the words of Jane Austen

“If one scheme of happiness fails,

Human nature turns to another

If the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better.

We find comfort somewhere.”

Do not quit on yourself, you can do better

Go for it. Keep believing.


Afolabi Oluwaseun Johnson

E4 enterprises










…we were so far apart, like my earth was much farther from his sun but he was my father and I his son. What other attributes were needed aside from surname and blood for a Father and his son to communicate and completely bond?

My mother said I was more of a trouble maker as a child. She said I fought anywhere with anyone for toys or objects that weren’t most times mine. I’d abuse, bite, kick, scratch and throw tantrums which disquieted her a lot. I once hit a boy on his face with the sharp prongs of a rake. I needn’t be told this because I took the worst of beatings on that day from my father after he saw the lacerations on the boy’s face. I was six, maybe seven and on that day, I nearly saw heaven. “I won’t stop until I peel your skin with my belt, I won’t stop until your body weeps blood,” I remember him say and the scars on my back, especially the black one at the base of my neck are evidences of the veracity of those words. He’d thrown me up towards the ceiling of the living room once and made me pay for the damaged asbestos by deducting from my lunch money for school.
Sometimes my mother out of pity made me run unnecessary errands in order to save me from his belt but I’d somehow manage to get the beating irrespective of what she’d done to salvage my plight.
Whenever she pounded yam and made melon soup, whatever trouble I had caused or punishment I was to receive that day got carried over to the next.
“The best way to enjoy pounded yam is for you to eat it, relax and sleep” my father always said. He believed so much in his “eat pounded yam and sleep” theory and would make sure he slept every time he ate that meal. I had less to worry about most weekends because we ate my father’s favourite on one or both days.
I once begged my mum to prepare the same dish on a Thursday because I had returned from school with a report card which almost had none of my scores written in blue. I got the beating I had delayed with that food when he finished his garri and bean cake meal the following afternoon.
He loved my sister. He practically worshiped her. “Lade, what should I buy for you on my way back from work today?” “Lade my baby girl, what did you do at school today?” “Lade let us take a stroll” “Lade leave that idiot alone and help me get water from the fridge.” Yes. I was that idiot. He dissed me a lot and it still hurts every time I remember.
He never asked me what I wanted, we never strolled anywhere…not that I wanted to anyway but then it was like he derived utmost pleasure in treating me like a retard. He’d ridicule me in the presence of my sister and make her laugh at me. He never heard my own side of the story and would mercilessly hit me anytime Lade complained or reported me. Everything goes with her but nothing clicked with me. She got whatever she wanted without hassle and I on the other hand couldn’t even ask for a thing because he always had this kind of look, like that of an angry dog waiting to attack and most probably bite.
I cannot remember shaking his hands, we never hugged, we were so far apart, like my earth was much farther from his sun but he was my father and I his son. What other attributes were needed aside from surname and blood for a Father and his son to communicate and completely bond? I struggled with this and many other questions for a while until an elderly neighbour hit me with a prayer bead on my head.
I had poured dirty water in a drainage channel one Sunday afternoon when a voice from behind asked me to stop. Alfa Saka as we used to call him was tall, huge and heavily built with his muscles always bulging with veins, especially his arms which always looked as if it housed a batch of earthworms. He also had a deep baritone, one which sort of shook the ground every time he spoke. I was confused because it wasn’t my first time of doing such as it was the common norm for tenants downstairs to do their laundry and pour water in that area of the house where he’d asked me to stop the pouring.
“I don’t understand sir” I retorted, “Where do you want me to pour it?”
Nothing intimidated me except my father’s belt and contrary to the Yoruba norm which encourages head bowing when speaking or being spoken to by elders; I loved staring at them whenever we talked. While most attributed this to belligerence, pride and a lack of respect, my father never saw it that way. He claimed that the same elders who say “the weight of words can only be found in a person’s eyes” are also the ones who’ll see a person as defiant and rude when he looks elsewhere while a talk is being made.
“If you stare and subconsciously roll your eyes. You are disrespectful. If you look elsewhere, they’d say you aren’t listening. If you stare and don’t blink, they’d ask why you’re staring and all these makes you wonder. What on earth do these priggish elders want from the generation they procreated?” I heard this while he was discussing with some of his friends some years back.
Alfa Saka charged at me and hit me with his prayer bead. “You are disrespectful” he said in vernacular “I told you to pour your dirty water elsewhere and you are asking me foolish questions.”
“Let it be the last time you hit my boy like that,” my father fumed. Standing beside the window of another tenant’s room adjacent the backyard, he pouted and folded his arms as if he was waiting for a fight. He had heard Alfa Saka’s ranting from inside the house and hurried down to check the situation.
Honestly, that was the first time I got his support in public. Alfa Saka tried to talk lightly of the issue but was sharply rebuffed. Of course! Most of the tenants revered my father, more for his military affiliation than the way he carried himself publicly.
“Please Mr. Saka, irrespective of whatever he has done, do not touch him ever again,” he warned.
I was hurt from the pain the beads had caused but relieved of it because of my father’s support and the way he had defended me.
Other times, I wouldn’t dare talk about my confrontations with anyone as he was fond of accusing me of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe it was because he saw the man hit me or because he had a bias for his religion but then it didn’t matter. He had my back covered and when he put his arm around my shoulders and led me into the house without a word, I had the feeling that he had changed towards me for the better.
I made the conscious decision to change my ways that day and overtime things got better between my father and I. There were more shoulder holdings and few back pat for rightly done chores and courses.
Except for the mathematics exam where I copied a friend of mine and passed, I did fairly well in other tests I had studied for and wrote on my own. This impressed him a lot, most especially the math score. He’d have beaten me if I told him I cheated. He was mean, sometimes wicked but was also honest, disciplined and dignified.
So much for days gone by, that troublesome boy I used to be has been reincarnated somehow as I see a lot of myself in my first born son. He never listens, gets beaten by my wife every now and then and yet never learns.
I have taken the mean African and mild Western approaches of child correction and discipline and none has produced the desired change I had expected. How I wish he was like my wife. His sister is well behaved, just like my sister was and I, in all honesty love her more, the same way my father had loved my sister. While I have hesitated in letting him have most of the same treatments my father gave me, I might resolve into going that same rout if I run out of a patience I don’t seem to have anymore. He hates math too and I’m hurt because he has inherited every one of my not too pleasant sides.
Maybe God is punishing me for punishing my parents or trying to make me have a feel of what my father felt in my rapid growing years. It may also be as a result of a bad family trend, a disease common among the males. I got my secondary school sweet heart pregnant and that produced Biola my son. My grandfather and father had pre-marital issues too as both were first born sons who also had kids with step mothers. We all have a history of bad behaviour while we were teenagers and maybe Biola is not to blame after all. I mean, all first born sons in my family are somewhat evil, troublesome in their growing years and are also bastards till their dying days. However much still needs to be done with Biola as I fear he might send me to an early grave.
Afolabi Oluwaseun Johnson
E4 enterprises