Illustration by Adejonwo Kizito and Dantala Ali
We are children of different clothes but one body. Divided more or less into halves; there are those who dress in silence and move separately with guns; and those who emulate their fabrics with genuine hearts, easily recognizable. We were taught how to wear our clothes, just the way we were taught how to eat with our right hands. But we weren’t taught how to wear them in a way that wouldn’t look same as those who wear the same clothes with different pattern. So I was one, bold enough to wear them and jump off the cliff; just to know how breaking my bones would feel like. I knew only little.
PLAIN
My father was indeed plain when he asked me “What is it about this your writing?” He had asked me same question several times in years. He had asked me before I sat in my room and memorized the answers. And even after I did, I couldn’t open the answers wide in my palms. Answers that were too heavy to trickle down my brittle tongue. Quite alright, I knew I could arrange pieces of words bit by bit and build stories one above the other gently like a bricklayer, just the way I knew I could hide behind letters of my pen-name like a blinking cursor; shooting blood-stained words like arrows and causing them to fly to target without caring whatsoever might come in-between. But what I didn’t know was that I could wear a crown on my head since the clothes didn’t fit on my body. I didn’t know that this question would dig hollow holes in the heart of my dead father. If only he was still alive. For I have known him to be a jungle soldier who only smiles when his musket shot an antelope. So, he was used to holes.
Writers are mad. They get high and mess themselves up with the intoxicants of their sour thoughts. There I was, pressing padlock to my door, sipping biogenic tea at daytime and watching my shirt wet with sweat. I was imprisoned in the little triangular corridor I created for myself, feeling the same way a potter felt when their beloved pot cracked. I would grab my chin and count the few beards sprouting from it; writing words too few to count with the tip of my fingers and making expensive mistakes too many to be numbered. Often times, I had caught myself reciting beautiful award speeches in front of the mirror; brilliant hope hiking all over my mad head. Even though I had learned to breathe alone, I knew that the new writers’ community I recently joined will surely do something positive. Maybe not very much, but at least something.
Aside from that mutuality, I knew that I now had a crazy set of people who would willingly gather in a garden on a Saturday evening and swallow my horrible writings with applauses. I knew that I now had special persons who would mourn with me whenever a new rejection letter found its way into my e-mail. That I now had those who would chorus hallelujah when my writings emerge on the desks of people who found it worthy. What I didn’t know was that I was going to stand on a four-feet stage, under a broad spotlight and wear a dire body that says, “Welcome to our city, we have thousands of graves here. All our citizens have guns. If you jump in, we will kill you,” when you trespass. A body that reminds children of their parents who would never come back. A body surpassing that of mere artists who survive with the comeliness of their words and neat sentences.
Two years after Dike Chukwumerije coached us on spoken word poetry, we began to shoot words and rhymes that would bring nothing more than barrels of insult. When I say ‘we’, I mean all my fellows who thought they could open bottles of wine with their words and pour its contents better than anyone else. The established wordsmiths would cover their ears, preferring not to hear them put compelling awful words to rhyme. Though, we were able to say few lines, yet poetry still choked us, because we only knew a few. “Who is not afraid of fire?” Amuneni had said. Even then I knew I wasn’t as bad as I thought. But what I didn’t know was that I was going to win a grand essay prize. And that on that night I would return to my hotel room expecting to see myself breaking the headlines the next day, not knowing that I would meet a man at the reception who would ask me; “What do you have for dinner tonight?” Damn! Who said I was a waiter? I questioned myself many times. And then from that night, I knew I wouldn’t wear a waistcoat to receive any award again.
We had ourselves on board to rehearse for the upcoming poetry performance event. After missing the first two rehearsal sessions due to my academics, I had promised myself to not miss any again especially when I knew my love for it overshadows. I wouldn’t want to say that openly. Not in my home where survival depends on how much you (pretend to) love academics. Here, those who receive bundles of praises are those who go to school, get good grades, and find good jobs (sometimes any job). Only the strong-headed ones like me, who dare to always see lines of anger stretched on their uncles’ faces, could afford to deviate. Though we have once had choices, but thank God for JAMB that compelled us to realize our calls. Thank God for the admission officers that placed us in political science when we applied for health sciences. Besides, science is science.
I waltzed into the rehearsal hall hugging my rounds of laugher; I wouldn’t want to compromise them for anything. Not even for the packages of soft drinks or the set of laptops assembled on the table that would later make a lady (after seeing the pictures) ask if PCs were shared to the attendees. The security guard was lithe to let me in, or I was too bold that he couldn’t throw the usual ‘Where are you coming from?’ or ‘Who are you here to see?’ questions. Something that made me think he probably got the job through a marathon. Some other poets were already sitting there patiently, I would later know the two backstage poets who shouted poetry on street and played the backstage role on stage.
ITALIC
We listened as the president of the society talked. His mesmerizing voice made girls wobble in the air and made him sound like an Italian. Maybe he isn’t one, but my ears could bear me witness that I barely comprehended his short words. The other coach sat opposite, observing me like a physician. He was wearing a deep maroon shirt of extra-large size, with overgrown afro hair like a basketball player. Something that would later leave me puzzled on why he insisted I trade my beautiful shirt with a borrowed cloth. Then I didn’t know that he was a prophet and had foreseen me long ago even before I emptied my content.
I bent myself, leaning to the table like words in italic font. I threw few jokes to cover up my heartbeat, to suppress nervousness dripping from my eyes. I was sure that this time things are getting serious, and probably good. Good enough to empty a cup of mango juice with a straw without the lips knowing what has happened. I was sure that I could read my poem very well without anyone realizing that I only memorized half. What I didn’t know was that no one would consume a snippet and refuse full. I began my lines with;
‘He was once like you, like me, like us’
So loudly that my voice hit the wall hard. Pointing my index finger towards every one of them in the eyes. Terrified and groaning as though I was what I was portraying.
But when I said I wanted to talk about him, I was told that;
‘You cannot talk about that which you can’t see.’
But that didn’t surprise me, because I wasn’t supposed to talk
I was supposed to swallow my tears and call on God
To send us a savior above from heaven, like Jesus
I wasn’t supposed to talk,
I was supposed to look at those children in the eye whose
Parents were slaughtered by him before their eyes, and tell them sorry
I was supposed to lower my head down when I saw that woman
Whom her son jumped over her body at 2am and tore her wrapper apart
I wasn’t supposed to talk until my body hits the ground.
There was some reign of silence in the hall. Though they weren’t amazed because they had expected nothing short of that, neither were they disappointed. That is what expectation does. It kills the sweetest flavor of future consumption. I was already exchanging pleasantries with myself; probably someone in there was mumbling some land-safely prayer for me. No one knew where I was going to land, not even the drivers who pretended to understand my poem, or those who had already placed their hands on the table ready to bounce claps for something they had no idea of. Perhaps nothing sounded better than the intonation of my voice. I bet nothing would be as good as that. Not even the content.
But when I looked at his portrait hanged on my street labeled wanted
I see the image of a figure I cannot see
Image of a ghost eyes widened enough to suck blood
Beard full! Ready to grab. Head crowned of a terrorist king.
Yet I had dared to believe that I could hold his
Memories in my skull. That I could feel his breath in the
Left side of my chest. That I could hear his roar on the tip of my ears.
‘I hope you are not performing this with this fine shirt right?’ Oracle abruptly cut. Staring at the fine long sleeve shirt I bought for a dinner a year ago. His words were the beginning of whatever good or bad omen I had seen. I paused for few seconds, pretending to think about things I wasn’t truly thinking about. I knew that my poem would tell a story, but what I didn’t know was that it was strong enough to write a play and stage a drama with cast and characters, and would later nominate me to be the lead character. “I think you shouldn’t dress casual too.” Someone who I can’t remember seconded. I looked in awe into their eyes. At first I was excited. Imagining how my story would look like. But I quickly swallowed the excitement and laid fresh sets of fear. Not of those whom I would be emulating, but of what I would wear. Even though it was just mere fabric sewed with plain thread and bold designs, I refused the style because I prefer American coats to Italian.
“You need to wear a white jellabiya, a turban and a suicide bomb vest.” Oracle suggested. I was silent for a while again. Perhaps knowing what will happen next in the room. To them, they foresaw a poet beautifully dressed in a way that matched his words with his cloth and art. To me, I see a shroud soaked in blue blood. The other two ladies, who came late as always were quite alarmed. Their eyes read; ‘This is Maiduguri.’ I bet we were thinking the same. Though I was sure that I had narrowly escaped many death sentences from those who pressed charges uniformly, yet I didn’t realize that I was still uncertain. Uncertain about the abandoned houses with bullet holes in their gates, of the dreadful bushes with nightwalkers, and certainly uncertain of the suspicious markets that might blow up anytime, any day. Even though I knew I had a comparable connection with my genuine art, I didn’t know that I could finally agree to shake the tree and see what falls.
BOLD
I was bold, yet fragile and already breaking into pieces. For I knew what to expect when I shake the tree. Flapping of bullet shells instead of leaves. Falling of explosives instead of fruits. And I knew I had nowhere to go when my sister said; “I hope this time around your writing won’t put you in trouble.” But I grew up to ignore her. She was the same person that said; “We have never seen something good from your writings except depression,” the year I won a two hundred and fifty thousand naira writing prize. So what do you expect? With the way her uncertainty unfolds, I had dropped my index finger on the soil, tipped it on my tongue and swore to be as brave as I could. Maybe not as brave as Nelson Mandela or Kwame Nkrumah, but at least as brave as those warriors who stood to fight wars on their personal computers, and sometimes win battles.
That was when I was fully submerged in my bloody ink. At first I thought it was nothing short of little personal courage to win. Until I came to realize how the air and the city walls have the power to convey messages. It was the same town that those patriotic citizens who pointed terrorists out got rewarded with a bullet shot by unknown men the next day, it was the same town where bombs have the right into anywhere in the city anytime. Even though we wanted grand publicity for the performance event, I didn’t know that it would be as unveiling as that. I didn’t know that the news media would create terrific headlines like; ‘Boko Haram Crisis To Be Explained in Art, Drama, Music and Poetry.’ I didn’t know that I would plead with my team to allow me wear my customized T-Shirt on stage instead of the pre-planned costume, and they would reject. I didn’t realize all the other uncertainties until those who cared began to unearth them. What I knew was that the earth beneath my feet would shake.
“He must appear exactly when the state governor walked into the hall.” The event planners jokingly suggested. ‘He’ means the guy in costume. The guy, who had dared to wear it on his head for the whole world to see, since it didn’t fit on his body. He who might answer the same call that no one had dared to answer. He means the boy who would temper with Shekau. Those who managed to look beyond the picture had thought; “Poor crazy boy! You see, he is just reckless and young. Someone should stop him.” Even then, I knew that I was not going to stop. I knew that I had learned to say yes to myself for long and cannot withstand saying no. But what I didn’t know was that I would start sneaking into my house at night like a thief. I didn’t know that I would begin to hide my face behind hoodies and sun glasses even before I wear their body. I didn’t know that I was going to peel Pandora Boxes open one after the other like an onion bulb. Neither did I know that I would crack like glass.
H.A had told me that the third stanza is the most powerful. He said it would hook my audience to my craft. Therefore, on the event day, for the thirty minutes’ drive, I had repeatedly practiced the stanza with trained gesture and body language;
See let me tell you!
He had played football in the evening and hid his wound from his mother
He had once stayed late at night and covered his faults with lies
He had used his hands to plant seeds before he used them to plant bombs
He had shed tears for the poor human before he turned inhuman
He had used his index finger to point at birds before he used them to pull trigger
Pulling the trigger like point to kill, like kill them all
Like making my home a refugee camp.
“That was really powerful Sa’id,” A German humanitarian worker had told me while we were rehearsing. We had the last rehearsal session at the event venue that morning against the event scheduled for that evening. I was dressed in a white track suit which clearly shows that I was coming from my weekends jogging. The morning was airy; the usual January cold. It took us almost three hours to put ourselves ready for the evening. That morning, I knew that I had agreed to wear the jellabiya, the turban and the suicide bomb vest. I knew that I had agreed to call his name openly while cameras records my lips pronounce the letters. But what I didn’t know was that the most sensitive part of my performance would spread. I didn’t know that even the security guards at the event center would memorize the part and find ecstasy in the words. I didn’t know that risk is only a name, but taking the risk is a different course.
I was already at the backstage when the MC read out my long bio and finally called me out. My mind turned empty like a blue sky upon hearing the loud cheers from the audience. I was dressed as expected, head covered with a multi colored turban that travels all the way round my face leaving only the eyes open. A long white jellabiya that makes me look like an Arab immigrant and a suicide bomb vest that clearly portrayed who owned what. I paused for some few seconds till the audience began to wonder where I was coming from. After a while, I walked into the stage accompanied by the spotlight and the first lines from my poem, with a voice high enough to resonate into the ears of the audience even after the event. Everywhere was dark. Dark enough to prevent me from staring into the eyes of anyone who might be there to threaten me. For once, I felt fueled by extraordinary powers. I performed till the most unexpected end that put everyone there on hold.
He was once like you, like me, like us
He was once an innocent boy before he turned into a beast
He was once a follower before he turned into a fake god
He was once a learner before he turned the holy book upside down
He was once like you, like me, like us
He was once Abubakar before he turned to Shekau.
I paused. Feeling as brave as a prophet sent from above with godly revelation, I bowed to the audience and threw a smile. Then turned around and walked away like a returning hero who had fought war and returned without scratch. Even though I knew I was satisfied, I didn’t know that I was going to survive till this day. I didn’t know that I would be given the sparse breath to write this. I didn’t know that I would come out of my hiding place like an undercover journalist. But now, I know a lot of things. I know that you can wear a cloth above your head if it doesn’t fit on your body.
Sa’id Sa’ad is a Nigerian storyteller, poet and spoken word artist. He coauthored the poetry collection ReUnion. His works have appeared in Ibua Journal, Bookends Review, Kalahari Review, Better Than Starbucks and elsewhere. He spends his days in a radio studio as an OAP and spends his nights writing. In between, he sips tea and travels.
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