Inter-House Olympics

We were marching. "Left right... right, left right... right, TURNING ON THE MOUNTAIN! One two three four, left right..." We had stolen that move from Osun house. They always won the march-past contest because of that one move which they now choreographed as though they were dancing. I was one of the few guys marching. Most of the others in Gongola House considered themselves too cool to be assigned the menial task of organized walking.

So we marched and practiced while others yet trained themselves with the run, discus, javelin and shot put. I never understood why anyone even attempted to compete against Ovie Akpokojones in the javelin event. I mean, we're talking about an Urhobo man here, raised in Okpara waterside during his early childhood. Javelin was a necessary prerequisite for lunch in those parts (where I'm from, incidentally, so I know). Then there was Guy Omenske.

He was just the all-round athlete. He was from Warri, in case you hadn't known, and was gifted especially in the discus throwing and field events. Yet again, this was directly related to eating habits in Warri, so why anyone would attempt to compete was beyond me.

"Gaga, can I talk to you for a second?" I turned around. It was the house captain. My heart beat faster because I knew what was coming next. Once the word had gotten out that I was from Bendel, not unlike Ovie Akpokojones and Guy Omenske, and it was surmised that my robust cheeks and plump disposition could well be related to my hunting prowess, the decision was made that I be the next challenger to the throne of Guy and Ovie. But I knew better. Then again, thoughts of grandeur filled my head. What if I had it in me? What if I actually was able to win the javelin and discus events? I'd be a star. I'd be king. I'd finally be somebody! I'd be somebody! I stepped up quickly to the house captain with, as Zebrudaya would say, immediate alacrity and concobility.

The captain spoke: "Gaga, we were wondering if you'd like to take part in any of the track and field events." I hesitated a second, as though I had to think about it, then replied in the affirmative. The captain was overjoyed. This year, he thought, Gongola would finally be able to move past second place and push the erstwhile champs, Ogun house, back. ...I could see the finish line ahead of me. I heard the captain yelling from somewhere: "Go Gaga! You can do it!" Somewhere else, Ladi was yelling the time: "49... 50... 51... 52" The school record for 400 meters was 50 seconds. I was at 52 with ten yards to go. "53.. 54.. 55.."

Of course, had I been running the 400, it might have been exciting. Unfortunately, the time which you hear Ladi yelling was my time for the 100 meters sprint. "58.. 59... 60!" I collapsed on the ground at the finish line, exhausted beyond reason. Ladi rushed up to me: "One minute! You did it in one minute!" Perhaps he was retarded, or even insane, but a time of 60 seconds for a 100 meters dash was not exactly Ben-Johnson class, if you understand what I'm saying to you. Luckily this was just practice. I had a week to get myself up to speed.

Finally, it was the day of the race. I put on my new aerodynamic sports shorts, after eating some equally aerodynamic yam and banga soup. I had not alerted anyone to the fact that I'd be running in the race against the likes of Funto, Imoh, and that skinny, dark midget whose name escapes me now. I know his nickname had something to do with a rodent of sorts. He normally did long distance races, but Gongola house needed one more person to fill in the roster and he said he'd do it.

There were no heats for this event. It would seem that everyone was intimidated by Funto and Imoh, so the number of participants was extremely low. But I wasn't intimidated. Oh no, I knew what was up. I was ready like Freddie. Chilling like a mu..uug. (Of course these terms didn't exist back in those days.

I use them know, as I practice my American terminology). Back then, the only terms we used were terms like "sput," "gboyen," "gbensh" and "press." I never understood the term "press" even though I used it all the time as though I was the master presser. I harbored a secret notion that to press somebody, you'd have to take them to a lonely place... tie them up, and then rapidly bring out an ironing board, lay them on it, and proceed to iron them until they were flat. This hypothesis was never proven, though.

But, oh my, how I digress. Ok, so we were at the starting line. It was Funto, Imoh, The long-distance rodent person, myself, and some other fellow whom I didn't know. He was even chubbier than I, and as we knelt at the line, he continued snacking on a chicken leg. This was odd. Imoh looked at him in disdain, then focussed his attention on the track. The crowd was yelling. I could hear the shouts... "Up Gongola!" "Up Osun!" "Up Ogun!" "Up Niger!" There were those two people yelling "er... Up Benue" but it wasn't even a pretense of support.

And then something wafted to my nose. I coughed. It was like teargas. I looked around but no one else seemed to notice. I kept quiet because if I spoke, they would think I was responsible for this reprehensible behavior. The second time it happened, though, there was no room for subtlety. Imoh was the first to speak: "Gad dem! What the hell is that?!" By this time, tears had come to my eyes. Kill-And-Go mobile policemen didn't need any teargas.

They should just hire whoever was responsible here. The third time, there was a loud noise. I even false-started thinking it was the sound of the starting gun. But no, it was most definitely a different sound. An ultrasonic boom that had almost all of us on the floor, hyperventilating and gasping for air--almost all, excepting the one guy with the chicken leg. He seemed unfazed by it all. The final blow was the last one. It was more like a crackle/fizz. "Pkaff!!!"

All of us, except our chicken friend, got up and ran down the track at full speed. I had to get to fresh air. I heard the crowd yelling as I ran. I realized that Akinshete had set off the gun at the same time this last man-made disaster had occurred. Taking a glance behind me, I could see chicken-boy running at full throttle. I knew if I didn't get away, I'd be dead in a second.

I faced forward, yelling and screaming my chants of power as I ran for my life: "Indian peti peti, Ameh Americana! Indian peti peti, Ameh Americana!" I had gotten that chant from watching Bassey from Bassey & Company try to work as money-doubler. Running with all my might, I was tearing through the air like superman. The crowd screamed more, I could see my house captain jumping up and down and yelling "Go! Go! Go!"

I could see Ladi shouting the time: "7.. 8.. 9" and then I felt a tape cut across my chest as I passed the finish line. The Gongola section went wild with joy... I had won the race--the first time a Gongola house member had done so in ten years. But I had no time to savor my victory. I was still running, past the library, the foyer, the parking lot, the mango tree, out the gate, past Idia hall, and past Jaja hospital.

Every time I looked back, this little chicken-boy was chasing me. He kept yelling at me:"Umeeeeeh! Umeeeeh! Akpo igi kulu oha nnafo wa chu chu meh!" Don't ask me what the hell that meant, I don't even know what language it was. This boy chased me for three hours and twenty minutes, before he finally collapsed at Agbowo, and exploded, killing twenty-three people with him. The trauma of this event was too much for me, hence, I spent one year in Aro (a facility for traumatized citizens) before returning to school.

I never took part in a sports program again... never again. But what I did for Gongola house will forever stand. Up Gongola!

So we marched and practiced while others yet trained themselves with the run, discus, javelin and shot put. I never understood why anyone even attempted to compete against Ovie Akpokojones in the javelin event. I mean, we're talking about an Urhobo man here, raised in Okpara waterside during his early childhood. Javelin was a necessary prerequisite for lunch in those parts (where I'm from, incidentally, so I know). Then there was Guy Omenske. He was just the all-round athlete. He was from Warri, in case you hadn't known, and was gifted especially in the discus throwing and field events. Yet again, this was directly related to eating habits in Warri, so why anyone would attempt to compete was beyond me.

"Gaga, can I talk to you for a second?" I turned around. It was the house captain. My heart beat faster because I knew what was coming next. Once the word had gotten out that I was from Bendel, not unlike Ovie Akpokojones and Guy Omenske, and it was surmised that my robust cheeks and plump disposition could well be related to my hunting prowess, the decision was made that I be the next challenger to the throne of Guy and Ovie. But I knew better. Then again, thoughts of grandeur filled my head. What if I had it in me? What if I actually was able to win the javelin and discus events? I'd be a star. I'd be king. I'd finally be somebody! I'd be somebody! I stepped up quickly to the house captain with, as Zebrudaya would say, immediate alacrity and concobility. The captain spoke: "Gaga, we were wondering if you'd like to take part in any of the track and field events." I hesitated a second, as though I had to think about it, then replied in the affirmative. The captain was overjoyed. This year, he thought, Gongola would finally be able to move past second place and push the erstwhile champs, Ogun house, back.

...I could see the finish line ahead of me. I heard the captain yelling from somewhere: "Go Gaga! You can do it!" Somewhere else, Ladi was yelling the time: "49... 50... 51... 52" The school record for 400 meters was 50 seconds. I was at 52 with ten yards to go. "53.. 54.. 55.." Of course, had I been running the 400, it might have been exciting. Unfortunately, the time which you hear Ladi yelling was my time for the 100 meters sprint. "58.. 59... 60!" I collapsed on the ground at the finish line, exhausted beyond reason. Ladi rushed up to me: "One minute! You did it in one minute!" Perhaps he was retarded, or even insane, but a time of 60 seconds for a 100 meters dash was not exactly Ben-Johnson class, if you understand what I'm saying to you. Luckily this was just practice. I had a week to get myself up to speed.

Finally, it was the day of the race. I put on my new aerodynamic sports shorts, after eating some equally aerodynamic yam and banga soup. I had not alerted anyone to the fact that I'd be running in the race against the likes of Funto, Imoh, and that skinny, dark midget whose name escapes me now. I know his nickname had something to do with a rodent of sorts. He normally did long distance races, but Gongola house needed one more person to fill in the roster and he said he'd do it.

There were no heats for this event. It would seem that everyone was intimidated by Funto and Imoh, so the number of participants was extremely low. But I wasn't intimidated. Oh no, I knew what was up. I was ready like Freddie. Chilling like a mu..uug. (Of course these terms didn't exist back in those days. I use them know, as I practice my American terminology). Back then, the only terms we used were terms like "sput," "gboyen," "gbensh" and "press." I never understood the term "press" even though I used it all the time as though I was the master presser. I harbored a secret notion that to press somebody, you'd have to take them to a lonely place... tie them up, and then rapidly bring out an ironing board, lay them on it, and proceed to iron them until they were flat. This hypothesis was never proven, though.

But, oh my, how I digress. Ok, so we were at the starting line. It was Funto, Imoh, The long-distance rodent person, myself, and some other fellow whom I didn't know. He was even chubbier than I, and as we knelt at the line, he continued snacking on a chicken leg. This was odd. Imoh looked at him in disdain, then focussed his attention on the track. The crowd was yelling. I could hear the shouts... "Up Gongola!" "Up Osun!" "Up Ogun!" "Up Niger!" There were those two people yelling "er... Up Benue" but it wasn't even a pretense of support.

And then something wafted to my nose. I coughed. It was like teargas. I looked around but no one else seemed to notice. I kept quiet because if I spoke, they would think I was responsible for this reprehensible behavior. The second time it happened, though, there was no room for subtlety. Imoh was the first to speak: "Gad dem! What the hell is that?!" By this time, tears had come to my eyes. Kill-And-Go mobile policemen didn't need any teargas. They should just hire whoever was responsible here. The third time, there was a loud noise. I even false-started thinking it was the sound of the starting gun. But no, it was most definitely a different sound. An ultrasonic boom that had almost all of us on the floor, hyperventilating and gasping for air--almost all, excepting the one guy with the chicken leg. He seemed unfazed by it all. The final blow was the last one. It was more like a crackle/fizz. "Pkaff!!!" All of us, except our chicken friend, got up and ran down the track at full speed. I had to get to fresh air. I heard the crowd yelling as I ran. I realized that Akinshete had set off the gun at the same time this last man-made disaster had occurred. Taking a glance behind me, I could see chicken-boy running at full throttle. I knew if I didn't get away, I'd be dead in a second. I faced forward, yelling and screaming my chants of power as I ran for my life: "Indian peti peti, Ameh Americana! Indian peti peti, Ameh Americana!" I had gotten that chant from watching Bassey from Bassey & Company try to work as money-doubler. Running with all my might, I was tearing through the air like superman. The crowd screamed more, I could see my house captain jumping up and down and yelling "Go! Go! Go!" I could see Ladi shouting the time: "7.. 8.. 9…" and then I felt a tape cut across my chest as I passed the finish line. The Gongola section went wild with joy... I had won the race--the first time a Gongola house member had done so in ten years. But I had no time to savor my victory. I was still running, past the library, the foyer, the parking lot, the mango tree, out the gate, past Idia hall, and past Jaja hospital. Every time I looked back, this little chicken-boy was chasing me. He kept yelling at me:"Umeeeeeh! Umeeeeh! Akpo igi kulu oha nnafo wa chu chu meh!" Don't ask me what the hell that meant, I don't even know what language it was. This boy chased me for three hours and twenty minutes, before he finally collapsed at Agbowo, and exploded, killing twenty-three people with him. The trauma of this event was too much for me, hence, I spent one year in Aro (a facility for traumatized citizens) before returning to school. I never took part in a sports program again... never again. But what I did for Gongola house will forever stand. Up Gongola!

p align="right">The end.