“A gun, a uniform, and a powerful man,” I sing to myself as I look in the mirror and wear my army uniform every morning. The uniform endorses my power. The taunting shouts of my childhood, “You can be no good,” are gone.
Am I not one of the best currently? I worked hard and kissed asses to accomplish this feat.
I command your eyes not to judge me; my intoxication with power is justified. I am the sixth child of my father’s third wife. Our house was full of skeletal bodies, and we barely could eat after the invasion—as Papa liked to call it—yet my father married two more wives. I wondered if his reasoning was correct—a man who couldn’t provide for his family married more liabilities.
Papa was a proud man. Money and women were like aphrodisiacs, and if he did not have one of the two, he had nothing to boast about. His wives didn’t get into a brawl with him over the other women; Papa needed something to talk about, and his wives allowed him to indulge and enjoy his twisted life. Papa was once fat with Naira, camels, goats, and farmland, and he was the pride of our village until the invasion changed our lives forever.
On Monday morning, the entire village was disturbed by the sounds of bullets. My brothers and I ran to Mama and Papa’s room. Papa whispered to Mama that no one had such sophisticated weapons in the village; the village was full of hunting weapons that were wired and tuned before the bullets came out. We later found the green-uniformed men who were the source of the uproar; they carried their guns horizontally, ready to shoot anyone that dared disturb their parade. They came to our compound and shouted, “Orlu, come out.” My father went out with pride, believing he was untouchable. That pride was quickly replaced with shame after he was beaten and robbed of all his savings. They opened his safe under the mattress and took all the money Papa had saved for over ten years. My father was cheated on and mocked by these green-uniformed men. Papa said that his enemies had gotten a hold of him. I wondered what right those men had to do so much injustice until I wore that same uniform, got the same gun, and felt the same power: The Green Gun Power.
After the invasion, Uncle Ikenna, my father’s elder brother, came to the village to ask for Papa’s permission to take me to the modernized city to learn a trade. I left Umuiya village with the enthusiasm of a sixteen-year-old, prepared for the Lagos world. Uncle Ikenna swore to take good care of me, make sure I learned a trade, and make lots of money. The thought of making my own money was intoxicating, but Lagos was a little disappointing. It was full of fast people; someone was always buying, selling, or committing a crime. My friends and I had a secret adoration for Lagos and the skyscrapers, but these ‘earth scrapers’ were not magnificent to me. The roads were dirty; people drank, ate, and threw their waste on the road—for whom to clean? My village was not this rowdy, and I was homesick!
My homesickness did not last long as my uncle took me to a man called Baba Musa; he was the absurd-looking man from whom I learned how to repair cars and generators. Baba Musa had something I could not place that made him look confused. I usually wondered if it was his eyes with their unusually voluminous sockets, his fat nose, or his dreadlocks. He appeared to be made up of various parts of other people’s bodies. His looks betrayed his impeccable intellect and strange wisdom.
He taught me the three golden rules of Lagos: be smarter than your neighbour, mind your business, and hold your belongings tight (kiss them to your chest and close to your breast). Baba Musa also taught me about automobiles. He had lots of wealthy men who came to his workshop to fix their vehicles. I had only seen a beetle, but Baba Musa’s customers had machines. These machines’ engines, beauty, size, and technology amazed me. Sometimes I closed my eyes and caressed the leather on the chairs with my palms, adoring the smoothness and admiring the impeccable finishing. I will have this kind of machine too. I could hear my mother’s Amen echoing in my ears. My mother used to say it was the simple prayers God listened to, those uttered in quiet unity with your heartbeat, words that sounded like wishes. Mama, I missed her so much!
Baba Musa’s clients came to the workshop a few times and gave us huge tips. We served them with total respect. One of them liked me and asked that I help Baba Musa with his cars. I used to wonder why his eyes were drawn to me until he reprimanded one of the workers: “You rude, dirty worker, me Chief Wemimo,” he said, as his hands adjusted his agbada. The mechanic, recognizing his insignificance, prostrated and begged him. Chief Wemimo was one of Baba Musa’s wealthiest customers. He held a top position in the army, and we couldn’t afford to step on his toes. I was a servant. When Chief arrived at the workshop, I addressed him and treated him with respect. I ran errands for him with great enthusiasm, not forgetting to ring the gong “chief” loudly. That title must have helped him earn extra paychecks and added to his intellect, concubines, and servants. I had envisioned that once the name Chief was mentioned, the women would turn with love-inebriated eyes and follow him like zombies.
I gradually learned the trade with a passion, but I wanted power like Chief Wemimo had; I wanted my name to make miracles happen. In Nigeria, wealthy men made miracles happen. It did not matter what the source of their wealth was; they could be thieves, corrupt politicians, or fraudsters. The biggest paycheck remained the winner in every battle.
One evening, I went to a bar with friends in the area where I lived with Uncle Ikenna. The bar was a private compound turned pub. It had a small television playing a football match aired on African Independent Television (AIT). The parlour had round white tables and chairs, and the air smelled of smoke and dirt. Not surprisingly, the gutter outside the bar smelled like food had gotten rotten in it. The bar owner poured waste from her kitchen into the gutter. Her children and husband were her rude waiters. They yelled for their pay, hissing their mouths, and then showered insults.
As we kept drinking, one of my fellow drinkers began to talk about the army. He recently began training as an army recruit. He didn’t want to waste his time in school when he could be earning money and commanding power. He boasted about the rigorous training, and I was intrigued. I could sense he had something to conquer, and his ego was something I admired. He spoke like he was superior, and we were common men, not worthy to be called men.
His intimidating look reminded me of the night my father’s first wife beat me. That day, I believed my mother’s accusation that she was a witch. She held my father’s belt and beat the living daylight out of me. She insulted me, my mother, and said her favourite words, “You can be nothing.” I dreamt of the army uniform and her jealous eyes shining with respect. In my fantasy, she and her idiotic children were commoners, silly commoners.
Some weeks after the army recruit’s tale, I summoned the courage to tell Chief Wemimo my thoughts about joining the army and if he could help me. I told him I was ready to start from anywhere. His eyes moved from my head to my feet, and he said, “I will think about it.” Four months later, Chief Wemimo gave me a recommendation letter, and miracles began to happen. In Nigeria, wealthy men make miracles happen.
I wondered for a second what he had written in the recommendation letter. I jumped, laughed, and cried for joy. I had a small party that night and invited my uncle, Ikenna; he was proud of me. He told my parents about my accomplishments. My fellow drinkers chanted my name as their voices screeched and their eyes dazed from all the drinks we had in our stomachs.
Two months later, I resumed the rigorous training that I swore to Nnedem, a fellow recruit, would kill me. The training was at Ikeja Army Cantonment, from 5 am to 2 pm and 6 pm to 8 pm. My body ached from the arduous training, yet I envisioned a brighter future.
I had a room at the army barracks, and my first day outside the barracks in the army uniform was indescribable. I felt respected, and although I shared a room with 15 other soldiers, I was happy. We were given a shared parlour with air conditioners that had worn out but were posters of the good work the government had done. The kitchen was a small space with a fridge and an electric cooker—a mockery of sophistication, as there was never electricity to power the cooker. In Umuiya village, we changed the name of the electricity provider, National Electric Power Authority, to Never Expect Power Always. We sang “Up NEPA” whenever we had electricity. At the army barracks, we got a gas cooker and a generator.
Six months after the training, my superior officer asked me to accompany some officers to another army base. That was the first time I saw the invasion power. A civilian was beaten black and blue by higher-ranking officers. His face was covered in blood as he kept groaning, pleading for his life. I felt sorry for him, but as the days passed, I saw bloodshed, corruption, and the beatings of civilians as normal.
A year after joining the army, Nnedem and I got deployed to Liberia on the same day. Liberia was different yet similar to Nigeria. I saw the same corruption, bloodshed, anger, and impoverishment that I saw in Nigeria in Liberia.
The bloodshed from the war against the leadership of Charles Taylor haunted me at night. I couldn’t sleep some nights. I lay down, smoked, and stared at the sky. When I told Nnedem that I couldn’t sleep because of my nightmares, he went to his room and gave me white sleeping pills. Nnedem always had a solution to every problem. He also had so much confidence and wickedness, even though his English was a pun on the word English. Nnedem claimed to be a graduate of mass communication, but I usually wonder what he learned about communication. He graduated with a first-class grade yet had no academic class. One thing he had was a fearless heart. I took the drugs and said, “Thank you.”
In no time, I became addicted to the white powder and drugs. A few weeks after my first smoke, we went near the camp where victims of the Liberian war camped. He told me to hide in the grass to avoid being seen by the Liberians. As girls moved around, we waited until he saw a young girl with no family or friends close to her. He grabbed the little girl, covered her mouth, tore her dress, and raped her. I was too high to save her. I tried pulling him back, but he shoved me away as her voice touched my soul. I still see her eyes pleading for mercy—mercy I couldn’t give.
When we got to the military base, Nnedem punched me and told other officers that I tried to kill him for playing with one of the girls. I was ridiculed, called names, and bullied till the witch’s voice kept ringing in my head, “You, Ike, can never become anything.” The witch’s voice had been far away these days, and I believed I had conquered her.
I knew I had to show these stupid soldiers I was capable of being one of them. I couldn’t wear this uniform and be taunted and abused like a stupid nobody.
Nine months later, we got deployed to Lagos. I was glad to leave the bloodshed, but the bloodshed hadn’t left me.
My father saw me and said, “Why are you hard.”
I laughed and replied, “Only the hard ones survive.”
He replied, “You need softness; a good woman will do you good.”
“Papa, my needs are met; women and their troubles, I don’t need yet.”
Papa shook his head; it was his way of telling me I was a young man with limited knowledge. Papa talked about Nkemdili, my childhood sweetheart, numerous times. I begged him not to call her parents or make any arrangements.
Six years ago, her mother called me a rat and said I shouldn’t come near her priceless daughter. Six years later, she was the rat, and I was the priceless son.
Despite the pain her mother had caused, I couldn’t help but wonder how Nkemdili had changed: were her breasts larger, her skin brighter, and her smile warmer?
I met Nkem in her prime; her heavy eyelashes flickered every time I saw her and seduced my heart. As she elegantly placed her pale full of water on her head, Nkem’s subtle, sweet laughter rang in my head.
The witch came into the parlour where Papa was talking about Nkemdili. She kept bowing and bowing, asking too many questions, trying to make amends. The witch’s children were village nonentities, gallivanting about town. I knew life’s irony could be sweet, and the first shall be the last and the last the first. I heard these words for most of my childhood at Sunday school.
As a responsible son, I gave Papa money to cater for my younger and older siblings. Papa rubbed my back and said, “Son, I am so proud of you.” His words meant nothing to me; I was more appalled by the notion that he might marry another wife, as the rumours in our compound claimed.
I was leaving the village tomorrow and trying hard to avoid thinking of Nkemdili, but as my head lay on the mat with two of my younger brothers the night before I left, I remembered the time Nkem and I spent in Eluyi. Eluyi was the closest village to Umaniya, my hometown.
We would make excuses about extra-curricular lessons and meet at the town square in Eluyi. I would later take her to the only ice cream seller around Eluyi, and we would slowly walk to a secluded corner of the village. We would talk about our dreams, and she would tell me she wanted to design clothes in Lagos.
I wrote her a poem once; I think it sounded like this:
By the village street
Two hearts lie awake
Listening to the tumbling of the sea
The ruffling of the trees
The leaves fall, killing the silence
The rain falls
A pitta-patter of careless abandon
While we walk through life together
Nkem, my love
Like the old warriors of Umuiya
My heart fights for your love
My dreams wait for your touch
Every moment I look into your eyes
Confusion dies
I see the way I must take, the path into your life.
I dozed off to the rhythm of my words as I sang to Nkemdili.
