ASUU CHRONICLES 2: Lost Battle of Lust. The Saga Continues…

 Read Part 1 here:

  On the way back to the house, we met Mummy Niyi. She had a polythene bag in her hand and it was transparent. I could see the contents without trying. She had bread and other provisions. She genuflected to the Imam and casually mumbled Hi D Law towards my direction. Then she walked past us. I almost died. Who does that? Her reaction reminded me of my dear Ella back at the University in Ife. Whenever I offend her as I was naturally wont to do, she wouldn’t stop talking to me all together, she’d just be so casual to the point that I almost grovel my apologies. She had a way of stooping to conquer. I still cringe whenever I remember the cold shoulder. But I had not done anything to this woman now. Maybe she was protecting us from the Imam. If only she knows what the Imam knows.

  When we got back to the house, we said salamah and Father responded from within. He was in the parlour watching the Evening News on Channels TV and gently picking his teeth for debris of meat that may have stuck somewhere. Father has a particularly small dentition for his fiery appearance and even more fiery way of speaking. During one of our relaxed chats about the nation’s situation, I had told him that Ronaldinho would gladly swap his two front teeth for six of his own. He busted into peals of laughter and told me that I was silly. Then three days later when I had almost forgotten the episode, he told my brother that he had always known that I’d be the silly one. He said so with a big smile. I grinned. My Father is a good man.

  Father asked me if there was any news about the strike ending anytime soon. I told him none. I told him that negotiations had even broken down and it seems we were in the abyss for now. He told me he knew. He just wanted to be sure that I was following the news and not spending all my days on social media making friends with no one in particular. I grinned. He said it wasn’t funny. Then I straightened up and gave him a very stern serious look. He jokingly asked me to vamoose. I complied and marched away like a zombie. He and the Imam smiled, and then they began to confer quietly. I headed to the kitchen to find my night meal.

  Since I could not sleep, I turned to my Laptop for companionship and browsed through for anything worth seeing again. Chris Ubani’s TED Talk stood out. I remember the joke he made about a t-shirt his girlfriend had. He said there was an inscription on the shirt. The inscription read; Bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity. I kept turning the words over in my mind.

  My incredulous dalliances with Mummy Niyi the night before had left me more restless than ASUU strike. My encounter with the Imam hadn’t ended the way I expected and I was more befuddled than ever. Then Ubani’s words came ringing in my head again. What if I did it with the woman and couldn’t stop? Will meeting her needs and invariably mine, cure me of my attraction to her? What if that opens a new floodgate of emotions that I don’t even know how to control or deal with? Can bombing ever bring peace? I mean real and long lasting peace? Will sleeping with the woman cure me of my attraction to her?

 I made up my mind to speak to her about it when I went to see her in the morning. Maybe that is what she even wanted to tell me. That I should stop thinking it could ever be possible between the two of us. I slept in thoughts and was startled out of my sleep by the call to the Morning Prayer. I slipped into something and headed for the mosque.

  After everyone had gone to school, I called her to ask if it was alright for me to come over. She said yes. When I got there, I knocked and she answered from within that the door wasn’t locked. I stepped in and there she was. All my thoughts disappeared at once. I was temporarily taken aback but I quickly gathered myself together. She was watching a movie. Good morning I said. She nodded her reply.

  I couldn’t help but stare. Though she wore a gown made of Ankara material, she wasn’t any less beautiful. It had a tag that read H&W. The local designer definitely found a fine blend to create an African yet cosmopolitan outlook. I made a mental note to ask her later if they made gowns for boys. Gowns for boys? I almost belched at the silliness of such thought. I must have been really taken in by her. Whoever designed that gown will go places.

  She didn’t cover her hair. I noticed she had just plaited it. My sister had told me all I needed to know about the style she had on. It is called Patewo. I swallowed when I noticed how neatly the rows sat on her head; the ridges caught my attention and I liked the way the rows had one long dissecting ridge in the middle. That long ridge seemed to divide the rows into two, the same way the equator divided the earth. The division was not only equal but artistic. In my mind’s eye, I was already gently running my fingers through the slanted ridges of the rows and the Long One of the equator.

  She looked like the moon. You know how the moon shines so brightly when it is full and seems to be a sole lamp for the whole earth? That was exactly how she looked. I felt like the earth and she was my full moon. She was beaming her extra-terrestrial light on me. I was before something that was beyond me yet within my reach. Only The Grand Designer of the Universe could have designed something this physically thrilling and soulfully exhilarating. Here was God using His works to reaffirm my faith. I gently said a quick prayer. And in sheer delirium, I said Amen aloud.

   She looked startled for a minute, and then suddenly began to chuckle aloud. The chuckle graduated into laughter and laughter they ay is like wildfire during the harmattan. I instantly caught the bug. It seemed almost impossible not to smile at the way she smiles or laugh at the way she laughs. She is like the President making a joke, whether it was funny or not, one feels obligated to laugh.

  Then I noticed that I had been staring. And staring they say is rude. So I gently mumbled something like sorry. She waved it aside and told me to sit. I quietly sat down beside her. She asked me to move closer and when I did, she rested her head slightly on my shoulder.

  Instantly I felt really powerful. I felt like I could do anything. I felt like I was the ruler of a beautiful kingdom. Only that this kingdom had only one citizen. But this citizen was enough for the whole kingdom. She was a thousand people rolled into one.

  In this wonderful posture, I silently said another prayer for Olobe to appear so that he would witness how blessed I had become. I wished I could take a picture and share just for showoff. Such was the depth of shallowness that this delirium had transported me into. By the way, Olobe is my best friend and no, he doesn’t hawk soup as his name suggests. Olobe is his nick. It’s not his real name. Or Wale. If Olobe couldn’t make it, I wished Wale could. He would have laughed his charming hearty laugh and gawk at my luck. But then the thought hit me. Those two men are natural charmers you moron. They may take her away from you. I chuckled and rebuked such thought. Then I grinned.

  I felt like I was dead and now in heaven. Only that God wasn’t ready to judge me yet so He asked His Most Beautiful Angel to keep me company. This must be a clear sign that I will make heaven. I rarely use drab clichés to describe women but suddenly the cliché about a woman being an angel seemed new and had a startlingly clear meaning to me.

  She asked me why I had laughed aloud. I told her I didn’t know how to start. She said I should say it anyhow, so I obliged. I told her how I felt about her looks and all I knew about Patewo. She told me I had a sweet mouth. Then I gently nudged her head towards me and spoke directly toward her lips. How would you know that I am sweet if you haven’t tasted my lips? She seemed lost and her chest started pounding heavily against mine. Her bosom was now fully rested on my chest. We stared deeply into each other’s eyes for what seemed like eternity. Then I began to move my lips towards hers.

  She didn’t flinch or move. Her face was as bland as a sea at peace. No activity. If not for the thumping of her pulse against mine, I would have believed that I was the only one feeling the connection. Now we were both breathing too heavily. Then I saw a flicker in her eyes. It simply said Go On. I did. But my lips went to her neck first. I pecked it ever so gently. She suddenly wrapped her hands around my head. My lips were making the return from her neck back to her lips when we suddenly heard a knock on the door. I felt like a hammer had just landed directly on my cranium. It must be the Devil. She seemed to agree because she didn’t move to open it. Then her phone rang. It was her dead husband’s younger brother, Musa.

  Her face suddenly dropped. Musa has become the source of her headache and worries for so long and she knew better than not to answer his call. She answered the call and put the phone on the Speaker mode. Hello, she said ever so softly. Oh so you are in?! He seemed to have picked her voice from the door. I am in front of your house. I almost slumped.

To Be Continued…


ASUU CHRONICLES 1: The Lost Battle of Lust…

  This piece was written by my “father”. He’s Samsudeen Alabi, an insanely intelligent and creative friend. He’s @SamOlaAlabi on twitter. Note that the Niyi in this article, is an acknowledgement. Because, you know, I’m amazing. Anyway, this is about the travails we students are facing, due to the ongoing ASUU strike. Enjoy.


There is a God for every man. But on most days, He’s busy planning for every man’s big day. So sometimes we feel like nothing is happening when a lot is. Those were the words of the Imam when I told him about my frustration with the whole ASUU palaver. I had gone to him with a heavy heart and a broken spirit. I had told him that I needed some kind of reassurance that Allah hadn’t gone to sleep on the matter. He didn’t grin like He usually does when I start up another one of my unconventional discussions. In fact, he looked perturbed and heavy-laden too.

So when he told me those words, I left him and went away quietly. Something told me not to prod him further. I think his hajias were at it again. See, the Imam has three wives and twenty-three children. Once, he confided in me that he wished he hadn’t married thrice. He wished he could give some of the children back to Allah. He wished his filial headaches were less. The Imam is a man of many wishes.

On my way back to my father’s apartment after the evening prayers, I saw Sule slipping something into Mairo’s hand. Then when the young man felt nobody was watching, he playfully slapped the fourteen-year-Old’s behind. Instantly, I knew it was only a matter of time before the Imam gets another grandchild from Mairo. But if there is one thing I have learnt from my dealings with the Imam’s family, it is to always turn a blind eye.

A familiar hand squeezed my shoulders gently from behind. I knew it was the hand of Imam Sadiq. You showed up for solat, he said. I was almost worried that the ummah had lost a bright man and future advocate of its cause after you left in the morning. Your questions are at best startling and confounding, he continued. What is your bother, my friend? He motioned me back into the mosque and I followed his lead.

The mosque is a shed standing on four bamboo planks. Its roof is aluminum and itsfloor is the only cemented portion of the outer compound. Daddy had it fixed before he returned to his station in Abuja so that when rain falls, we could still have a space big enough to accommodate our neighbors for ashamu during Ramadan. The shed is divided into two to indicate difference in sex and the floor is covered with a thick carpet upon which the mats are laid.

Nothing seems to be working in the world, I blurted out as soon as the Imam sat down. The Law School opens in October and if we don’t resume soonest, I think I might have to wait another year. It’s been forty days sir. I don’t know what God is doing. I know that the government is useless and the Lecturers are self-serving megalomaniacs, but you taught me that God is in charge of us all. If so, why won’t He call the warring elders to a truce? I am fed up.

To compound my woes, I continued, I am being tempted with that which most men cannot decline. Sir, it is the wife of the soldier, the one whose husband was killed inSomalia about a year ago. She started out by asking me to help her replace some bad electric bulbs with new ones; then it was to fix her sink; then the fuse of their meter smelled burnt. Much later, their generator won’t start and her child was running a temperature. When I got there, she was silently sobbing. I was touched to say the least but behaved like I hadn’t noticed her tears.

I fixed the generator by cleaning out the plug and as I was about to leave, she shouted from her room that she was coming, so I busied myself with the Yoruba movie playing out on Africa Magic. All the while I was still standing against the door to their apartment as I was hitherto almost gone.

Then the unexpected happened.

Sir, I must say that I wasn’t prepared for what met my eyes when the mother-of-one emerged from her room. She was loosely clad in a gown that must have been meant only for the eyes of her husband because it left almost nothing to the imagination yet concealed everything necessary. I was transfixed. I just could not look away.

The moment she stepped back into the sitting room, her presence felt like the relieving yet enchanting scent of air when the first drops of scant rainfall touches the earth. My heart was beating so fast that I could hear its gentle thump in the deafening silence that engulfed both of us. It was like the television had been muted by some ancestral forces. Then I remembered what a pretty friend of mine back at the university in Ife once told me about the roving eyes of some of our randy lecturers. She said when they stared at her, she felt like every piece of clothing on her had been removed.

I am sure Mummy Niyi must have felt that way. Then her son opened the door to his room and emerged looking all sweaty.  He asked to be fed and the woman nervously whispered something like; you’re sweating, thank God. Now I am sure you’ll feel better. She asked me to sit down. She said I needed to sit down. I did not know what she meant until I felt a throbbing between my legs, just below my stomach. I saw the bulge and at once, I knew I had to sit down. I was slightly embarrassed at my rabid display of manliness.

When she was done feeding Niyi, she put him to bed and came out again. She still looked the same, but this time I was more composed. She sat in a chair not so far from mine and causally asked how I have been coping with the strike. I wasn’t sure how to answer. I wasn’t sure if words would come out from my mouth. So I gently swallowed first. She noticed and smiled. But I noticed that it wasn’t a teasing smile. In her eyes, I saw that she was quite glad she had such an effect on me. In fact, I caught her stealing fast glances at the region of my bulge when she felt I wasn’t looking. But it is my bulge so I would know. She had no arrogant airs about her and she was so easy to talk to. She seemed very calm and relaxed and it would take depth to decipher that the glimmer in her eyes wasn’t from joy but from resignation. She seemed ready for anything and that made her almost imperturbable.

For the first time, I allowed myself to think that she was beautiful, in fact very beautiful and I did not feel like I had sinned. We talked about everything but the actual thing we both wanted to talk about. But we knew that so much had been said in the silence. When I told her I wanted to leave, she offered to walk me to the door. She said she wanted to lock the door after I was gone. Then the tension started to rise again. I felt heat at the back of my ears and my palms were suddenly sweaty. I thought I caught a glimpse of her heaving a very heavy sigh, but I can’t be so sure now.

When we reached the door, I made for the door knob but her hand was on its handle before mine. For a second I thought of myself as that handle in within her grip. She seemed to have read my thoughts as she seemingly fumbled with the door. Then she closed in to open it and her bosom brushed my shoulder. I couldn’t move, so she had to gently nudge me on when the door almost hit me in the face. She didn’t apologize; she just giggled and whispered into my ear. Good night. See you tomorrow.Or so she said. Needless to say I couldn’t sleep all night. Now we are so cordial and I see the inevitable happening between us anytime soon else the passion flying about between us will spark a flame and consume both of us.

Sir, but my main grief is that in all of this I don’t see any wrong with what I am doing. I should be sad and depressed for flirting with a widow without shame but I feel absolutely no remorse. I don’t think I am responsible for the death of her husband to start with. Nor am I responsible for the inability of ASUU AND the government to reach a truce on their bloodless but fatal battle. I am not even responsible for my hormonal reaction to the startling beauty of Mummy Niyi, the widow. I shouldn’t be blamed. I have not sinned. I am only but a victim of circumstances. I stopped and kept quiet so I could hear what he had to say.

The Imam sighed and started. Nothing is a mistake. Everything that happens in this life is being orchestrated by our God. No goodness or badness escapes his command. He may not approve of the bad, but He doesn’t force anybody into doing anything. He allows us all to decide whatever path we choose and then we have to live with the consequences of what we decide. Everybody has a prerogative over his own life and destiny. Whatever you choose to do with that prerogative is what makes you accountable before Allah.

Then he said; everything in life is a matter of choice. God has given us an array of options to choose from. Whichever you pick, you are responsible. You must be ready for the consequences of your choices. So choose wisely. God has given you freewill.

I scoffed and responded to his spiritual diagnosis of my dilemma. Freewill you say? I think not sir. If the freedom to choose does not include the freedom to create the choices, then there is no freewill. I didn’t create the choices I have, so I have no freewill. The Imam was now obviously befuddled.

Before he could respond, Mairo stepped in and knelt down before him, and then she whispered something to him and left. The Imam rose. Your father wants to see me, he said. This isn’t over D Law. We must finish this conversation tomorrow. I nodded and we walked back towards our house.