I am putting a movie I’m watching for the first time on hold to write this post. It will be a very short one.

I am being marginalized in my own home.

My son’s favourite past time these days, apart from taking delight in telling me ‘no’ whenever I tell him to stop doing something naughty, is reciting his nursery rhymes. I am not sure which of these activities he enjoys more although I have a feeling he loves to see the shocked, confused and dumbfounded look on my face when he answers ‘no’, both emphatically and dramatically, whenever I tell him to stop climbing the burglary proof on the living room window.

I am certain though that he learned both from the same place- his Day-care centre. Whilst I am certain I can, and will teach him to listen to me and stop saying ‘no’ especially, when I am trying to prevent him from breaking his neck, what I am a bit worried about are the nursery rhymes.

I am sure you are wondering why a father should be worried that his son is learning so much. Well, I am not worried he is learning all those rhymes and songs, what I am however bothered about is how my wife and son have used the rhymes to make me feel like I don’t belong in my own home.

Let me give you a little background to the genesis of my dilemma.

I did not attend a Nursery school. My mom taught me most of the things I knew when I was his age. The few times I attended ‘school’, it was the type you took children to so they could cut their mothers some slack and give them a much needed break. They called them ‘Jelesinmi’ [Let there be peace in the home]. Anyways, that was how I missed out on all the famous nursery rhymes and stories save for a few I picked up here and there. Until recently, all I knew about Humpty Dumpty was that he fell. Never knew there was an attempt to put him back together again. I also learnt this week that the few I thought I knew, I didn’t know quite accurately. I had always recited ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ as ‘Black Black Black Sheep’. I thought they really wanted to emphasize the color of the sheep.

So why do I feel marginalized? Well, it’s because my wife [who attended a nursery school] and son seem to have a poem or rhyme for every activity they undertake in the house now.

When she is brushing his teeth, they sing a particular rhyme. When he is being bathed, they sing another. They have different ones for different activities and there are times when I feel they sing just to get at me. And maybe it is me, but I see the look on the boy’s face every time they are singing or reciting a rhyme and I don’t join in. He always seems to turn his head sideways, wondering why Daddy is not joining the party.

On a few occasions, I have had to improvise, using words that rhyme with the actual words in the poem, so as not to feel completely left out. I am getting away with that for now. I have now, as a matter of necessity and survival, started taking a crash course in nursery rhymes and stories. So, if you know any famous nursery rhyme or story, please send it my way. And please not any of the recent, politically correct ones.

In the meantime, let me return to my movie- *presses the play button and seats back to enjoy the concluding part of ‘Sounds of Music’*

My Mum once sent me on a wild goose chase. Of course, I didn’t know that was her intention at the time, I was only pissed that I had to stop what I was doing to run the errand. Can’t remember what it was I was doing now but it must have been something naughty and noisy. But I consoled myself with the fact that I was going to be back soon.

If only I knew.

She had told me to go to her friend, Iya Moshe, to collect an ‘object’ [so i thought] called ‘arodan’. When I got to Iya Moshe’s house, she told me that she had just given hers to Iya Tinuke and that I should wait a while for it to be returned. I had waited about an hour and a half before she said I should go and meet Iya Femi for her own. Iya Femi said she had given hers to her sister a few days earlier and that I should meet Iya Yahya.

I returned home after about 2 hours, no ‘arodan’ in hand and too tired to return to what I was doing earlier-mission accomplished! I got to know the real meaning of ‘arodan’ a few days later and didn’t find it funny at all that I had been conned by a group of people I should trust without question.

The reason for the ‘Mums gang-up’ became clearer as I grew older but I started to appreciate what they did more when I became a parent. My son is 21months old but believe me there have been times that I wished he was old enough to be sent to my neighbors to collect ‘arodan’ so I could have some peace and quiet in the house. But it recently occurred to me that the boy’s age might not be the only constraint in my employing this ‘wonderful’ piece of traditional intelligence. Will my neighbor understand what ‘arodan’ means? Can I even send my son to people I hardly know? Back in the days, everyone knew everyone. It was one big ‘family-community’. My father used to say that ‘a woman gives birth to a child, but it takes the entire community to raise that child properly’.

Now you could go for months without seeing your neighbor. A colleague of mine was once asked by his neighbor what he was doing trying to open his own door. Imagine being accused of trying to break into your own home. But this is common place these days.

This is not the African way but what does one do in the light of today’s economic realities. Fathers leave their homes in the mornings before dawn and return late after dusk. The only time they see their neighbors is when they want to ask them to move their cars so they can drive out of the compound.

I am not even going to talk about how parents hardly spend quality time with their children these days. I try to spend at least one hour with my son in the mornings before rushing off to work but is that even enough. Yesterday I rushed home from work and got home before dusk. As I raced home, I hoped my son would still be awake so we could spend some father-son time together. I met him awake quite alright but he was asleep a few minutes after that. But I was glad he saw me before he fell asleep.

I keep asking myself; how am I going to pass to this boy all the things my father taught me if I don’t even see him. How and when will I teach him that he shouldn’t pick and eat food that has fallen to the ground because the devil would have tasted it just to prevent him from picking food from the ground; that he should always eat sitting and not standing because if he stands the food will go to his legs? How will I use all the ‘traditional intelligence’ that my parents passed on to me to help raise this boy properly?

Is there even a place for such intelligence in today’s world? Am I holding on to the past?

Am I rambling?

I love to look good. Who doesn’t really?

But truth is some people are more concerned about how they look than others. My mother told me I had always been part of the former, even as a little child. She said as far as I was concerned, there was nothing like ‘Sunday-Sunday clothes’ and that ‘bottom- box’ never really made sense to me. I wanted to look good every day, even as a child. I also remember that while I was growing up, I experimented a lot with hairstyles. I knew I could do anything with my hair and because everyone used to tell me I had great hair, I always made sure my hair was in perfect condition. Well, not all the time. I remembered that one time I had an infestation of lice and my Mum had to scrape off my hair to get rid of the invaders and restore normalcy to my head. But apart from that period, I always paid proper attention to my hair, well, till I started losing it. That’s another story.

By the time I got to the university, I had perfected the art of looking good, at least as far as my own style was concerned. I knew how to look good on a very lean budget. I couldn’t afford to buy the designer shirts and pants but I knew where you could find clothes that were uncommon and inexpensive- Tejuosho Market in Yaba and Mandilas on Lagos Island were my favorite shopping spots. That was also the era of crested shirts. Many student could not afford to buy original designers clothes but they ‘managed’ with knock-offs even if sometimes the crest had a horse without a rider or had ‘ori ologbe’ [Dead man’s head or Versace’s crest] wrongly placed. But I was more comfortable with what was rare and nice. You didn’t want to wear a shirt to class and find about 3 or 4 of your classmates wearing the same shirt. It happened a few times though but my clothes were ‘exclusive’ most of the time.

Every semester, I went to school with almost the same number of items for my wardrobe- 3 pairs of Jeans  [Black, blue and any other color], 10 shirts, 2 pairs of shoes [Moccasins and loafers] and a pair of trekkers and did I rock them? No one could have guessed my wardrobe was that limited. I combined the items so creatively that you would have thought I had a room full of clothes. I also borrowed a shirt or two from my room mate to refresh and upgrade my looks a few times, especially for those occasions that demanded original crested shirts for which my limited wardrobe might have seemed inadequate but those were far and in between.

And why did I put myself through all this wahala?

I wish I could tell you it was only because I loved looking good but that would be a lie. I did it to impress the ladies. I learnt that ladies [in fact people in general] loved to be seen with good looking people. They may be with you because you are smart, rich, funny but you need to be ‘attractive’ enough for them to want to find out more about you. Please don’t get me wrong, when I say good-looking, I do not mean Taye Diggs or Halle Berry kind of good looking, but at least presentable enough to earn a second look or pique someone’s interest.

That was what I had attempted to do one day in school, at the University of Ibadan. I really can’t remember who I was going to see that day but the preparation had been the same. The ritual usually started around 6.30p.m. I would take a shower, wear one of my jeans, brush my teeth, wear deodorant and a cologne, whenever available, and then decide on which of my shirts to wear and of course complete the effect with my rugged but lovely mocs [I remember my roommates used to joke that if I placed my mocs in front of my room and commanded them to go to Queens or Idia Hall, they wouldn’t miss their way].

After I had completed what I thought was a knock out look, I left my room in Tedder Hall, feeling like a million bucks and headed towards Queens Hall, ready to impress. Halfway through my trek,  in front of Trenchard Hall [for those familiar with U.I], I noticed someone was trying to catch my attention but whoever it was didn’t know how much I hated it when people use ‘Ksiiiiii’or ‘ptooo’ to call me. I am neither a goat nor a dog. So I walked on and refused to answer. But the guy was persistent and he increased the pitch of the infuriating sounds but I snubbed him still. Moreover, by this time, I had crossed the road between Trenchard and Queens Hall and my mind was fully focused on trying making the right entrance into Queens Hall, especially with the bevy of beautiful babes that were standing in front of the hall.

Just as I was about to enter the hall, I felt someone pull at my shirt. I knew it was the same guy who was trying to get my attention earlier, so, I turned, reluctantly; ready to give him a piece of my mind.

Guy: Parley

Me: Yeah! [Irritated]

Guy: Your toothbrush dey stick out from ur back pocket

Me: Jesus! [Taking the toothbrush out of my back pocket and shoving it into my front pocket, where no one could see it.

Me: Thank you [nicely and really embarrassed]

Guy: I dey try call u but u no answer

I looked behind us and noticed that some of the ladies in front of the hall had seen the toothbrush as well and I was totally mortified. My habit had finally caught up with me. You see, I had a habit of brushing my teeth after wearing my pants and more often than not I tuck the toothbrush in my back pocket afterwards but I almost always remember to take it out before wearing my shirt and leaving the room. I had forgotten on that most embarrassing of days and it wasn’t funny at all.

Yanga tolotolo. See wetin yanga don cause.

My problem with Ibukun started when I was made class captain. He made it clear to everyone who cared to listen that I didn’t deserve to be captain and my being captain was because the class teacher liked me. He was probably right.  He should have been captain. He was better qualified; captain of his class from pry 1 to 5 and having consistently topped his class all those years, he surely did deserve it.He probably would have been captain if the school authorities hadn’t decide to juggle things around a little bit. In those days, at least in my school, if you started from Primary 1^A, you were moved to Primary 2^A if you got promoted and that meant that you knew you were going to end up in Primary 6^A , ceteris paribus. Well, at the end of our Primary 5 session, ceteris ceased being paribus.  The school authorities changed the status quo and decided to put us in classes based on our performances overall, thus,  the student who was 1^st overall was placed in Class 6A, the 2^nd  in 6B till the lot of us were divided into all the six classes, A to F.  Suffice to say that we all ended up in different classes with different people and we had to learn to manage the resultant shifts in classroom dynamics and their accompanying dysfunctions.

I ended up in Primary 6B alongside Ibukun and thirty something odd students. I reckon the reason the teacher made me class captain was because I came second overall and was the first student in her class. That singular decision split the class into two camps, one for me and the other for Ibukun. The latter consisted of Ibukun’s former classmates and others sympathetic to his ‘plight’; those who couldn’t understand why someone who had never topped his class and had never been captain before could be made class captain.

They were probably right. I wouldn’t have made me class captain if I was my class teacher. I had never been first in my school life. The closest I got to the top tier was when I came 2^nd in third term Primary 4. Before then, I had always moved between the 6^th and 10^th positions, which I felt was OK until my Mum, Iya Segun, thought otherwise and together with my class teacher then, Mr Avuru, moved me away from the back row, where I had established myself amongst the class noisemakers, to the front row where he could monitor me more closely, in the hope that I would focus more on my studies, listen in class and perform better in my exams.

It paid off.

After that term, I became more serious and started believing I could actually do much better with my school work. That confidence, coupled with a lot of help from my Mum and lesson teachers culminated in my finishing 2^nd overall in Primary 5, next to Peter Ago, the guy who came first in my class.

I still wasn’t first. But finishing 2^nd overall changed things for me. It got me into the school quiz team, a circle I had never dreamt of being part of.  A few cuties in school also started noticing me and that was great but that was as far as it got.

Being the captain of Class 6^B was not an easy feat. Ibukun and his crew made life somewhat difficult for me; always looking for opportunities to make me look bad and because I didn’t want to upset anyone and further add to the tension in the class, I let things slide even when it was obvious that they were doing everything to undermine my authority.

The fact that I came 1^st during the first term exams only served to increase the level of entropy in the class. Ibukun, for the first time in his school life, was not 1^st. He didn’t take it very well. The relationship between the two of us disintegrated further and it was clear to everyone one in the class that a physical confrontation was imminent. Things got to a head one day when I wrote Ibukun’s name, and justifiably so, on the list of noise makers while our class teacher was attending a Staff meeting. The teacher came back and meted out due punishment to the ‘offenders’ and for Ibukun, that was the last straw.

During lunch break, Ibukun tried all he could to get into a fight with me but I paid him no mind. He pushed and shoved me around but I didn’t budge, insisting that there was no way I was going to bring myself down to his level and get into a fight with him in school.

What level? Hmm!

Truth be told, I was scared shitless. Ibukun had been known to beat up a number of boys in school and I wasn’t about to become another statistic. More so, I knew if Ibukun beat me, the news would spread through the school in the shortest possible time and my reputation, which was just going up, was going to be in ruins.

Thus, I did all I could not to succumb to Ibukun’s taunting, but as you know, in those days the decision to get into fights was not entirely yours, so to speak. There was me, Ibukun, who was ready to roll the punches and our multitude of promoters. Many a fight wouldn’t have been fought if not for the work of promoters. They repeated everything your would-be opponent said to you again, as if you didn’t hear him in the first place, with salt and pepper added of course, to make it pinch a lot more than it would have ordinarily.

Eventually, I agreed to sort things out with Ibukun, man to man, after school.  My decision to fight was not predicated on any self delusional thinking that I might be victorious but that i could save some face by fighting and avoid being labelled a coward. I thought it was better to be beaten than be called a chicken all my life, well, school life.

The die was cast. The news was out. Blackjamesbond was fighting Ibukun at Rowe Park later that afternoon. That was the news in the class. Concentrating in class after that decision was difficult. While I appeared all cool on the outside, I was petrified on the inside. I said a few prayers before close of school but none of them was answered. My father didn’t close early and didn’t come to pick me at school, my Mum didn’t show up and Ibukun didn’t come down with a severe case of diarrhoea.

The distance between the school and Rowe Park was about a mile, my green mile, as I was sure the guy was going to kill me out there but still I hoped that someone would have the good sense of separating us and stop the fight before I am finished off. But knowing the rules by which Rowe Park fights were officiated, I knew I was in for a good hiding. No one stopped a fight in Rowe Park until blood was drawn, sand eaten and one of the fighters, the victor, was seated on the other, the beaten, asking all the questions and getting all the proper answers. Rowe Park was ‘oju olomo o’to’ [Paraphrased: Rowe Park was PG 18].

 When we got to Rowe Park, the promoters quickly looked for a remote part of the park where we could fight without being spotted by the officials and after they had found the perfect spot, a circle was immediately formed around us and the fight began.

As expected, Ibukun was the more confident one and he came out stinging. In my mind, I knew there was no way I was going to beat him boxing, so I decided I was just going to get really close to him and just hold him down. That way I was sure I could prevent him from doing any serious damage and hope that someone would separate us if I held onto him long enough.

Ibukun threw a few punches but only one landed but it wasn’t strong enough to cause any serious damage but if the noise all around us was anything to go by, a passer-by would have thought someone was getting killed.  Ibukun, spurred on by all the noise came out punching again but albeit recklessly. Before he could retreat and plan another round of attack, I ducked underneath his outstretched arms and put my arms all around him. Then I made a startling discovery. Ibukun was very light, almost paper weight! I knew if I could lift him and slam him to the ground, I could win the fight.

So, with my arms around him, I changed my position, crouched a little and tried to lift him up. Not someone to be easily outdone, he quickly put one of his legs between mine and threw the other backwards to support his resistance but he was too late. I had him where I wanted him and before he could offer a more spirited resistance, I had lifted him up and slammed him to the ground.

Being captain became a lot easier after that fight. I asked all the questions and got all the right answers.

I still don’t eat sand.