OHÀHÀ'NY
Abdulrahaman Adeiza Jimoh
Abdulrahaman Adeiza Jimoh
Mama is inside the hut talking with Tabitha's mother, her estranged sister from the city who'd finally visited home for the Eche-ane festival. I'm outside, basking in fresh air with Tabitha and Lukman. We're sitting in Ohueje; a hub of fresh air, the part of our hut unroofed in the middle but roofed at the sides. I'm acquainting Tabitha with my newest discovery.
“Cockroaches can fly,” I say, flailing my arms to demonstrate my discovery, willing Tabitha to look up from her phone. I steal side glances at her. I seriously want to impress her so she knows that even though I've lived all my life in this village, I'm not a bush girl. But Tabitha doesn't look my way and she doesn't stop jabbing at her phone either. She isn't even attempting to look up.
“Tabitha,” I murmur, nudging her shoulder and smiling. “Cockroaches have wings and can fly.”
“Oooh, you talk too much, cousin,” Tabitha laments, barely glancing up. “Yes, I know Cockroaches fly. I mean, who doesn't know?”
It surprises me that she knows cockroaches. And that she knows that cockroaches fly. How's that possible? Hasn't she lived all of her life in Lagos where big people live, where there are no cockroaches, rats or mosquitoes?
Luqman chortles mockingly. I glare at him and he immediately stops. Stupid brother. I snort, and resume staring at Tabitha. I seem not to comprehend how a big woman's daughter knew about cockroaches. Does she play with them? It's difficult to imagine. I stare at Tabitha, my gaze lingering on her chest. Again, I'm enveloped in sheer wonderment. How can a younger one be this voluptuous?
Mama has revealed that I'm older than Tabitha, that she's only bustier because she's suffering rapid growth. I wasn't sure what sickness is called rapid growth. Mama explained that Tabitha's rapid growth was a consequence of her parents being big people who live in big houses in Lagos. Mama said one contacts rapid growth by simply eating egg sauce, chicken stew, fried rice and salad every day in a hut that's not roofed with palm fronds. I do not understand why Mama had added “simply” to an array of food that sounds so sophisticated. But I dared not question Mama lest she drag my ears and call me Ohàhà'nyi.
“Tabitha, are there cockroaches in your hut in Lagos?” Luqman inquires, eyes glinting with curiosity.
I mouth him a silent appreciation, one I don't want him to know of. I don't want him to think I want to ask a similar question even though I want to.
Then I burst into laughter.
“Village boy!” I jeer, laughing. “Luqman, you're bush!”
“I'm not bush,” he counters mildly.
“You are a bush boy. Cockroaches are in Lagos.”
“Liar! How do you know? Have you been to Lagos?”
Yes, how did I know? I swear, I don't know. All I want to do tonight is to impress Tabitha. “Must I go to Lagos before I know simple things?”
“Liar!” Luqman jerks up. I know he's about to call me Ohàhà'nyi, a retaliation for calling him a bush boy, but Tabitha seems to notice and jumps in and pulls him down.
“Sit down,” she commands. “No arguments, there are cockroaches in Lagos and wall geckos too, Final!”
Tabitha goes back to pressing her phone. Luqman sits back, seething. He glares hard at me, refusing to blink. I stick out my tongue mockingly and to remind him of my flawless victory over him. I expect his face to knot into a frown, rather it smoothes into a smile. A devilish smile.
“Ohàhà'nyi, what's word geto?” Luqman asks, shooting me a mocking glare.
The gods know I haven't heard such a word.
“Am I the one that mentioned it?” I defend. “Ask Tabitha.”
“No, tell me, you know everything in Lagos.”
I do not know what a word geto is and I'm not about to admit it. Still I don't want Luqman to have a field day by embarrassing me. I begin to search for clues in Tabitha's face, nothing.
Luqman is smiling, “Ohàhà'nyi, what's word geto?” he reiterates.
Tabitha is still pressing her phone and her acting as if she hadn't ignited the fire that's about to raze me, infuriates me. Then I remember something. Why was Luqman addressing me as Ohàhà'nyi? Is he mad? Am I his mate?
“What did you call me just now?” I ask Luqman.
He laughs and stresses out the syllables. “O-ha-ha-nyi!”
I rise up and advance forward. “Repeat it.”
He shifts back and hides behind Tabitha. “O-ha-ha-nyi!”
I snarl and try to grab him, but Tabitha obstructs me. “Please, stop,” she
pleads. “Peace for once!”
“Leave the road.”
“Why always fighting?” Tabitha yells. “Are you cats and rats?”
Tabitha peers at me. “Wall geckos! Not word geto! They're lizards that hover around incandescent bulbs at night!”
Whatever! Nothing would deter me from breaking Luqman's head tonight. “Leave the road.” I reiterate.
“God! I'll call Mama,” she threatens. “Mama! Mama!”
Tabitha's mother appears first looking glamorous in a lace gown, then Mama comes limping in, wearing only one of her slippers, the other in her right hand.
“What's happening here?”
“Mama, it's Luqman,” I swiftly accuse.
“It's not me,” he defends. “It's Ohàhà'nyi.”
“God punish you!” I curse.
“Shut up!” Ma commands. “Everybody go and sleep!”
I snarl at Luqman, mouthing that I'd get him some other time, before storming out. Tabitha is already groping her way inside with her mother. I follow them.
“Seida,” Ma calls me, “come back.”
I turn and circle back.
“Have you urinated?” she asks.
I shake my head.
Luqman giggles behind Ma's back.
“Are you mad? You didn't ease yourself and you were walking inside. Wanka!”
“I was planning to come back—”
“Shut up,” Ma bawls. “Ohàhà'nyi!”
I bite my lips. I abhor that name.
“Why are you still standing there? Oya, move!”
I scamper off into our rectangular bathroom and reluctantly bend down.
“I'm still standing o,” Mama announces. “I want to hear the sound of your urine.”
I bite my lips, seething as I release my bladder with maximum force, targeting only gravels that can amplify my urine pattering.
“Good!” Mama comments.
***
I'm feeling hot, like a candlelight is burning my crouch. Then, I feel cold like I'm bathing in the rain. I jerk up awake. A pool of liquid coagulates under my thighs. I sigh. I've done it again. Wasn't I inside the bathroom when I released my bladder? I crawl away from the pool of urine and lay in a drier part. I draw in deep breaths, praying that Mama doesn't embarrass me in the presence of Tabitha's mother. I cannot bear the condescending look of disapproval that would appear on her face. She might decide not to take me to Lagos again. And that silly boy, Luqman, would tease and laugh at me. God, if Luqman dare call me Ohàhà'nyi when day breaks, I swear, I swear I'll break his head, I'll beat him until he, somehow, explains why his elder sister still bed wets at thirteen.
“Cockroaches can fly,” I say, flailing my arms to demonstrate my discovery, willing Tabitha to look up from her phone. I steal side glances at her. I seriously want to impress her so she knows that even though I've lived all my life in this village, I'm not a bush girl. But Tabitha doesn't look my way and she doesn't stop jabbing at her phone either. She isn't even attempting to look up.
“Tabitha,” I murmur, nudging her shoulder and smiling. “Cockroaches have wings and can fly.”
“Oooh, you talk too much, cousin,” Tabitha laments, barely glancing up. “Yes, I know Cockroaches fly. I mean, who doesn't know?”
It surprises me that she knows cockroaches. And that she knows that cockroaches fly. How's that possible? Hasn't she lived all of her life in Lagos where big people live, where there are no cockroaches, rats or mosquitoes?
Luqman chortles mockingly. I glare at him and he immediately stops. Stupid brother. I snort, and resume staring at Tabitha. I seem not to comprehend how a big woman's daughter knew about cockroaches. Does she play with them? It's difficult to imagine. I stare at Tabitha, my gaze lingering on her chest. Again, I'm enveloped in sheer wonderment. How can a younger one be this voluptuous?
Mama has revealed that I'm older than Tabitha, that she's only bustier because she's suffering rapid growth. I wasn't sure what sickness is called rapid growth. Mama explained that Tabitha's rapid growth was a consequence of her parents being big people who live in big houses in Lagos. Mama said one contacts rapid growth by simply eating egg sauce, chicken stew, fried rice and salad every day in a hut that's not roofed with palm fronds. I do not understand why Mama had added “simply” to an array of food that sounds so sophisticated. But I dared not question Mama lest she drag my ears and call me Ohàhà'nyi.
“Tabitha, are there cockroaches in your hut in Lagos?” Luqman inquires, eyes glinting with curiosity.
I mouth him a silent appreciation, one I don't want him to know of. I don't want him to think I want to ask a similar question even though I want to.
Then I burst into laughter.
“Village boy!” I jeer, laughing. “Luqman, you're bush!”
“I'm not bush,” he counters mildly.
“You are a bush boy. Cockroaches are in Lagos.”
“Liar! How do you know? Have you been to Lagos?”
Yes, how did I know? I swear, I don't know. All I want to do tonight is to impress Tabitha. “Must I go to Lagos before I know simple things?”
“Liar!” Luqman jerks up. I know he's about to call me Ohàhà'nyi, a retaliation for calling him a bush boy, but Tabitha seems to notice and jumps in and pulls him down.
“Sit down,” she commands. “No arguments, there are cockroaches in Lagos and wall geckos too, Final!”
Tabitha goes back to pressing her phone. Luqman sits back, seething. He glares hard at me, refusing to blink. I stick out my tongue mockingly and to remind him of my flawless victory over him. I expect his face to knot into a frown, rather it smoothes into a smile. A devilish smile.
“Ohàhà'nyi, what's word geto?” Luqman asks, shooting me a mocking glare.
The gods know I haven't heard such a word.
“Am I the one that mentioned it?” I defend. “Ask Tabitha.”
“No, tell me, you know everything in Lagos.”
I do not know what a word geto is and I'm not about to admit it. Still I don't want Luqman to have a field day by embarrassing me. I begin to search for clues in Tabitha's face, nothing.
Luqman is smiling, “Ohàhà'nyi, what's word geto?” he reiterates.
Tabitha is still pressing her phone and her acting as if she hadn't ignited the fire that's about to raze me, infuriates me. Then I remember something. Why was Luqman addressing me as Ohàhà'nyi? Is he mad? Am I his mate?
“What did you call me just now?” I ask Luqman.
He laughs and stresses out the syllables. “O-ha-ha-nyi!”
I rise up and advance forward. “Repeat it.”
He shifts back and hides behind Tabitha. “O-ha-ha-nyi!”
I snarl and try to grab him, but Tabitha obstructs me. “Please, stop,” she
pleads. “Peace for once!”
“Leave the road.”
“Why always fighting?” Tabitha yells. “Are you cats and rats?”
Tabitha peers at me. “Wall geckos! Not word geto! They're lizards that hover around incandescent bulbs at night!”
Whatever! Nothing would deter me from breaking Luqman's head tonight. “Leave the road.” I reiterate.
“God! I'll call Mama,” she threatens. “Mama! Mama!”
Tabitha's mother appears first looking glamorous in a lace gown, then Mama comes limping in, wearing only one of her slippers, the other in her right hand.
“What's happening here?”
“Mama, it's Luqman,” I swiftly accuse.
“It's not me,” he defends. “It's Ohàhà'nyi.”
“God punish you!” I curse.
“Shut up!” Ma commands. “Everybody go and sleep!”
I snarl at Luqman, mouthing that I'd get him some other time, before storming out. Tabitha is already groping her way inside with her mother. I follow them.
“Seida,” Ma calls me, “come back.”
I turn and circle back.
“Have you urinated?” she asks.
I shake my head.
Luqman giggles behind Ma's back.
“Are you mad? You didn't ease yourself and you were walking inside. Wanka!”
“I was planning to come back—”
“Shut up,” Ma bawls. “Ohàhà'nyi!”
I bite my lips. I abhor that name.
“Why are you still standing there? Oya, move!”
I scamper off into our rectangular bathroom and reluctantly bend down.
“I'm still standing o,” Mama announces. “I want to hear the sound of your urine.”
I bite my lips, seething as I release my bladder with maximum force, targeting only gravels that can amplify my urine pattering.
“Good!” Mama comments.
***
I'm feeling hot, like a candlelight is burning my crouch. Then, I feel cold like I'm bathing in the rain. I jerk up awake. A pool of liquid coagulates under my thighs. I sigh. I've done it again. Wasn't I inside the bathroom when I released my bladder? I crawl away from the pool of urine and lay in a drier part. I draw in deep breaths, praying that Mama doesn't embarrass me in the presence of Tabitha's mother. I cannot bear the condescending look of disapproval that would appear on her face. She might decide not to take me to Lagos again. And that silly boy, Luqman, would tease and laugh at me. God, if Luqman dare call me Ohàhà'nyi when day breaks, I swear, I swear I'll break his head, I'll beat him until he, somehow, explains why his elder sister still bed wets at thirteen.
Abdulrahaman Adeiza Jimoh is Ebira. He hails from Kogi state, Nigeria. He is an emerging writer who is incurably obsessed with Adichie's Purple Hibiscus and Achebe's Things Fall Apart. His writings mostly explore themes of humanity, identity, death and realism. One of his CNFs was longlisted for Abubakar Gimba prize for CNF (2023). His writing has appeared/forthcoming in Fiftywords stories, Poetic Africa (issue 10), Eboquills our girls anthology, Poetik City Africa and SprinNG. Abdulrahaman studies Chemical Engineering at ATBU. When not writing, he's learning lyrics or solving intimidating calculations. Say hi on Twitter @Jimohabdul19 or Facebook @Jimmyabdy.