CRISIS OF IDENTITY

CRISIS OF IDENTITY

I would never have thought of him if not for the slicing of onions and the tears that stung my eyes. The moment preceding the happening was serene and void of panic. But turned on its head in seconds.

It was the tenth of September 2003. The heat was relentless. I tried to catch my breath. Heaving a sigh and looking up from our verandah, a wall gecko makes its way to our window.

“Kazeem! See gecko!” my sister shouted, pointing at the reptile. Particles of dust clammed to my feet as I untied my shoelaces, some sting my nostrils and blur my eyes as the devious wind brewed. It was a dry season and all of these were normal. As I watched the wall gecko disappear, my eyes glanced at the door. A prayer sticker lay gummed to it. It read “Insha Allahu" signed by the Islamic Society of Nigeria, Numan branch. I tugged at my shirt to release it of sweats as my sister bounced her basketball—the reason for our sweats— into the house.

Out she came with a Ludo game board, a sachet of popcorn and a towel. As she dried herself, she tossed me a look of interest.

“ Brother, let's play ludo.”

Faidah is her name, one hell of a sister, the only one I have, her energy lights up the room, her inquisitiveness has no bounds. A glance at her revealed a lot; her brown hair neatly combed and tied into a ponytail. A ribbon clipped at the sides. Her eyes shone like gemstones, her lashes like a black thicket. She sat, tore open her popcorn and dabbed at her neck. I watched her mouth twist in an attempt to chew, her dimples and cheek like carved rock laid bare. The simple tee-shirts on her showing a bare midriff and a bent navel.

I blinked as a beautiful butterfly flapped its wings across the balcony. Straight it flew to the blue Peugeot 504 car parked in the compound. my dad's car. He rarely used it except for emergencies. He was a fitness nut and preferred walking to driving. Few times when Mom confronted him, he always said,

“ Exercise is life, woman. And besides as a doctor, I practice what I preach.”

My sister walked to the other end of the bench. My eyes fluttered as she dropped the ludo on the bench. I hissed. She always won and I hated that fact. PHCN—our electricity providers— denied us lights otherwise why would I start a game I know I would lose.

Faidah clutched the dice cup in her palm, she chatted about her loss in basketball games and how she'd take her revenge with ludo. Then, about the school, how eager she was for resumption. She talked about her new snickers. The one dad got with a matching school bag. I saw excitement building on her face and snapped it off. Don't Call me a killjoy. I'm just not taken by my sister's whims.

“Roll the dice. It's your turn." I quipped.

As she rolled the dice, we heard the creak of the kitchen door, then the slam as a pleasant scent wafted through our nostrils. It was the scent of groundnut soup and tuwo shinkafa. I sniffed in satisfaction and drummed my feet.

“Hmmm.” my sister exhaled. “Do you smell that?”

“Yes!” I nodded, “Mummy is cooking our favourite.”

“Yippe!” she squealed and rolled the dice. The dice was good, so good that it angered me, first to a shrug then a scoff. Double six dices were staring me in the face. Her hand went up in hellacious excitement. And She wriggled her buttocks till the bench began to shake.

Outside, I heard a woman shouting “mee ruwa”... water seller, the sound of wood against wood filtered into my ears. As if that wasn't enough, a shrill sound of iron echoed from the left, climbing our fence to disturb the hot afternoon. I flinched, when will this vicinity -- Numan Adamawa state—ever be calm?

My sister rolled the dice again. I held my breath until I saw two full stops staring at me. I poke her and burst into laughter. She glared but I grabbed the dice cup and waited my turn.

Watching her count her scores on the board, our gate creaked open. And like in the movies, our eyes in slow motion, moved towards that direction. Who has the power to open our gate like this? They were but a few; my uncle, aunt and of course the owner. My dad.

As our eyes lingered, he appeared, his moustache and freckles stood out. He was a Yoruba man who spoke Hausa fluently. A man of surety. Heavily built. People say I took after him.

My sister leapt from the bench. if not for reflexes, I'd have found my butts on the ground. The ludo pieces scattered around as she spared me no glance and ran towards him. I shook my head and dragged my feet while observing Dad's face. 

He was in his uniform: a white lab coat with a blue long sleeve shirt peeking out of them. His face wore a super smile but his eyes were dim, tired. 

Still, in clutches of my sister's embrace, I walked up to him and bow,

“Ekaale sir.” he stroked my hair and grinned. A wide grin stretched to his ears as I took his briefcase. His stethoscopes hung on his neck but my sister wouldn't let me have it.

“ You have decided to speak Yoruba eh?” his smile was a mile wide as he began to pull off his wristwatch. I chuckled and dashed into the house, alerting mom of her husband's arrival. 

Dad didn't come in. He kicked off his shoes and joined Faidah in picking the fallen ludo pieces. His gesture wasn't a new development as he loved spending his spare time with us— his family.

Drawing a stool to myself I stake a claim to the game. He obliged and helped us reshuffle.

Mom strode out of the house, revelling in her hijab-gown. She circled my dad's neck and kissed his cheek. Her big eyes sparkled and her puffy cheeks glistened. We looked on as she caressed his body and stole his attention from us.

They were still in warm envelopes of their physical elation when I chipped in,

“Easy dad. Easy mom. We're sitting right here.” Mom drifted away and nudged my shoulder, her smile, a label on a bottle.

“When next this happens, close your eyes, young man!”

Dad beamed. His face, precious. The once tired eyes shone like stars. “Get me a glass of water to drink,” he said to mom. 

Mom grabbed my shoulder and pulled me and with a voice devoid of emotion she ordered me to get my father a glass of water. I winced, not at the grabbing nor the dragging but on the errand, I was going to run. We waddled into the room: mom back to the kitchen while I steered straight to the refrigerator.

It was on my way back with a glass of water that it all happened. Was it just a piece of news? I couldn't tell.

When I reached the door, I heard a voice tear through the compound.

“Ayodele! Ayo!” the gates rattled.

“Ayo!” the voice continued its scream. I couldn't miss the voice, the coarseness, the accent and the modulation of the tongue. This was my uncle. Audu. The elder brother to my mom. He was flying towards my dad in his white ‘jhalamia’, pointing straight at him, his face, a contorted grimace. 

“Audu.” my dad began, not minding his brother-in-law's squeezed face, “ What brings you around? I hope there's no problem?”

“Ah! Ayo, there's a problem I!” he reached for my hand and seized the glass of water. 

“Ayo! They are coming tonight. I mean they will strike tonight!” he said and gulped the water in a single move. My mouth opened. 

Who are they? Dread washed over me.

As if on cue, dad asked with a crinkled face, “Who are they?” 

“Are you asking me? Don't you remember the fate that befell your parents? Would you like it to repeat itself?”

My dad jerked. His eyes fluttered. I think the memory of his parent's death flashed. He shrugged and snapped out of his reverie.

“How did you know? Who told you?” he managed to ask with his hand on his neck.

“No one told me. I overheard them last night. They are planning to retaliate what your people are doing to our people over there in the south.”

I watched my dad freeze. Silence hung thick on the air as the reality of what his brother-in-law said dawned on him. I haven't seen my dad so disoriented that his face sagged. But he tucked in the expression and stared up to Uncle.

“What does this mean?” he stuttered, “what do I have to do?”

“You have to leave... Tonight, Ayo. Tonight!” Uncle Audu's face was passive.

“What about all these? He points to his house, body and atmosphere. “So I'm going to leave them all?”

“Consider the safety of your family first. You know it's the right thing to do.” Uncle Audu assured him.

“ Get prepared, we are leaving at eight.”

A cough drew attention to me. On sighting my gaped mouth, dad ordered both of us into the house.

As we marshalled in, leaving dad and uncle outside, we heard hastened steps as the kitchen door closed.

A few minutes later, I wandered into my room. Two suitcases lay open on the bed. My clothes found their way to them, wrapped.

“Mom, what are you doing? What..... ? You're crying?” I asked when tears trickled down her cheeks. The cloth in her hand crinkled.

“ I'm not...” she trailed off as my dad tore open the door, his face a crisis of emotion. He placed a hand on her shoulder.,

“Did you hear what your brother said earlier?” 

“Yes!"

“He said you can stay with Faidah at your father's place while I travel with Kazeem until...” 

“Why? Why?`` Mom dropped her hand in defeat.

“Because you're a daughter of the soil.” his eyes roamed the room like a defeated soldier watching the bullet in his torso.

“No! I'm going with you. I can't let our marriage of fifteen years crash. Not on the premise of tribalism. You hurt me, baby, for thinking I'd stay behind. You hurt me .” she sniffed the phlegm dripping down her nose.

Dazed by everything, he said.

 “ I'm sorry hun.”

A ponderous silence.

“Twenty years,” Dad muttered to himself with hands spread out.

“Twenty years of my life have I given to these people. Twenty years of healthcare, sometimes free consultation and free services. Free Sallah rams and giveaways yet when a little disagreement rises they are quick to point out my foreign origin. This house—”

“Dad, are we leaving this house?” I heard my voice utter.

“Yes, my son. We are leaving until further notice.” 

The dinner was tasteless. For my favourite delicacy, the mere thought of leaving the house knotted up my appetite. All I could do was hit my spoon against the plates. No one said anything. The pin-drop silence on the dining table was unnerving. My sister tried to be the only spark, she tried to stay lively, asking questions that in turn gave her cold shoulders and scowls for answers.

At eight pm, my parents as I could see in their vacant eyes were hoping that Uncle Audu would come with news of ‘abort mission’ but as a horn bellowed outside our gate and a coarse voice echoed “Muje!”. It occurred to them that the die had been cast.

———

Instincts have a way of stalling our movements, giving us subtle signs of the dangers ahead. The actions you term unnecessary are always the mirror to the future. Otherwise, why would Dad lock his door, force us to take minutes off the fleeing time to stare back at our house? Why?

———

Our dressing was well planned -- We were all draped in white jhalamias; long apparel knitted together to cover all parts of the body except the fingers, feet and the head.

Another bark from uncle Audu and the honking of his horn jolted us from the ritual of starting. We dragged our feet and hurled our items of luggage into the truck. 

“Close your gate from the outside. It's a sign of your absence.” Uncle instructed. It was when dad bounced back to lock the gate that a cacophony of noise filtered into our ears.

It was the noise of war. Of violence. Their voices; thirsty for blood.

“Doctor Ayodele.” uncle Audu called, he hadn't called my dad a doctor in years. His eyes had concern in them “ They have started. You'll be safe though, just lie low.” 

My dad nodded and spread out a mat for us to lie on. As the truck began its journey to Ekiti state. Our hearts stay glued in our mouths as we call on God for safety.

During the bumpy ride, my mind spiralled in the way of random thoughts. My mum sat beside me, visibly shaken. Her hands clasped the Tasbih(a handcrafted bead used in praying to Allah). The rise and fall of my sister's chest confirmed her trip to wonderland. I watched dad crumple at the end of the truck, his hands behind his head. As his mouth trembled, spewing some incoherent words, I could imagine his thoughts.

The almighty Doctor Ayodele is reduced to the back end of a rickety truck.

My life flashed before me, the foods, something that nourished me till date, the neighbourhood, a place I call my home, the hospital, nurse Ndidi my favourite person, the excitement I had for school reopening, my friends at school who had turned family, Halima the only girl to rub her sprouting breast on my chest. Our neighbour's child tutored me on how to ride a bicycle.

I heaved a sigh and thought of Ekiti state and my visit of three years ago, how hostile my supposed kinsmen were. They didn't say it but their disdainful eyes, cold shoulders, mocking actions were enough compass to guide me through. Two weeks was what our stay lasted. Two weeks of nightmares.

 If my father's kinsmen didn't find me fit to be one of them and my mother's kinsmen didn't either. Who exactly was I? A boy of no identity? As these thoughts haunted my mind, I felt droplets of tears wetting my Jhalamia.

The truck swayed left, right and left. And the noise grew close. We kept our heads low as the truck neared the noise. 

“We are close to the border now. Don't make a sound. We don't want to risk them stopping us.” Uncle Audu's voice whispered. Our heads lowered until the truck jerked and halted.

“Shhh!” Uncle Audu murmured and jumped down. Has the truck developed a fault? Or did they stop us? I hoped for the former.

 Dad's trembling hands rested on my shoulder, piercing the ridges. 

“Whatever happens tonight. Know that you're my son, a full-blooded Nigerian and I love you., he said in a whisper. I tried to process the message in his words then but couldn't. When an axe collides with our truck to make a clunking sound.

We jerked. And scampered for safety. It was obvious whatever uncle Audu tried to do, failed successfully. Our movements provoked uproars from different corners. The truck, their destination. The latch of the truck door came loose under the attack of axes. The door tore open. The night breeze wiped our skin. Two men climbed in. They saw us and let out a scream. Shouts of exhilaration rang through the camp as more people jumped in. 

We were hauled out.

They led us to their leader. My breathing was hard, my heart thumped as I glanced at them, wicked fellows who from time to time incites violence and revelled in it. Their beards were a forest of ugly hairs. Their clothes were in unison, black long robes, how their sect was different from ours baffled me. Many fingers of theirs, clutched on the same Tasbih my mom was holding. On their waists rested either a gun or sheath housing a sword.

They forced us to our knees with their hard hands. As we knelt, the scent of sweats and smoke impeded my nostrils. Uncle Audu stood, interceding on our behalf. In that semi-darkness, his face never had the touch of genuine concern it had that night.

“Dan Allah.” I heard him say as my sister clung to my mom, whimpering. Dad was staring straight at nothingness, his lips sealed.

“Yana tare da mu,” Uncle Audu said, circling his hands.

“Kayi Mana karya Dan uwa. You lied to us brother even when you knew the consequences, why?” their leader, a man of surety who barely spared him a glance asked.

“I ...” Uncle Audu trailed off as a hand rested on his shoulder.

The action succeeding this was brutal, a horrible experience that will haunt me till death. The leader whistled and a man appeared with his sword.

“Doctor Ayodele! Ajiya Halima! Abdulkazeem and Faidah!” he called, flashing his gworo-stained teeth.

“We know you doctor but we have orders.” 

He ambled towards my father. And the moon became an accomplice aiding in showing the silver blade which was drawn. The gesture was quick. My uncle's hands in cuffs. My mom's shoulder in clips. I gaped in utmost horror as the monster drilled a hole into my dad's neck. Dad took the hit in obedience. Blood spurted in fat boils as my mother howled in agony.  

The assailant wiped his bloodstained sword dad's clothes. My sister slumped from her kneeling position, convulsions taking over her body but I stood, stunned. The incident was too hazy to comprehend. I ran to my father's body, shook it and hoped for life. But found none.