I had no culinary culture; I freely roamed unchecked the pretentious cuisines of many a bukateria. The sunniness of that Sunday was suspect. After much dialogue with my conscience, I went to church. I had strongly hoped that the presiding pastor would quickly draw the curtain on our collective Sunday visit to God. I had no breakfast; oh, it was getting to midday. Since I had no other substitute, my stomach stung for Mama Bayo's plate of beans meal. I anticipated the last amen and gleefully ran home like some juvenile. The distance from the office was trekkable and so not waiting for the haggling that commercial motorcyclists provided, I raced to the office.I went in pursuit of Mama Bayo. I asked whoever cared where I could find our food merchant before providence brought her to me. The coolers were set, the meals were ready. While I ordered for mine, the hairy but hungry Yomi (Oladipo Fashina) ambled in, looking unruffled in his starving state. He ordered his. At that moment, we shared equal appetite for beans and something, that at some point, was fried plantain. We both moved to the weekend newsroom. It was empty. Away from the suffocating scrutiny of my editor and other bosses of 'Kenny, get married,' Yomi and I quickly devoured through the plates of beans. Coming from a mutual bachelorhood fraternity, the first few moments were muted. We ate in understandable quietude; only our spoons made frantic romance with the plates.'Guy, you dey come here on Sunday afternoon'' Yomi asked. 'No, I no dey come; I just dey come check whether our Sunday Tribune paper fine and from there too, I dey check Mama Bayo Sunday package,' I replied. We swallowed each spoonful with similar satisfaction. I asked after his M.A dissertation at the University of Ibadan and he replied of his eventual completion of it. I shared in that moment of his academic progress. I told him. We ate and laughed; we laughed and ate. I was oblivious of the hoax providence had in its bag of tricks. I returned home as Yomi went to start his production for the day.Based on the exigency of work, I travelled to Kano State, only to return to the ruinous report of Yomi's passing. Yomi had just begun experimenting with the absurdities of life when he was hewn down at the commencement of the prime period of his life. It's over a year since Yomi yielded to the callous cuddle of death's embrace. Like many of us, Yomi was getting a bit impatient with the castrating culture of our national life. He was returning from Lagos when an irascible driver left his lane and ran into their vehicle, thus preparing Yomi for the life beyond.Yomi could not get medical help until after six hours of paralysing pain. It was for us, his loved ones that he held on from Tuesday November 9, 2010 to Sunday, November 14, 2010 before becoming one with the domain of the ancestors.I hold unapologetically that there are three planes of the cosmic space'the world of the unborn, the world of the living, and that of the dead. Yet the dead are not dead. The continued interaction of these worlds has sustained cosmic balance.Yomi, as you take the weight off your feet with the eternal heavenly triumvirate of the Godhead, tell our heroes past that the tribe of intrepid nationalists is fast depleting.Tell Ahmadu Bello that Boko Haram has made it haram to own homes in the North. Yomi, we were promised a breath of fresh air but the heat has become hazardous. Yomi, we are miffed men with hollow hopes. Tell them that there is nothing joyous about Jos. Tell them that our roads are reliable roadmaps to the burial chamber. Tell them of the paralysing trilemma of the Nigerian student'of the insistence to be a graduate, of the insecurity of being a corps member, of the enervating assurance of being jobless. There is academic confusion in our Ivory Towers of learning. Tell them that our scientists cannot think; our medical doctors do not know where the heart is located within the human body. Tell them that our graduates of Agriculture detest the Nigerian soil. Tell them that old pensioners cross to the afterlife while queuing to receive N1000 as retirement emolument. Tell them that our humanity is daily interrogated. We have enthroned chaos; sanity eludes us. You ask me if I am done. No, my friend.Tell Nnamdi Azikiwe that joblessness has made his southeastern boys resort to raping aged-women for horrendous motives; they find the shrivelled old women delectable toasts for their lascivious insanity. Tell them that the lives of our security agents are not safe. That the civilians look out for them. Our government now look up to the United States, the United Kingdom and France for security of lives and properties in our country. Tell them that we have devised survival instincts and stratagems to sleep with our two eyes open; we sleep like the fish.Tell them that the civil war has not ended; there is a quiet civil war going on in the country. Are you giggling'! Tell them that our federal government is so organised that it ran out of medals during last year's National Honours Award. Again you chuckle!Tell Pa Anthony Enahoro that our legislators are mentally medieval. They raise bills before thinking. Tell him that the only thing that works here is corruption; tell him that poverty thrives uninhibited. We just went through the fearful possibility of losing our national oneness arising from the removal of petroleum subsidy. At the heat of the protests, men became boys; boys feigned being men; criminals adorned the garb of activists; pastors forsook their pulpits with the claim of fighting for the people. The people do not trust the government; the government does not profess to be trusted. Our eyes are sunken; our legs are weak.Do you know it has become a crime to be ambitious' Our churches are catacombs of ecclesiastical commotion. Our pastors do not know where to find God. You can hardly find God in our churches and mosques. We are fast receding into spiritual barbarity.Please tell them that our deeds are so despicable that nature is fast turning her back on us.In Nigeria, nature is so confused that our sun rises at night and there is nightfall at daytime. I say with Birago Diop that you are in the shadow darkening around; we feel you in the shadow fading into day. You are not under the ground; you are in the trees that quiver. We see you in the crowd. We see you, my friend, in the homestead. Yet we ask where is home' Yomi, where is here
Click here to read full news..
