Silent Storms

 

By

Obododimma Oha

The title of this essay is from a poem by Bimbola Faith. Naturally, storms are noisy and do frighten some of us. So, to talk of "silent storms" is to make the reader think twice. Poets use expressions that confuse us, to force us to scratch our heads, sometimes contradictory  expressions . In that kind of case, one just has to read and re-read. After reading and rereading Faith's "Ray of Hope" and encountering "silent storms," I thought deeply about its meanings.

When I think of storms, what comes to my mind is destruction, tearing, mangling, explosion, death and pain.

But applied to human life, we are told by psychologists that some storms are good for us. A little stress keeps us well exercised.

The poem interestingly puts storms against smiles. So, these "storms" are not the normal ones we know. Different experiences understood as "storms." The poet even qualifies the storms as operating silently within many the human being.

But culture is there to help us."Dimpled smiles" and even "ray of hope." Rays give warmth and dimples are seen as indexical signs of beauty in many African cultures. But that dimples are indicators of presence of beauty is simplistic. There is nothing in that depression on the temple that can signify beauty. In fact, elsewhere and other times, dimples could suggest ugliness.

"Ray of Hope" is calming. Consoling. Ray is actually hope, a connotation that is welcoming. It suggests a good management of the silent storms.

Let us consider the storm more closely.
(1) It is not heard outside the person.
(2) They are still destructive (" ravaging").
(3) They are deceptive in the signification that follows.

Tears are also signs of pain from the storm.  The storms bring sadness. They give birth to "tearing eyes."

But there is still hope.

The poet chooses to be elliptical about the acts of the silent storms. So, we have to imagine them? Biting instead of kissing? Frisking instead of hugging? Slapping instead of laughing foolishly?

I don't like storms, whether metaphorical or real. They scare me. Last time I read *Kontiki Expedition*and *Treasure Island*,I had to hold the person nearby to be able to sleep.

No poem, they say, is ever finished. Only abandoned. And so I believe that we are only given the introduction in "Ray of Hope." The full poem is on the way, just like this brief essay.

I Miss Canaan City

By

Obododimma Oha

I miss Canaan City

I miss the sweet breeze

And filtered air that kisses my nose

I miss Edikang Ikong

And menu prepared with washed hands

Honestly, food is ready!

I miss smooth skin

And life well-looked after

I miss life

I miss Canaan City

And her pleasures

I miss the land

That keeps my heart.

A Trouble-maker

By

Obododimma Ọha

In a world where things are standing

On their heads, if you still know

Your right and your left

Then, you're a trouble-maker.

If tell people to do the right thing

How do you know

The right thing?

What makes the right thing right?

Only trouble-makers

Talk of the right thing

Or do the right thing

Peaceful souls see and deny.

In this new world

Right is terribly wrong

And wrong is wrong

Because it is hidden.

So, Trouble-maker, you are wrong

Because you know right things still.

Brother Dash Me

By

Obododimma Oha

There was a time that in local areas in Nigeria one was considered lucky to inherit things used by one's elder brothers and sisters. One always looked forward to wearing the same clothes, shoes, handbands, etc or carry the same bags they carried as young people. It was like following their footsteps or waking on the same road that they walked. It was a thing of pride and one was glad to be involved.

From what some spiritualists tell us, putting on someone's clothes is like wearing that person's skin. Wearing a brother's or sister's skin could be a good thing, after all they were both housed in the womb for some time. That is an important connection. Creation has a plan in this togetherness. So, it is a good idea to wear brother's or sister's skin. 

Those who wanted to kill one's joy or were dying of envy would label the inherited things "Brother of Me." It could be observable that what one was wearing was inherited because it might not be one's size exactly. So, it was dismissed as "Brother Dash Me" and as owned by someone else. If a Brother gave out a pair of trousers, the inheritor just had to go and see a tailor later with it. Same for skirt or blouse. It was very easy to recognize a  "Brother Dash Me." 

But, before the fuller discourse, let us look closely at the language used in the labeling. The senior is a "Brother," with a rising on the first syllable of the word. If that is not a phonological appeal, what else is? Plus a gratitude. "Brother's" place as the high in the discourse is still preserved, but that is to "undress" the proud wearer of oversize.

There is also some Nigerian pidgin there - - "dash." A gift is just a "dash," which means the giver does not really need it and has no reason not to give it away. That is an indirect way of saying the gift is worthless. 

It is not a birthday gift. It is not a gift from Father Christmas. It is purely a discard. That is a greater way of using language to kill the spirit of the wearer. Little wonder many have now kept away from "Brother Dash Me." 

One interesting thing about this "Brother Dash Me" is that what someone used to cherish has gone to someone else. That reminds me about our valuing of our offices and things as if we would keep them forever. Don't they say in Nigeria, "Soja go, soja come. Barrack remain"? ("Soldier goes  soldier comes barracks remains"). Our personal office today will be someone else's office tomorrow. We cannot be around forever. That is why it is important to make the future strong, indeed, stronger! That baton must be handed over to the next mate in the race.  

"Brother Dash Me" did many other things that I liked very much. It did something to relationship. It made it become stronger and warmer. Of course, one expects someone covered by another person to  be warmer. And so we are not surprised at this warmth in the relationship.

"Brother Dash Me" further reveals one vital thing about sustenance in the society where it occurred. It shows that the inheritors did not expect parents to provide clothings and other things all the time. It is true that parents have played a major role in bringing people into this world but don't have to be the ones to provide all their needs. So, we find some rural areas laboring and doing things to be able to help themselves. Even their communities have lived not to wait for government but simply depending on the goodwill of citizens to build bridges, repair roads, build schools and hospitals, even police posts! So, brothers and sisters even have macro application. Brothers would always "dash", as we find in many parts of Nigeria's South East. 

"Brother Dash Me" means that Brother cares and will continue to care. Brother is your covering and your warmth. Sister, too. In this journey. In this weather. 

On another note, one could see the spirit of communalism and sharing at  work. That spirit of the communalism is interrogated in the "Brother Dash Me" ridicule of individualism. The womb of our meeting and housing is no longer considered. 

In Nigeria these days, one sees used things  from overseas on sale. Clothes. Shoes. Bags. Even underwear! These are not "Brother Dash Me" again for they have been bought from the market! They are not someone's life going to another person. One has paid to have them. They are not items for "dash." 

Brother, sister, look back, at your back, and continue to "dash." 

Daddy's Stuff

By

Obododimma Oha

I gave my son my computer to use for a while beccause his own was bad but warned him not  to tamper with my files. He promised not to. When he returned the  computer, the files were intact (to my great joy) but l discovered that he had done something worth  thinking about. He had created a folder for my files and had named the folder "Daddy's Stuff." It was not just just that he spared my files to avoid trouble or created the folder. It was more : the language that he used in the naming was something else. Stuff? He must have wondered what to call the folder of things I valued. OK, look at my music! Albums from Osita Osadebe, Oliver de Coque, Oriental  Brothers, Warrior! No hip hop! From their cobwebbed music you shall know them! This stuff fellow must be living in the past, he must have concluded. These and other things were just "stuff" to him.

It was also possible that there was an attempt to use Daddy's Stuff on that reading table to read Daddy's Stuff on the computer : half-eaten kola nut, many open books, bush lantern facing an ancient electric reading lamp, a grandfather clock, etc. The computer must have have become the new porter helping Daddy to carry all these stuff in the marketplace of life! 

Okay, just think about what the stuff fellow's  desktop would look like. Things and things! In fact, a desktop of   things, of stuff and stuff! 

I lent out my computer but that was a world encountering another world and showing its  exception in language, in its major signifying system. I exposed my world and should learn from it. Technology sharing would not save the day.  Language is, indeed, more helpful, more revealing. 

The choices we make in language can suggest what we are and where we are. If "stuff" designates my "orishirishi," the unrecognizable, what does my language also say about that other language, at least as a way of talking back? 

Well, the stuff fellow's world does not use derogatory description. The values of a world and its technology are all there to do something. So, my" stuff" may look strange but that "stuff" has done much for me. It is worlds armed with language as a weapon and which see values as "stuff" that need to be pitied. It is that world where life means nothing, where nests could be set ablaze, that need to be pitied. 

My music suggested difference and strangeness. Yes. Strangeness! Not even Michael Jackson! How could I value albums by Oriental Brothers and Osadebe? That was crazy, it seemed. But what if these musical albums are a kind of hip hop? That means that stuff rappers should also start thinking of relationships of things thought not to related. Is it not possible that every item is just a stuff? 

I would have been rejoicing if my son copied and played any of my music stuff! "Lai! Lai!" as they say in Nigeria. Has he finished playing his hip hop and "Yankee" music to think of playing stuff music? That would be stranger than strange! 

My stuff music gives someone belly ache, I was told, and the retaliation comes in the form of loud hip hop or "Yankee." So, I respect and protect my stuff world, even if its music cannot inspire other worlds. 

Daddy's Stuff is a folder for some reasons. In it someone has folded up a world. But the challenge is to open up a closed world,  to explore that world for opportunities and to learn lessons. 

Now we know that Daddy's Stuff is Daddy's world. Strange or Estranged world. But, importantly, the stuff is not only music. It is a world of things. The music saying deep things, giving out philosophies. There are  paintings and drawings and debates in social media. In fact, Daddy's Stuff is a great puzzle. A strange world. 

A world should not remain closed. It has to give and be ready to receive. Not folding or closing up. It has to have something to give, not just lie and receive. And it should think about what it is giving. 

Now Daddy's Stuff is not here within reach! 

Welcome, my stuff. You could have been deleted! And replaced with a movie or reigning musical. What would he do? At most, he would rave and rave and disturb the whole forest. He would make noise and threaten hellfire. Then, moody for days. And that's all. The stuff is gone forever, gone for good and the forest is safe again. 

So, welcome really my stuff. You could have gone for good. Welcome from Hades. You could have gone forever! 

Daddy's Stuff reminds me about the fact that there is   new life and there is a new language in town. It is is better to know it to know where one is. It is better and safer. 

Welcome, my computer. Welcome, things and things. 

"He Is My Brother" When We Are Only from the Same Town, not from the Same Mother

 "He Is My Brother" When We Are Only from the Same Town, not from the Same Mother

By

Obododimma Oha

Relationship of people is not defined in many African communities as it is defined in the Western. Thus, if Biko Agozino is from Anambra State in Nigeria and I am from that state also, he becomes my "brother," even though we are not from the same mother, not even from the same town. Biko is Igbo and I am Igbo. That is one connection. Both of us attended the same university in Nigeria once upon  time, but our paths parted. He  went his Eskor Toyor way and I  Achebe-ed mine. However  to be many Africans, Biko is just my "brother," after all, he is Igbo and Obododimma is also Igbo! Translation problem? Perception? Relativity? Communalism? What is happening in this kind of discourse, ?

For many speakers of Igbo, "He Is My Brother" may be one easy way of running away from the translation problem in" nwanne." Literally," nwanne " means " offspring of my mother. " It is a very poor translation to call a kinsperson or someone from my state " my brother. "  That is clearly misleading! In fact, a fraud tendency! So, my brother, you are not my brother! My sister, you are not my sister! 

The idea of " my African brother "  or " my African sister," or "Nigerian brother" is just a fiction. Invent and express it, but it doesn't exist or it has ceased to exist. It is one of those fictions that have given you your haircut!

How am I your "brother"? Did you remember to give me part of the trillions of dollars you borrowed from out there? Truly, my brother, you are not a good brother, if a brother at all! You need to share the thing. 

We know that a speaker may use " my brother" just to negotiate intimacy, to draw closer to the addressee. We know that slippery slope. 

But, apart from this stylistic use, many who prefer "my bother" to other choices actually appeal to a primordial sentiment, talking about about an assumed closeness and asking for support on the basis of this imagined closeness. That appeal to an imagined closeness is fraudulent. It expects preferential treatment and authorizes it. 

Apart from language, religion is another force that promotes the ingroupness in the metaphors of fictional "brother" and "sister." A "brother" and a "sister" are better people and should get better treatment, it is assumed. Can you see how that kind of ingroupness unites? 

Indeed, religion brings in a phonological color! It puts an accent, a rising tone, on the last syllable. That makes a shibboleth a schibboleth at last! 

Recognizing and addressing somebody in the same religious group as "brother" or  "sister" could also be deceitful. Who does not know that someone with an ulterior motive could just memorize catch phrases like "God bless you" and "Remain blessed" and use them to pretend to be sincere and get a target easily? So, my brother, you may not be my brother! To be cautious! 

Oh, one may be guilty of appealing to primordial sentiment, too. Although I don't use  "brother" and  "sister," don't I address my students sometimes as my "children," still invoking the family configuration? I will ask my students to discuss the address tag  in this configuration, but with some sympathy in their criticism. 

That reminds me: am I not just referred to as "Broda" by my nephews and nieces, especially in our village? Sometimes the /r/ in "Broda" is stylistically made silent. Another trap with language, only imagined! Who knows what your "uncle" means? You are telling us it's more appropriate? It is cold and not quite complimentary to mouths waiting to chew bread and biscuits. Similarly, that  woman who is related to  Daddy is "Sista." Call her "Sista" if you want her to rub your hair and give you a special treatment and "that woman" if you want a knock on the head. 

You can also call her "anti," even if you have no blood relationship. You just have to get something from her, something not painful! 

Oh,  we are forgetting something : a "broda" could become "uncle." As the need arises. As the spirit moves a speaker. 

And, this earth, my brother. It is now standing upside-down and on one leg only. This dislocation, my brother. Where do you go and hide, my brother? Even in the countryside, you cannot shut your eyes (that is, if the  house has not been burned down). This earth, my brother. 

Brother, broda, booda! Strategic transforms, but with very deep meanings! We may not have come from the same mother. But we should know that we could be addressed as "brother" in this world where things strategic are done with words. 

Thomas Iyambe

 

By

Obododimma Oha

Anyone who is searching the archives on staff of Cameroon Development Corporation (CDC) would find that one Thomas Iyambe of Banga who "absconded" from duty from the gang clearing the bush for the plantations, later became a young man, so energetic that he was put in the last line of laborers so that he would be forcing escaping wild animals to run to the center, to their doom. What actually happened was that the real Thomas Iyambe disappeared for good and a young man who came from Uri (Uli) in Nigeria agreed to be him, so as to be allowed to work as a laborer in CDC.

Absence created an opportunity for presence. If  the old Iyambe had not "escaped," the new Iyambe would not have come. Two Iyambes: Iyambe of Banga and Iyambe of Uri, an Igbo. So, Iyambe yesterday and today. Iyambe lazy and  Iyambe hardworking and energetic. Iyambe old and Iyambe young again. 

It was quite interesting that my late father was "Lawrence" in Nigeria but "Thomas" in Cameroon, not that he was rechristened but had to take another identity in order to survive as a young man. 

It wasn't just that "Thomas Iyambe" had become someone else but shows how labels could mislead us. There's no real Thomas Iyambe anywhere. Thomas Iyambe could become another label. And life in the plantation gang went on. Truly, small no be sick! 

So, my own father was once called "Thomas Iyambe"? He could even have been known as "Paul Biya"! Paul Biya of the CDC plantation. It was just a matter of labeling and re-labeling. 

Thomas Iyambe! Present, sir! 

But I don't know whether the person that was labeled "Thomas Iyambe" would also not mind answering my father's name if required to bear it. We need to find out. This earth, my brother, my sister. You can only guess and let your guess remain a guess. What is good for the goose may not be good enough for the gander. Ganders are choosy these days! 

When one Thomas Iyambe goes, another Thomas Iyambe comes. That is how it should be, ad infinitum. There should be a deferment of Iyambes. Iyambes uncatchable. Iyambes always many, more than legion. 

Maybe one Iyambe would seek to attack and destroy its kind one day. The problem of uncomfortable similarity. Uncomfortable oneness. I won't be surprised if one Thomas Iyambe attacks and tries to destroy another Thomas Iyambe. Maybe destroy the old Iyambe. We are not very comfortable with our kind, what more a replacement! One Thomas Iyambe may want to see justice done. But to self! 

Thomas Iyambe must have suffered in looking for where there was Thomas Iyambe penned down on paper. From plantation to plantation. Looking for self. From Miselele to Banana Bush. From Tiko to Yaounde. Looking for self in the overseer's paper. 

Thomas Iyambe is a sign of vanishing you and reappearing you. Many selves in oneself, one self. Thomas Iyambe that cannot be caught, trapped in one plantation. 

It is clear to me now that "Thomas Iyambe" is just another label put on a human being and could be replaced. Thomas Iyambe, you are just a sign used by humans.