When there is nobody to be called upon at difficult moments, succour refuses to be at your command, and a multitude of people in your environment who earlier pronounced you proficient in all things become the first to ululate at your pit-fall, in such times are we left devastated and numbed. This moment in a life time is as chilling as the death day. Steadfastness is the best drug to cure the disheartening disease, in a moment like these, when all things starkly turn against one.

The statistics of recent obituary bills have shown that death is really an omen to wealthy families and ominous to others.
“Age 75: Gone too soon,” a wealthy family’s obituary recently proclaims in the news journals and electronic media.
“Age 45: Gone to rest in his arms,” says pauper’s obituary on broken walls and wood walls across tattered streets of this state. O the grim angle of death, you are indeed cruel, selfish and self-centred! You always take away saints and leave sinners!

Sincerely, my dad’s death was more than disaster, for the agony and havoc it created afterwards could not be quantified. Without a doubt, streams cannot be covered with coco leaves. Typically, we have lived as one big happy family. My dad, in his life time, worked as a manager in one of the country’s biggest lottery companies and my mum as a food vendor in a well rated bank as well.

Before now, long ago in much earlier times, my dad had always pointed to me in our discussions that he was once an energetic trader in the Gold-Coast, the present day Ghana . And when I grew up, to be precise, in the college, in my Geography class, I got to know that Ghana is one of the numerous neighboring countries to Nigeria , the arguable “giant of Africa .” But I’m sure if had known this much about West Africa and Africa as a continent, I would have one day asked him: “On what basis is Nigeria the giant of Africa ?” And I’m as sure as the death day that he would have sprang up a thoughtful argument. Many stories did my dear dad tell me about life and his endeavours. No doubt, trading had made a stronger man of him amidst the dangers and terrors encountered on his trade-mission sojourns.

One day, Bowofola Binuyo recalled the must terrific day of his life whilst chatting with me, on a dull Sunday evening. We were both in our small room situated in a shabby slum recently slated for rehabilitation by the state government, in the suburb of the most popular and populous city in Nigeria , Lagos …the land of wisdom, quickness and perhaps fastness. Never stop, keep moving; don’t wait nor relax, time is important. Lagos as a city, never waits for anybody, but what you make of it is with your solitary effort.

With excitement my dad said to me, “The day I could on no account forget in my life was that day I was trapped in the middle of a thick and dark forest along the out-skirts of the then Gold-Coast ( Ghana ).” This day was a Friday. After purchasing goods, he had to sneak through the thickest wild forest that housed all sorts of wild animal you can imagine. This was because the goods he had bought with thousands of cedes were illegal, so he could not pass through the boarder without being checked thoroughly. Suddenly, in the far distance, a strange sound echoed; towards his path, he saw troop of plum and thin elephants treading in their weight and height order.
“Bode, stop!” he murmured to his younger brother who accompanied him on the journey.
“For what? You mean you want to delay me in this thick terrific forest,” Bode replied feverishly.
“Okay. Look straight into your front and tell me what you see”
“Elephants trooping down our path,” he hurriedly replied, panting as if life would ebb out of him through his mouth in the next seconds.
“Come, come with me!” Bowofola said as quickly as he can, dragging his half-dead brother closer to himself. He held him tightly, resting Bode’s head on his torso so as to calm his nervousness.

Beside the deserted forest path they hid their goods and stylishly walked into the heart of the forest where they remained mute, almost devoid of breathing, at the back of a huge tree. Slowly, the brothers watched the elephants shamble away.

In the memory of my late dear dad I was lost such that I heard my name in a high tone: Biola!
“O, this is where you are”
“Hold your breath mister monitor or whatever you name is!”
“You can now go on and insult me after I had instructed your colleagues to clean your portion in your absence; you can go on and call me names.”
“Ah, I am sorry Mr. Laolu, I am sorry”
“No, there is no need being sorry afterwards, since you’ve now grown feather like duck in water, go on and call me names…”
“And it’s not so sir. I was robbed this morning on my way to the office”
“Robbed? How? Hope it’s not one-chance sah?
“Exactly sir”
“Stop calling me sir that does not accord respect in the sense. And I hope they did not beat you or perhaps do…”
“Not all. My God was with me, and the spirit of my dad never allowed their evil been unleashed on me.”
“Ha ha ha…your dad’s spirit.”
“Yes my God and the spirit of my dad saved me from their evil hands or you doubt me?”
“Doubt you? Not at all Biola. You have said the truth but putting your dad’s spirit after God’s intervention precisely was the genesis of my laughter.”
“How do you”
“Just kneel down, go on my dear little cleaner, and give praises to your lord and savior who saved you from the hands of human-wolves. And let your dad’s gentle soul rest in perfect peace. Because if he were to be alive and board the bus with you, he would have done nothing to prevent you from the hands of those one-chance guys were they in their horrific mood.”
“Thank you very much but…”
“Seeeeh! May God be with you all the time. And be careful next time. Look very well and be sure before you board any bus next time.”
“Amen. Thank you.”

NB: This is the continuation of a story titled: "One Chance."

As it has been established that nothing accepts sacrifices like the mouth, then man must work daily to complete the ritual offered to the mouth. Fortunately I always got all the sustenance I ever wanted in life from my parents, who joyfully backed in my pre and post primary school days, even when toys were my first attraction. What a wonderful blessing to have parents who care, as mine did. They cared not only for my education, which is the best legacy, they believed, but also monitored my health strictly. I can still remember vividly the series of syrups I had to take every morning after my bath and the long minutes spent eating at the dining-table. My sweet and pretty looking mother washed my school uniform every holy evening and ironed it each early morning even before I was awake to assure my neatness for the school day. I was renowned for my chocolate padded portable bag. Creamy, brownie, yellowish of assorted colours and different tastes. And for my high level of chocolate consumption, Mr. Ajose, my dad’s childhood friend, nick-named me: Chocolate-teeth. I danced energetically to his rhythmic and seasoned voice. My parents’ devotion never depreciated at any point, but rather appreciated each time I added a year to my existence. It used to be all fun at my birthday ceremonies. Elaborate cakes with inscriptions of my name and my age…I remember those good days and their memories usually lingered for days in my pierced heart.

Ah, but death also needs to taste. If only he was still alive. For death, you came just before dawn to take my precious away without prior acknowledgement. You ejected sorrow and heartache into the marrow of a happy and joyous family. You couldn’t think of anything more rewarding than to cut short the life of a beautifully looking flower, endearing even at the depth of sunrise. Bowofola Binuyo. Hereafter, wherever you reside now, forget not your pretty precious and devoted wife and you lovely children. We will make sure your name is elevated and vindicated here on earth if you do not desert us. Su n re o.
After my dad’s death, everybody in the family became a tool of industry, a commercial vessel. We worked so as to keep the family going. I was not exempted from the early morning’s rigorous tasks before going to school, despite being the first born, nor any others that promptly awaited me after hectic hours of lecturing in school. Many times, the attendant record would close before I resumed school. At the end of the last term, I was failed because of my late comings, as it was boldly written on my report sheet. But I sang:
“I can’t be loved all the time”
“I can’t be hated all the time”
The great Bob Marley sang.
And re-sang:
“I can’t fail all the time”
“I can’t pass all the time”, rephrasing Bob Marley’s lyric and this ever since has been my golden principal.

As a matter of fact, after my 0’level exams, I undertook a job, office assistant in big Insurance Company, B&B on the Island. And as the assistant and a partial office cleaner, I had to wake up early in the morning, I mean by 5 a.m, jump up on my fragile feet, do what had to be done, before I finally bounced out at quarter to 6 a.m. Then I was off to the bus-stop close to my house and off to my glorified office. But the act that was performed during the road-stage, on the very last day of the very last month before I moved on to taste a new life in education was a sacrifice that my mouth can hardly speak of. At barely 6:15 a.m. on a breezy Thursday morning, I was at the bus-stop waiting. It wasn’t long before a bus arrived with the conductor calling Obalende at the very top of his Indian-hemp shaped voice, even smelling of the stuff, and since this was my destined fate, I boarded the bus with two other ladies and an old man.

The rough haggard looking conductor had collected his fair from virtually everybody with the exception of two cool, well-dressed young men. Just as we were about to climb the third mainland bridge, the young men simultaneously brought out cool-steel pistols and asked every one of us who boarded the bus from Ojuelegba to surrender our valuable possessions. Although, having heard series of cruel stories perpetrated by the so-call “one-chance” I still couldn’t believe my being a victim that morning.

Poetry in the ancient African community is commonly seen as the basic information transmitter to educate, persuade and instruct young folk and clan-folk on what to do and what not to do. Its importance in the development and resistance of African folk against post and neo-imperialism and colonialism cannot be underestimated. The morals and ethics of Africa flow freely through its poetry. There is no way African history: heroic stories, folktales, fables and fairytales could be told devoid of poetry embellishment. A doctor of divination will never consult his oracle without some few lines of poetry and folk-medicine is never administered on patient without some lines of medicinal-poetry been rendered. In Africa of old, events were incomplete without poetry. Few of the forms of poetry include: Ekun Iyawo, Ijala, Ewi, Esa Eegu and others.

Kowry Kreations Media, a literary organization that is concerned with the revitalization and sustainability of African arts, culture and values started its itinerary with Poetry Potter. This is a platform created for poets, storytellers, folk-dancers and artists to meet, share, educate and exhibit their various creative ingenuities. And since its inception, it has been a meeting place for both creative personalities and a literate audience.

The 8th edition of this lovely event held on 30th September, 2006 turned out to be a platform for intellectual discussion on Nigeria politics with Ayo Arigbabu (the Guest Artiste of the month) and Lekan Balogun (the interviewer) at centre stage. The programme started in its usual element with poetry recitations and performances from participants. Actually, Cornerstone, the Togolese-Nigerian reggae musician opened the performance podium with one of his rebellious songs. And after some poem recitations, a child troupe led by Ester Bodylawson, dazzled the audience with a poetry perforance whose theme exposed the bad deeds and high levels of corruption in the Nigerian Police Force. The thunderous applause that leapt from the audience’s hands at the conclusion of the piece not only confirmed the thematic relevance of the piece but showed confidence in the older generation’s belief that indeed the future is bright. Segun Toba known as Are (stage name), a prominent member of the organization thrilled the audience with his song titled: “Ojo maro” (let rains fall).

Afterwards, the compere in person of Lanre Ari’ajia announced the Interview Section. And he handed over to the chief interviewer, Lekan Balogun who latter called Ayo Arigbabu to the podium. Truly, this interview was the best of all since the inception of Poetry Potter, a notable personality confirmed from the audience. The Guest Artiste unfolded himself as a writer and an architect during the interview section. Although, he started as an architect, because of his passion and sound skill in drawing, he later gave it up for writing as he found writing more comfortable. Ayo was not so keen about writing for a course. Even when he sees writing for money or audience as vanity, yet he is excited about what next he would unleash on paper through his magic ink-rod. The Chairman of the Association of Nigerian Authors, Lagos Chapter: Folu Agoi enforced this point by saying that “creative writing is a personal vocation”, whilst one of the literati members of the audience said “writing in general is subjective”.

This edition of Poetry Potter is indeed one of the best as confirmed by the founder, Aderemi Adegbite, and he said that, he hoped to improve on it soon. Agbalakoko, the youngest comedian made laughter out of the audience. Awoko, a member of the Star-Mate band at the latest edition of Star-quest, lifted the spirit of the audience with his duet performed with Are.

As all forms of poetry that conform to rules and regulations filled the air, it confirmed the essence of Poetry Potter. Sincerely, poetry is the light that illuminates the heart; it radiates round the soul and is unleashed through selective words. Poetry is life. Life is poetry. Poetry is the confession of the hearts through expressive phrases, clauses, and sentences.