Teargas and Blood

"Bangigbe na goat-io, na goat-io. Bangigbe na goat-io! Omo eran!"

"Bangigbe? Ole! Bangigbe? Thief!"

"Aya e e e aya! Aya e e e aya! Aya we don come o, aya, pata pata we go win today o, aya!"

"We no go gri o we no go gri, eeee trouble we no go gri."

"ALL WE ARE SAAAAYING, GIVE US WATER!"

That last chant just didn't seem to coincide with our requests for General Bangigbe and his wife to quit government. Yet there seemed no more suitable a line to put but "give us water" at that section. The student union leader got on his megaphone and addressed the crowd.

"Greaaaat U-ites!"

"Hey!" we responded.

"Great U-ites!"

"Hey!"

He held his right hand up in the black power signal popularized in Nigeria by Fela Anikulakpo Kuti. The megaphone wasn't functioning as it should, and from my vantage point I couldn't really pick out what he was saying:

"Resident -an-gbe has defused to <buzz> <buzz> <crackle> criminal!"

The students roared their agreement in one loud shout. I roared too. Didn't care what he was saying, as long as this riot meant school would be closed and I wouldn't have to take my exams (of which they were just two weeks away). I can't say it was all my fault that I was not ready. I mean, with teachers like Mr. Abiku who said things like: "If I cash di student who is chooking my daughtah, I wi ki dem. And if you tink dat you are all going to pazz dis khos witout aving brain of genus, den you are a mistake."

Mr. Abiku was a wicked man, of that there was no doubt. But when his daughter became pregnant he flipped. He actually went crazy. The university should have done something about it as soon as it happened. He was stark, raving mad.

Just the other day we saw Mr. Abiku at FLT. FLT was our affectionate name for the Faculty Lecture Theater--a large but spooky theater which doubled as a lecture hall by day, and a harem by night.

I was strolling back to main campus with my girlfriend, Sherrifat, when we saw Mr. Abiku running by the lakeside behind FLT. He had on a cape, not unlike Superman’s, and he was singing in unknown tongues. Sherri and I immediately hid, for we were not sure what to make of it. It was a good thing we did, for Mr. Abiku abruptly picked up a stick and proceeded to brutally flog a couple who were hidden (or so they thought) in a corner.

"Is pipul like you! Is pipul like you! I wi ki you today!" he screamed at the top of his lungs while the stick rose and landed several times a second. The male member of this duo, once he had gathered his wits about him, found it convenient to push the female against Mr. Abiku and run away--rather naked. I later found out that as he ran past Sultan Bello Hall, without realizing he was without apparel, a mob of students assumed he was a thief and chased him till he was caught. He took a severe beating that night, I understand, and when they found out that he wasn't a thief, all he got was "sorry."

Sherri and I didn't wait to see what Mr. Abiku would do next before we decided that it was time for our own evening jog. We tore back to campus in a hurry as the girl's screams resoundingly echoed. I had always thought that in a situation like that I would be like Bond--James Bond. "Unhand the maiden!" I would shout, whereupon the villain would turn around and face me. Gen gen gen gen, the music would roar in the background and I would use my pen as a gun, my collar as a bullet shield, and my wit as my backup. So why did I then find myself half-shouting, "The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want! He maketh me to lie down in giringori em... em He restoreth my soul."

I even went as far as trying to speak latin, as Father Munoz the catholic priest used to. With Sherri and I breaking the sound barrier, I started my Gregorian chant. Ladies and gentlemen, the Apostle’s Creed:

"Credo imu mu tetteh! Ago domino o teteh!"

I think it was more Urhobo and Yoruba than latin, but God would understand.

Chants of "Shikin pie! Shikin pie!" brought me back to reality. Around me it seemed the students had come to some sort of decision. Apparently the student government felt that one of the ways in which to force General Bangigbe to return all the money he and his wife had stored in Swiss banks, as documented by the pamphlet we all had, was to go to the University Staff Club and pillage, carting away as much "Shikin pie" and Pepsi as we could. True, things were not the same at the Staff Club. The chicken pies contained more boiled yam than they did chicken, and the swimming pool was being used as a case study on amoebae. But it was free food nonetheless, and the rationale was simply that if the General could siphon the goodies of our oil money using his power, then we could do ours through rioting. As the elders once said, "awoof no dey run belle."

I followed the crowd as the leaders led the way from the Student Union Building square, past Mellamby Hall, the bookstore, and behind the Catholic church. It was there that Pius Ezikwe, the altar boy, surprised father Munoz by leaving confession to join the people in their struggle--the great shikin pie revolution. Finally we got to the Staff Club. A few people were a bit annoyed because no one would allow them to break into the Catholic church and take the holy communion. They apparently thought it had magical properties which could cure hunger for long periods of time, and was also apparently very tasty, judging by the way Father Munoz always wolfed down seventeen or so when he was doing the pre-communion prayer. This always pissed me off because there would only be half a communion wafer for each congregation member, after Munoz had munched half the chalice of communion and drank most of the wine. Maybe the man was hungry, but such were the benefits of priesthood.

Less than an hour later, we had accomplished our duties and looted the University Staff Club. There was even roasted chicken kindly donated to us by our hosts. Our rendezvous certainly made up for the many nights I spent eating eba with the smell of soup. That's right, Opress (my roomate) and I would make eba and stand outside the door of our neighbors. We would then place the eba in the path of the smell of the soup--and then eat it.

Times were hard. Oh, but how about when we finally had money to make rice, ehn? I say how about those times? I say, the VERY moment the rice was done, having mixed it with a concoction of eggs, whatever meat we could find, and several leaves which Opress claimed would fill us till Tuesday, six or seven of our closest friends would suddenly appear for a visit (brandishing spoons--as you normally would when visiting someone).

Ah, these people. Toyota. Bobo Patto. Akpoko-jones. Cincinnatti and Tarantula. These folks did not mess around when it came to that rice, o. And these people, did they have coolers in their mouths or what? They would just expertly use the back of the spoons to flatten their portion of the pot, "shmeh, shmeh," and then deposit it, burning hot as it was, in their mouth. "Phhh! Phh!" They would blow twice, and then their spoons were in the pot again. Those times were hard I say.

I licked my fingers as we made our way towards the university main gate. There, as was the practice, we would barricade it, burn a couple of cars, and sing songs of war. I felt like sleeping. I burped. That chicken was good sha. I had been surprised to see many employees of the Staff Club assist us in looting. Yet while we malnourished students focused on the food, I could constantly hear the cash register ringing. I guess it was bonus time.

We got to the gate and the war began. We transformed a couple of Danfo buses into firewood and began to sing and dance. This was the typical riot practice for students. I used this opportunity to get to meet Laura.

Ah, sexy Laura. Her friends called her "Lawa" because she couldn't pronounce the letter "r," but used "w" instead. Apart from that, she was flawless. She really did look like Joy-girl, but even better. I knew she’d just broken up with her boyfriend (an ingrate who mistreated this specimen of beauty) and she was lonely. You know, a consoling shoulder was just what she needed. I’d always liked Laura but never had the opportunity to meet her. True, I had a girl, but a little indiscretion never harmed anyone.

Right, Monica? And I knew she wanted to meet me too, but my girl Sherrifat was in most of my classes so there was no escape. But Sherri, pretty and proper, she was not the rioting type--Laura was. She was my type of woman. Or she would be till such indiscretions jeopardized my relationship with Sherri. This was just the way of the world at the time. It was the protocol, the way things were done. Everyone understood this.

I got into my comedian mode, having been tutored by the venerable comedian Sele Anini. "These people no sabi entin!" I boasted, as Laura looked on with her friends laughing. "You see this scar here? This was from Stadium when I finish the Alector Brodas. If you see dem, ask dem about me? They will tell you my story!" Laura was enjoying herself, holding a stick, with her jeans ripped in several places revealing more than a fair share of smooth skin.

She knew what was up. Within the course of twenty minutes Laura and I had started talking and I was using "style-style" to get closer. You know about "style-style" don’t you? I know you know about "style-style". Style-style is when you laugh, and use the laughter to carry your body to lean on the girl. You get. Anyway, since I didn't get any negative vibes from her, (in fact she was also using the method to place her hands on my laps) I continued and soon we were sitting down, I resting my head against her chest as we spoke. It felt so natural.

It felt so natural.

My head rose and subsided as her breathing pushed her breasts up and down. She was so loving and soft. What a woman.

"So where is that your girlfriend, Shewi?" She asked.

"Oh, well, we kind of broke up for a while" I lied.

"Hmm! Super G! You think I'm one of your I.S.I girls? Who do you think you're telling this kine stowy? You Silly wat!"

The end