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. 

The Children from the City

By

Obododimma Oha

In those days, children from the city were our big problem. They came to the local area during Christmas or New Year celebrations and showed off a lot. Was it the ways that they spoke and what they spoke? Was it what they took and how they  took it? Was it the clothes that they wore? Even the ways that they walked! The children from the city deliberately went for us and against us. And we did not like it. So, they were a problem, a great problem.

I still remember how one held and drank from a bottle of "Mirinda." Obviously, he wanted me to watch, to die quietly, to see one child deal with precious liquid in a bottle, all alone! And when he gulped down the liquid, I, too, swallowed, but I swallowed no liquid, not to talk of a precious one.

Only one child drinking a whole bottle! They did not even dilute the drink with some water before he started taking it. Too bad. That's how the city spoils them.

It wasn't just that one child could drink a whole bottle, but even the way that child drank it and looked at the onlooker, as if to proclaim, "Yes. I did it. Can you also do it? Go and die!" That was clearly more than provocative  making one hate the city more.

As I said initially, they visited mainly during celebrations. Celebrations, indeed. They just ruined everything for us in the village and one secretly prayed that they won't be around. When one should be enjoying the carols and sharing the proceeds, they came to kill the joy. Celebration turned to bitterness and regret. I hated children from the city.

The children from the city were always arrogant. They are mainly interested in showing children from the village that the city children are different and better. They believed that they had better life, while one in the village had no life. Imagine children who could not climb trees! Imagine children who could not blow the fire! Imagine children who could not fetch fodder for goats, not to talk of knowing the names of the plants!

They did not eat cassava foofoo. No wonder they didn't have energy. It was only rice! Imagine feeding on bird's food. If one eats bird's food, what does one expect birds to eat? Yam and cocoyam?

What they uttered was also annoying. They spoke what they called English, "oybo sụprị sụprị." You need to see how those children from the city twisted their mouths as they spoke "oyibo," just to torment us. 

The children of the village knew proverbs and how to embellish speech in the local language. But, who cares? Who really cares for your embellishment in the speech of the past? We just envied the children from the city there.

Then, their clothes. They had better clothes with lots of pockets for things. I wished I had such. One pocket just for my treasured things. Another pocket for ropes. Another for bread labels. And so on. Well, their clothes had lots of pockets, which was important to me.

They were proud  very proud that they had better clothes and ours were just rags. How could one's clothes for Christmas, Easter, or New Year be called "rags"? I knew that most of them were "ekobe," which was ready-made and quickly done. But they were no rags and must have cost a lot of money obtained painfully through contributions at meetings and gifts at the carols. They were not rags. I knew that the children from the city must have said that to kill one's spirit.

How could one even forget the ways that the children from the city walked to show that they did not care? The same way that they carelessly widened the mouth while speaking, to show that they could talk rubbish or had no training on speaking. They deliberately walked as if they were drunk or want to take the entire space  as people coming in the opposite direction.

I know that the whole idea was to make an unthinking idiot dislike the village, a place where a child could explore every bush  eat every wild fruit with unwashed hands, walk barefooted and even naked. There was no way one was would prefer the city to the village.

The children from the city need to listen to us, watch us, and learn from  us. 

Mother Hen Is Chasing Her Children Away

By

Obododimma Oha

Hens look after their chicks with utmost dedication. They can even die for them, not to talk of making sure that they are well-fed. So, hens are not wicked when they peck at their young sometimes and drive them away to begin to look after themselves. Experts in poultry farming call this attempt to make the grown-up chicken live on its own "weaning." Among humans, this is similar to what is called "ịchụ ara" (stopping from breastfeeding), which, traditionally, every nursing mother has to do after about one year.

Weaning, in whichever forms it comes, is an attempt to make the young grow up. This growing up involves looking for food, defending itself when attacked, home making, etc. They have to learn how to hide from carnivorous aviators that may want to kidnap them.

But humans are not just good in it. They tend to protect and provide for their young too much. They behave selfishly as if their young is their property, for them alone! In the process they don't really wean. They want the young ones to live close, to make sure they are safe. They don't drive them away!

Mother Hen is telling the young ones: "Grow up from now on. Learn to wrestle with the world. Learn to look after yourself. Your life is yours, your future yours. Go and wrestle with the world." Mother Hen is a realist. Mother Hen is just an agent and should not be turned to the goal!

It's all about dependence and independence. In independence, an entity labours and tries to survive on own efforts, but with dependence, it has to parasite and live on the efforts of others. Unoka of *Things Fall Apart* is a good example of the sad things in dependence. He has to record his indebtedness with lines of chalk. A sad narrative, the record tells about his dependence. Taking loans and not bothering about repayment is not good life. Whether at individual or societal level, indebtedness does not guarantee honour or give respect. As the Igbo say, "Onye añụñụ ọgọdọ anaghị agbasi egwu ike" (One who borrows clothes for a dance does not dance energetically or dances extra cautiously). Yes, the clothes may get torn and that borrower would be in trouble. If that person is even commended, somebody may say: "Is it not because of the clothes that fellow borrowed? Don't we know the owner?"

 
Weaning is all about asking the weaned to learn to take initiatives, to make choices, actually, to take a risk, which is what life involves.

The time shall come when we all must go our separate ways. The time shall come. It is a matter of time. The Igbo would say: "Ụkwa ruo oge ya, ọ daa." Can I be helped by my father who was buried more than 20 years ago?

Mother  Hen in that homestead is wiser than its owner. It is chasing her children away. It wants them to learn to live on their own.

Mother Hen scratched forwards. Then  scratched backwards. Turned and looked at the two. Then asked her chicks:" The accumulated garbage in the front and the one at the back, which is greater?" They answered : "The garbage in the front." She said : "You answered well. From now, my pet name is 'Nkeiruka' (The one in front is greater). Then one in the future or that is coming is greater." They understood and continued feeding.

Mother Hen is a great teacher. A great teacher allows students to teach themselves.