Disconnected

In the neighbourhood, she was our heroine and was pretty much contemporary than her contemporaries. As kids, we would gather around her, sometimes, danced to the rhythm that emanated from her finger-work on the keyboard. How long we enjoyed what was music to us depended on the mood Osamulu's mum was. On a bad day, the fiery look on her face put us away; we needed no prophet to tell us we were unwanted guests. Every African child could discern that. It was part of a homely requisite training where non-verbal communication like facial expression drove in the desired reaction from a child. And when she was happy, we would see the readily accommodating smile she beamed.

Soon, we became addicted to hanging around her, dancing. At night, the moonlight was a source of joy to us as farmers and hunters told us stories that existed only in our imagination. But during the day, her typewriting machine was the amusement. She was the only woman with such a skill and so, she never rested from unending typing jobs. Osamulu's mum lost her mind to her heart, evident in the way she treated her clients as they had no option.

We grew up, believing we would acquire her skill. Every one us including her children, dreamt to become a typist. Ignorantly, we had admitted severally in public that we would become typists when we grew up. "What would you become in the future?" Asked my junior secondary teacher, without waste of time and as though l had been starving of that question, replied, "typist". Actually, my pronunciation was, 'tuwapeeeiyis'. As an African child from that part of Africa, we had wrongly acquired and articulated phoneme resulting from mother tongue interference.

Years went by, kids turned adults, and the computer era set in, yet, Osamulu's mum still clung tightly to her craft which had already been overtaken by time. First, it started as a dwindling commitment from her clients which she attributed to witchcraft manipulation from an envious heart, either a relative or a neighbour, This then, a total disappearance of her clients. This time, as customary of an African, concluded that her enemies had succeeded in ruining her business not knowing that her real enemy was herself.

That was in the early 90s, precisely, between 1990 and 1994, but surprisingly, l visited that neighborhood recently only to discover that Osamulu's mum still maintained that shop probably because they owned the building. The typewriters numbering about 7 were still in their normal positions like lifeless idols. She is badly striken by age, but still lives in her past. She gets up every morning mounts one of the machines, punches the keys at random, while she speaks her local dialect. "Unu bia luo Lu, me lumu ebele". Translated; 'come and type here, have mercy on me.'

In my curiosity, l decided to interact with mum and ask if she still typed for people only to hear that she still believed strongly that one day her skill would pay again. "When l started, the business was slow. In the first seven months, l had hardly had 10 clients. So, l am optimistic that with time business will pick up, and my sondoesn'tt forget that it's the season we are in; there is no money and people are hungry, coupled with the fact that my enemies won't rest, but, l shall emerge victoriously. Some people even advise me to use computers. Hmmm, my son, they don't know typewriters are worth more than computers. When we started using typewriters, where were computers?"

"I was told you are a medical doctor, now." "No mummy", it's my younger brother. I am a Cooperative Economist". "When l first heard it, my heart was broken. I expected you to become a typist like me. That was why l was allowing you to play around me. Or you thought l had forgotten? How can l forget this kind of thing or think l am too old to remember? 'Nawa o', she muttered in vernacular and then continued. "Do you know that none of my children is a typist? They don't know what they are missing. In fact, l lent my father the money he built his house. I bought a car for their father, my husband. I know that's where the jealousy is coming from"

The large tree that was in front of their house was still there. This time, it had extended its branches and the leafs spread lavishly swaying tantalisingly. It was the hamatern season. Usually, at such a season, the wind blew noisily and makes such sound like the ember of blacksmith, and it was coldest. Osamulu's mum had engaged me and refused to let me go, but the African tradition forbade me from interrupting an elder in the middle of a counsel or conversation. I was freezing but couldn't not take my exit instead, l blamed myself in my mind for ever taking the decision to pay them a visit.

I had totally lost appeal for that conversation, but since l couldn't leave, l played along. I nodded my head to whatever she said, but l was mentally absent. While l stood there, it became clearer to me why Africa would never move forward. Most African politicians are in their 70s, 80s, & 90s. Osamulu's mom too was in her 70s. If she could talk so incoherently and logically, what about African leaders who are much older than she? These supposed leaders are physically, mentally and generationally behind time but occupy positions with which they are completely disconnected from and inadequately suitable for. Imagine that Osamulu's mum was made one of the ministers in our country, she would appear neat and present papers written by some other person. Of course, she would definitely not make policies that would brace up to present day demand.

And all we would do would be to sit and complain. Just like l was hopeless before Osamulu's mum. In my thought, l concluded that Africa would need to revolutionize or evolutionize its political system to accommodate vibrant youths who are standing on pedestal of real time demand.

"Pu pu up up", she tapped me on my shoulders and l realised l had been completely lost. This time, she told me l could go that she had wasted my time. "Greet your mama" she said our vernacular. Quickly, l began to walk away before she would change her mind and start another conversation. At that juncture, l knew Osamulu's mum was completely disconnected from reality. Besides, l didn't expect much from her. Her hair had turned completely grey, her speech, slurred...indicating that she was very old should exist in such a disconnect.