Death By Turkey

"Im say, this uprising will bring out the beast in us!"

Fela Anikulakpo Kuti

It was a brisk harmattan evening in Ibadan as I awaited my father's return from Sabo. The air was dry, and Vaseline did nothing to balm my lips. In the distance I could hear the evening prayers from the church at Agbowo. I could understand their wanting to pray, but who informed them that everyone within a 12-million mile radius particularly cared for the shrill, shrieking voice of the pastor?

My father, as I mentioned, had gone to Sabo to purchase a turkey, or as we called it, "Tolo-tolo" for our annual Christmas meal. Every Christmas we'd have a large assembly at our house. Patrick, his brothers and his father would come over from Ojo barracks, as well as Noruwa and whomever agreed to partake in the celebration. This Christmas tradition almost always culminated in a trip to the University of Ibadan Zoo.

I don't know why Nigerians seem to think that a holiday is not complete without a trip to the zoo. And at the zoo it was always the same thing, people gasping, "ooh"ing and "ah"ing at Haruna the big gorilla. They had named it after the popular singer, Haruna Ishola, having claimed that it was the only singing gorilla in Africa. I never heard it sing, though. Actually, Haruna was pretty mellow.

He never threw human waste at people and seemed to be less than amused at the whole spectacle of people making ape faces and dancing in front of him. To think of it, the people who did their act, trying to seduce Haruna into action, looked more like gorillas than Haruna. And, of course, there was always the fool who wanted to bait the crocodiles into motion, and ended up almost being Christmas meat for them.

Then why on earth did they, for years on end, have a cage for the leopard, when it was always empty? Yet people would peer inside at the leaves and rocks, hoping to catch a glimpse of the invisible creature. One would yell "I see am!" and others would gasp and pretend as though they saw it as well, being special folk, see? If we were lucky, we'd get to see the snakes being fed. Those snakes, now those were some lazy bastards. All they did was lie down digesting food.

You could actually see the food going down their tubes.. or whatever you call it, and by the time they'd finished digesting, it was time for their next meal a week later. So, as you might imagine, I was looking forward to Christmas again. I heard a loud yell and looked up to see Eman running after the dust from my father's tires as my father pulled up. P>"Hmm." He couldn't care about some psycho being electrocuted. He looked at the newspaper to see what time the game was on the next day. As far as he was concerned, just put all the psychos to death and America would be safe again. The justice system was not doing it's job as it should. No indeed it was not.

Eman was funny. We called him "Akpubelle" because of the size of his stomach. He would run after every car coming down Crowther lane, yelling and laughing. It was his sole joy in life, possibly even the reason for his existence. He ran up to my father, his seven-year-old frame, and greeted him. My father responded with a pat on the head and imparted a naira note on the young man who gleefully raced away as though walking was a sin. I was only 11-years of age myself, and had just learned to walk, which I knew Eman would eventually.

"Gaga come with me." My father had gone into the house and re-emerged. Apparently, he'd gotten a good deal on a turkey at Sabo but didn't have enough money, thus the trip home to embellish his resources. I hopped into the car and we drove away to Sabo. Sabo was a commercial area of Ibadan near the Adamasingba stadium, wherefore you could purchase the ultimate best in suya meat. Oh, if you were not careful you'd bite your fingers off trying to get all the flavor from it.

Now, dusk was come upon us and darkness fell upon the land as we arrived at Sabo. Unfortunately, my father spake neither Hausa nor Yoruba to any respectable extent, and so I knew it would be an event trying to communicate if we needed it be. And we did, for my father had, in his haste, forgotten what the original turkey seller looked like. It was dark and all we could really make out were men in white kaftans and mallam caps.

As always, there was a lot of activity, but in a market like Sabo market, there were just not enough lights so trading was coming to a close. My father knew that if he spoke to the man he'd bargained with, the man would recognize him and the deal would be done. So what did we do? We stood at the intersection, as people on all sides traded and battered, and tried intercepting anyone whom we thought might be the trader.

Yes, in his typical Urhobo semi-shout, at any man with a kaftan and cap walking near us my father would yell "Tolo-tolo?! Tolo-tolo?!", pointing what would seem like an accusing finger, no less. But for the grace of God, I swear we would’ ve been victims of ethnic cleansing that night. Not many people, in those parts of town, are apt to take to kindly to being pointed at and called "Tolo-tolo!"

My people, I am barely alive today after that incident. We made our escape and purchased a more expensive turkey at Ojo near the expressway. My brethren, if you're in a "foreign" land and don't understand the "language," DON'T (I repeat, DON'T) force it. You may pay with your life. Death by tolo-tolo.

The end