Jangilova.
By: Charles Isidi
Tags: Growing Up, Family, Childhood Memories, Living, Life

We are going up the land to take the country, To possess the land from Jordan to the sea, Oh the giants may be on their way to hinder, God will surely give us victory, victory! Only move on to the righteous side, Move on to the righteous side, Move on to the righteous side of God.

This was one of our marching songs back in primary school, I remember one morning as we sang and marched enthusiastically, that my dad had polished my shoes, shiny black and I would stare occasionally at them as I marched down to my classroom. This reminds me of how my father did everything to perfection.

The year is 1998, this story starts at our house at 12, Uwaifo Street, Uselu, Benin City every morning, moved to Heaven Bound Christian School at 222, Ugbowo Lagos Road just sharing a fence with Ohonba Line, and then back home to our 16 Inch Sharp TV, the same one I watched the France 98 world cup in, that time they had little cars to pick up injured players, was probably the only reason I loved football.

I passed by my primary school a year or two ago.

It was the same year Abacha died, I remember it clearly because there were tires burning on the streets, our teacher closed our school windows and we hid under the table, but the joy outside was loud and boisterous and things could change rather quickly. I remember the red and blue lights and the loud sirens on the streets that seeped into the classroom from cracks in the windows and doors. A few minutes later, my mom was behind me, packed my bags and we were going home in her official Peugeot station wagon, there was a plant branch on her windscreen. I remember my legs didn’t touch the floor of the car, I often asked why.

In 1998, Milo on our breakfast table became Richoco, Richoco was very seed like and hard to dissolve, then it became top tea, and we started taking breakfast with unbranded milk for baking, and it was measured, something about Abacha paying the same Salary for 6 years and the price of everything being insanely terrible. My mother bought warehouse damaged blue band instead, the packs were squeezed a bit, but she could buy 5 for the price of 3, and the empty packs became our lunch boxes for the longest times.

Her office at Aiwerioba Oguigo Mansion at 10, Butcher Street Mission Road, had a large wholesale warehouse on the grand floor, when I visited on holidays, I used to just enjoy watching them stack cartons of biscuits. I would ask my mother to buy a carton, but whatever the response was, I can’t remember, but we didn’t go home with a carton of biscuits. Her office mansion had the Nigerian Law Publication above her floor, and Eckankar just directly above, I remember there used to be crack on her office window, and there was this inside joke that the Eckist prayers broke their glass.

I went by my mother’s old office in 2018.

Music to me are markers for my life, and in 1998, Yanni’s tribute album was that marker. I remember it because it was the year my dad brought some of his studio equipments back home from his music store on New-Benin Road, no one really told you about the business going bad, he never talked about it much, and he just moved on to focus on his civil service job. It was four tall wooden speakers. I remember he would sit me on them while he played music, I remember how it would vibrate my bum-bum, I miss it just thinking about it.

It was the same year my kid sister taught me how to whistle and I would whistle to Nightingale, Tribute and Love is all, off the Tribute Album. My mother would often smack us when she caught us whistling, and say something along the lines of “you want to be a palmwine tapper?”. I called my sister last week to ask if she could still whistle, she said no, strange thing. I hung up and whistled.

In 1998, my daddy wrapped Cabin Biscuits for both of us in his old white and green old ledgers from his office, and he would give me the One Naira coin, I was in primary 1. He would drop us off at school in his Ox blood coloured Honda accord, and again, my legs didn’t touch the floor.

I remember it was one of these days that the Gideons Bible Society gave us the small new testament bible and I would read it long into the night as I laid on our blue and white colored tiles, tucked beside the centre table.

“Come, let us go and play jangilova”

It used to be deep inside concrete until it cracked open and we had to be extra careful when we played with it… up-down, up-down it squeaked, if I close my eyes harder, I could still hear it. The seats were metal that could hurt, and you had to beg a friend to join you on the see saw. It was beautiful, it was the best thing for me… seeing myself high in the sky one moment and the other, lifting someone else. Something about it spoke volumes in the way that we should approach the motions of life; that you could be lifted and loved by the ones you lifted and loved.

Trust me, the least thing I intend to do with this story is inspire, maybe I will, maybe I will not. His name was Salami, Salami was my best friend in primary 1 and the year before was kindergarten. It is a blur, I only remember getting a haircut with a manual clipper the morning of my graduation, my blue graduation gown and being awarded best pupil, laughable when you think about the hard things we all have to fight for now.

I loved Salami, we had this thing we did back then, we always fought for who would come to school first, in those days, my classroom block was behind and had a lot of mould on the walls and the concrete floor had a dozen cracks in them, but the sneaky friendship with Salami was everything.

I remember our blue shorts, white shirts, and long white socks that we dragged to our knees. I had an Aladdin themed back pack, and new textbooks, you know the one with Old Roger(the zombie), Ali and Simbi, yes that one, if I close my eyes I could remember the smell. I read them very early, not in the way we read now, not at all, we looked for the next picture in the books and traced it out on paper. Then we would trace our one Naira coins together, Herbert Macaulay’s face fully forming in little shaded bits.

What was there not to love about him, we were very competitive, we would hurry to finish up classwork, see who would submit first, Salami drank from my water bottle, I drank from his, we exchanged back packs on some days and he wrote in my notebook while I did his, it is one of those precious memories.

The classroom chair was already eaten by termites, so we would pick out the dust during break time when the older pupils chased us from the see saw. In those days I misplaced my shoes a lot and my shoe laces. Sometimes, I would go round and round the school with my socks and it would be red because we were chasing each other. On those days, my mom would go around the school looking for my shoes, then when we get home, she would sit me down to wash the socks myself, and on the best days, it usually ended in tears and catarrh.

Salami was a short dark boy, we were both short and dark… we wore the same hair cut; skin around and little hair in the front with a line down the side. We both had sharp get ups on our school uniforms. I think we found a way to make sanctuary out of each other, I looked forward to school.

I loved it when we played the sea saw after lessons by 3, my mother closed work at 4, so sometimes, she would come pick up I and Margaret up, the other times, the school owner dropped me at home in his Mercedes Benz, he was really fond of my family, I still remember how his car smelled; cold, sweet and leathery. It was a yellow Benz 190, and there was everything to love about it, Mr Nosa Eke and his wife that always helped my mum look for my shoes.

“Charles is intelligent but is easily distracted and should pay more attention in class”

How can I forget this remark that was a constant on my brown report card back in the day, my mom would even say it out loud when I offended her. But all this is a deflection to how I really feel and the weight of this story, I just hope you see it the way I did, from the same eyes of 6 year old me who would dig my leg in wet sand to make mud houses over it, I hope something of my memories remind you of safer times in yours.

When we played the see saw, Salami was an expert at jumping off the see saw while I landed back splat on the floor, he would laugh excitedly at me, apologise, and I always trusted him so much that I didn’t think he would do it again. When I say again, a minute or more later, while I was still in the frenzy of up-down, up down, enjoying the squeaking this poor thing had to go through to keep us in the fun, just like that I am butt hard on the floor again.

I remember passing out once or even twice, I think I passed out so many times growing up, I didn’t even know it was dangerous and my friends will just wait for me to wake up… it was fun for them, maybe for me too. One time we were playing football on the concrete and I passed out from being knocked over, just black, it’s not so funny thinking about it.

Salami used to come spend weekends at our place and I would go over to theirs sometimes, I think that was the first time my parents knew that I had an allergy to the artificial drink sweeteners, Asparteme.

Then one term came and my parents changed my school, I cried for days because I was never going to see him anymore… I grew up asking them to take me to salami’s house until I forgot about him completely, the memory just blurred into the background until last Christmas and Christmas for me always comes with new revelations, but this one?. My father asked me “You remember Salami?” and my face lit up, “Yeeeeesss” I slurred as I tried to remember. Apparently, the reason why they changed my school was because Salami drowned in a drum of water a little over his height, and both parents didn’t know how to tell me. I mean, how do you tell a 6 year old about the death of their friend?

I closed my eyes to think of what his last moments would have been like and my father said in a rather consoling tone, ‘you both were a force together’ and I nodded. Salami didn’t take permission from me yet again, he expected I would understand, trust him like I always have. It was one of those revelations you take because the tears are 22 years old, and you are clueless about what to do with them?

Sometimes I wished that people took permission, that they don’t turn off the frenzy and assume that you can live without them, I hate that people walk away, nothing said, just the familiar hello of silence. I hate that people are surprised that you can be broken, “you can deal with this” they say, you can play the see saw with someone else, it doesn’t change anything. But it does, not going through the motions with you hurts. No, I like your smile, how loudly you screamed and laughed at the same time when you told me to slow down, it was the kind of fun that made you pee your pants and now you want to stop?

It reminded me of waiting for him while I sat on my end of the see-saw, and now realising that nothing prepares you for the futility of waiting endlessly for things long gone.

This story is about Salami my classmate in Primary 1, whose facial features do not form clearly in my head but I dearly miss. Lately, I’ve been hiding in the safety of my earliest memories and this is one of them.