Everyone Has a Story

by Sunday Eyitayo Michael

Everyone has a story

  by Sunday Eyitayo Michael

  Copyright 2014 Sunday Eyitayo Michael

  Table of content

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  CHAPTER ONE

  "A long time ago; almost a century after the final departure of the great god of the west, Oduduwa, I was merely ten years old then." I started with a broad smile and my kids listened in amazement as we sat in a circle on the beach.

  "I lived on this awesome island which existed in the mid Pacific Ocean, It was the perfect definition of honey-land - 'a land of milk and honey', a land that had never seen or known darkness, sadness, and invasion. Unlike most other islands, Itutu Kilomin does not sit on the waters of the ocean, rather it sits in it; shielded at it borders by fifteen feet height of fresh water. It land never ceased being green and not once have we, its inhabitants lacked what to eat or drink. Every morning, a new kind of water moves around the island so that we could enjoy varieties of taste even in our drinks. Our land was so beautiful that when the sun shines, it reflects it image on the skies and when seen by even ourselves, we never ceased being amazed.

  There was this common similarity amongst the aged people in our community; incomplete body parts or knife cuts that formed symbols on their skins; seemed more like cuts from blunt knives.

  Baba Agba’s symbol like four other of his colleagues was a half cut left ear. According to him, years ago, they lived in the land of Itumokuru, a land on lands and amongst lands. Sited on a mountain, yet it flourished both in wealth and in strength. Then, Oduduwa was in flesh; he lived with them and defended them from all invaders who wanted to take them out of the land as slaves and some others who wanted to take over the lands and wealth of the Itumokuru’s people. Nevertheless, the land was in peace because everyone feared the people due of the presence of Oduduwa, no one even dared to come close, except friends of the land. Oduduwa could tell when a foe was close to the boarders of the land and even before they reach the boarders, he would have conquered them.

  Alexander the great tried once but Oduduwa defeated him and made him a slave for twelve years before letting him go back to his people. The way Baba Agba explains his magnificent nature and structure, I wished I did saw him, his explanations seems so much like exaggerations to me because I had seen no one like that on Itutu Kilomin island; shoulders of brass, a little more than ten feet tall, chest made from rocks and large, broad and strong arms.

  That peace continued until after Oduduwa’s departure from his people. It was as though he had betrayed them. The other towns had being waiting for such an opportunity for a long time and he knew that, he also knew they were ready to wait longer if need be, they had even set a two hundred century plan for other generations to see and focus on that same goal. Now it has been given to them on a platter, sooner than they had expected. Fifteen great towns came together and conquered the land, displaced them and made them all live and sleep like and with sheep at riverbanks. When Baba Agba reaches this part of the story, I notice his wrinkled hands shiver and his aging, close-to-blind eyes, teary. It made me understood how much he had suffered during this period. As I looked at him, I felt as though blue ice from the ocean’s deepest part had been placed on my teeth and fire ran through my blood. He would then continue after succeeding in masking up all those emotions. To make the matters worse, as they lay by the banks one night, some foreign invaders came in, on large wooden, fearless animals that could float on the river; the young ones were called boats or canoes whereas the aged, big ones were called ships, he heard that from the foreigners. They took them all, gave each of them different marks to differentiate who had which, that was when Baba Agba got his left ear split into two unequal halves with a blunt blade as he would say.

  For months they moved hungrily and sluggishly on the river, which led to the sea and then to the pacific. Hundreds on hundreds died due to starvation and were all fed to the sea animals. I then noticed a little smile on Baba Agba’s face which later broaden from ear to ear; I knew just like every other story he tells, this one too would have a happy ending.

  ‘Then one morning I cried out to Oduduwa, I knew he would hear me, I knew if those large ears couldn’t hear voices miles away, then they should have been long cut off’ he would say and we would both laughed at it.

  ‘But Baba, how large was his ears?’ I would ask.

  ‘Check the village’s drum by the market square, it was shaped and measured exactly like his ears.’ He would replied and the next day I would go to the market square to measure my ear size with that of the drum, I also see other kids doing same, certainly their fathers must have told them the story too. When I go close to the drum, it was bigger than my entire body and every moment I tried to imagine someone with such kind of ear, I just burst out uncontrollably into laughter. It became a usual insult amidst the children to fellow children like us who had relatively larger ears, it mostly comes to me, ‘look at your large ears like that of Oduduwa,’ They would yell at me whenever I did something wrong or if someone is trying to pick on me.

  ‘And that was when Oduduwa came to our rescue. He capsized the animals and gathered his children in this land he had created for us. A land where man can’t see and even the spirits and animals that admire can’t conquer’ Baba Agba would say in satisfaction with his face filled with smiles then he would roll his agbada sleeves over his shoulder and pause all of a sudden remembering the real happy ending he didn’t add initially.

  ‘Wait!’ he shouted even if I was going nowhere but sat there still, watching him.

  ‘But when he dropped us here, there were no wives; all our wives had died during those months of torture on the sea except Nkiru, who wasn’t even from Itumokuru, she came from the east. She was among the outcasts who were lucky to have been saved by Oduduwa because they were also taken as slaves,’ He continued and he would sigh heavily. ‘All men rushed after her, we all wanted to have her as our wife, because we all wanted our lineage to continue. Oduduwa saw the impossibility in this, we could share anything else, but not a woman, so on one fateful day he took her away from us.’ He said.

  ‘En-hem, so how did all the other wives come about?’ I asked even if I knew, he had told me the story repeatedly, but bringing out those dramatic acts made it seem more interesting to listen to no matter how many times it has been heard.

  ‘On another fateful day, he brought her to the centre of the island and divided her into several women. One wife to one man, all with equal beauty, except the woman that came out of her heart and that woman he gave to me because I was the one that called out his name. He said it showed I had faith in him and then he promised me that from her womb will we produce a child that had one of his qualities, and he really kept to his promise, I can see clearly the quality he promised.’ He said smiling, his wrinkled face stretched a bit and he looked a little younger as he looked at my ear. I shrugged a bit, I felt uncomfortable about it but I could do nothing but smile at the old man’s actions as I wondered why love or a princess must always be the happy conclusions to most stories.

  Story time was over, but that was actually just an appetizer, the main story time starts tomorrow at the centre of the island. It was a tradition at Itutu Kilomin to tell stories to children, most especially under the moonlight. But on the fourth full moon, full sun of every year- on full moon, full sun, the sun and moon are at their fullest and they both merge above Itutu Kilomin, then we all gather at the centre and the aged men tell stories of their past life before Oduduwa merged them all at Itutu Kilomin.

  Two years ago, Baba Agba told his, I wonder whose turn it is going to be this time; could it be Ijemili, th
e old man with one and half legs? Alternatively, could it be Kukuru, the dwarf? Anyway, whosoever it's going to be, I believe it’s going to be as exciting as ever, I thought as Mama called us for dinner, interrupting my thoughts. It was a rare act for her to call us to dinner, we were always first at the food-hut waiting to be served, the aroma alone drives us there as it did to all others. Mama was no doubt the best cook, whenever she cooks, just the aroma draws in visitors from all over the island. As peace lovers, mama decided that she would be the island cook since some other husbands refused eating their wife’s meal after tasting hers. They all agreed to it, the other women assisted her too and all men came together and built a large food hut; larger than anybody’s hut on the whole island and anytime mama cooks, we all come together to eat.

  Usually on other meetings, the Oduduwa’s eardrum is played and everyone gathers but during meal times no drum is beaten, the aroma makes a lot of noise.

  I held Baba Agba’s walking stick and placed his hands on my shoulder so I could serve as his support, in shock, he turned to my direction and smiled at me, I knew he would love it, I think all old men do. I had never done that to him before but after last year’s story time when Chidimaku told a story of how he became the heir to his father’s throne because he dedicated himself to being his father’s walking stick, ever since, I had been seeking such an opportunity. Something that could push a father to make his youngest son the heir to his throne, I believe that thing must be so important to him. Baba Agba’s grip on my shoulder was strong, I never knew it was that strong by mere looking at it; no spot was left unwrinkled and his fat weak veins stood out and as he pressed me down to stand on his feet, I felt a sharp pain run through my left shoulder. In less than two minutes, we were at the food hut already, it was built very close to our hut; it was made that close so that Mama could get there easily and quickly when she needed to.

  Mama stood at the hut entrance welcoming in those who came to eat; everyone usually came, even the sick, aged or new born never skipped a meal. Even as a child, I could tell mama’s beauty out stood anyone else on that island, both facially and heartily. Sometimes I wonder how good the woman, Nkiru must have been that her heart produced such beauty. Her black face shone, she had long curly thickly black hair, slim and very beautiful. Anyone that passed by greeted her warmly; men, women and children; she had stolen all of their hearts, as the proverb would say ‘the road to a man’s stomach also leads to his heart.’ beside the food she cooks alone, her beauty could steal hearts and it did. As we walked in, everyone were not looking as happy as they used to, though there was still smiles, cheers but you could certainly tell it wasn’t the usual atmosphere, we walked down to an empty raffia mat and I supported Baba Agba to sit on it. Later mama came to join us on the mat.

  ‘What is happening, why is the place not as ecstatic as it used to be?’ Baba Agba asked mama, I did not even know he noticed, his almost blind eyes could still see. Anyway, I guess because joy is more to feelings than sight. ‘Bisola mistakenly added too much salt water to the soup’ she said nonchalantly as she cut out a small morsel from the pounded cassava, rubbed down in the soup and swallowed, and my eye followed it down her throat. She paused a bit when she noticed we were not eating.

  ‘Why aren’t you both eating, oko mi, omo mi?’ she asked as she pushed the calabashes closer to us even if initially it was close enough.

  ‘We will eat; we are just resting a bit after the walk.’ Baba Agba replied.

  ‘The food is still sweet oh, just a little salty’

  ‘I know it would certainly be sweet, it couldn’t be any less’ Baba Agba said and mama smiled shyly as she bent her head and continued eating and we joined her.