To a Scourge of Roses | To ENACTUS BABCOCK

 

Doctor is the general on spectacles, near-morbid stalk in spangled robe. Last night, a passing cat stared at us briefly in the eyes. Someone yelled. Ojay’s chair shrunk. Last night, everyone betrayed their meals, rehearsed our university’s victory and chattered a bit too loud about China.

Great walls chilling! I'm getting lost as soon as we get there! I would take Obinna along. Who made your boyfriend a member of this team?!

Last night, Doctor walked right into the bash and said, ‘Make no noise! This is a cantonment, not a pool’. And although I had furtively awaited it, there was, in his warning, no ‘else’, no somnolence, only silence — that surreal soldier-y imitation of charity. Then again, there was also glad exhalation . . and curiosity too, imagination. For right there, script in hand, I fabricated a rapid world. I am watching Doctor’s horsewhip unfurl, lean as its wielder, to kiss Ojay’s restless neck and I, jealous, would instantly glide off to the compound edge and lash myself against the glimmering lagoon; the morning after, floating several tiny tots of heartbreak around all of Bonny Camp.

But my world was counterfeit only. I can still see Simi placing naked noodles in a bowl. Ngozi’s attention to her paper is like a strong tower, the starving cannot climb into it. Mine ruffles. The last sentence is incomplete still, incomplete as my past day’s sleep.

 If these monstrous vessels prostituting about the shore don’t hush their moans, soon, I may drop and sleep.

Even so, another ship blares. Yet I cannot drop. I dare not sleep.

Begone! Slumber dropped Samson. Slumber crashed Troy. Slumber will not cancel my China.

Expectation is crowded in Mr Jerry’s eyes when he returns. I am inspecting them as the bus rushes through the gates, coughs and halts to a silence. A drizzle has begun since the past two minutes Falade divorced his fever and there, behind him, files Jibola and Olumide, tensed as a groom’s escorts. Well, I am not. Not anymore. The way Falade shovels his noodle, I am sure I need no longer be a substitute for his presentation tomorrow. No such thing as fatigue, only hunger. It is the same for courage and self-charade.

Take care. Pele.

Take some more.

You'll heal better.

Can you speak? Are you sure? Good. Are you still hungry?

Bode is more resolute than I thought, proxy chemist. The crouched form in the near distance is only stealth but it together with our star-innovation gel fuel stove it seems have indulged in an endless quarrel. Where six speakers have begun trials, a rhapsodic bout of laughter swells from the room and through the corridor.

‘Doctor is still very much around!’ Ojay is tugging at his ear, more pre-emptive than I thought. I’m thinking, Afintinni’s introductory lines are also more brilliant than I thought. I am more inclined to call him Affinity. But Debola,  she is less Nigerian than I suspect. Diligent, but less Nigerian.

'Please, what is silence in Korean?’ I ask because she has been plugged for some while, listening to Korean music; sated for some hours, pitching Korean movies; and amusing for some days, spilling Korean laughter.

She is amusing now and does not answer me after her brief giggles. I resume my bowl of noodle, listen to Affinity’s vivacious speech and look forward to catching Debola’s Korean laughter after we succeed tomorrow.

 

Next morning. It is July 15. Gbadebo leases me a book, In Search of Ogun: Soyinka in Spite of Nietzsche by Odia Ofeimum. It is a pleasing memoir about the Laureate, the Yoruba god of war and the origins of the Edo people, on its fore a bold scruffy autograph. Gbadebo knows my literary addiction. I am grateful, expect a grandiose neutral to the flare; but I have become more interested in reading Ebun. Her gait is modest and her eyes bright watery deeps. 

The sunrise is redolent with preparation. Ebun says little. As the bus waits, I ask, 'On what month's your birthday?'

'March' she says

'Early March?'

'Early March,' she smiles and there it reveals itself again. A certain gorgeous silence, one fortified by mystery, height and generous lips.

'Ah,' I am carried back by. Epiphany. She is Pisces. Epiphany. Pisces are imaginative. My one-time crush was.

Two-days gone, I am loving the bus rides to Eko Hotels, loving the ominous breeze that storms my thoughts as I watch the ocean’s rasping teeth, her torment glazed upon the stretching shiny protuberance. Now, she is withdrawn as the dusk, beat with a languid breath.

After I pray, swiftly, life has spawned itself in fragments. Rapid rehearsals. Tap-tap-tap. Tolu stares often too, out into the lagoon. Olumide is the egghead of the bus and, as some, Jibola is having fun making fun of him. There is a fusion of hearty laughter and traffic noise, of chilly air and Ezinne’s pleasant perfume.

'You know, I may not be too comfortable with the idea of coming to live around here' voice when it draws, cynical yet comical, is Ojay

'Why?' replies Syllabus

'Haven't any of you guys seen one? A future map of this zone you call the island'

'What about it?' I ask, expecting to hear something bizarre

It wasn't

'These regions are soaked up by the lagoon! Water, water everywhere!'

Oh

The bus veers to a final turn. Debola unplugs her ears. Ebun hugs her elbows.

Eko Hotels and Suites, when we disembark, is teeming with various Nigerian university teams; sleek parallel of an Emirate souk. I wonder how many young entrepreneurs lodge still around the country, tacit, docile, waiting to recoil into those well-lit halls to be attempters, to be winners, to be.

I move through the warren. I will say hello to everyone I meet in the corridors I tell myself. I will keep a modest smile. I will be good. Funbi is the first person I meet. I have been told Funbi is from Kwara. She has a flair for broadcasting, fine glasses, and an intelligent finesse. 

'You look good,' she says to me 'with all the afro.'

'Thank you,' I tell her 'attractive spectacles you've got there'. I am truly grateful for the first real courtesy I have received here. I wish her good luck and hope to see her on stage during the next competition round.

It is 10:30 AM and we have not mounted the podium. I am loving this contest. Loving the challenge; loving the truth that there are teams more daring than I thought, more articulate. Loving Ojay’s ribald jokes, Deolu’s constant blinking, Michael’s baritone mirth, the resolve in Ngozi’s smile, Tolu’s ethereal focus, Onyeka’s nerdy glasses and wise eyes, cool, calm and complicated... These guys are a lovely eternal portrait!

I stare at the judges but hear nothing. I close my eyes and imagine the short Indian man declaring winners and Ojay flinging joyful chairs.

I open them. Ebun. She is two seats away from me but I can watch as her fingers wrap deftly around a pen drawing lines on a notepad, drawing fabric designs.

I knew it! She loves the arts! I knew it!

When I swap seats and start talking, I have known a lot of things. Known inclination. Known I had become audacious and she the reverse. Known this was perhaps the only moment I have not imagined so much about the judges.

So when every team finishes their dazzling presentations and everyone, attuned to Timi Dakolo’s rhythm, awaits; I am still draped in my knowing that I do not know what Ojay and Onyeka fused in a long tight hug signifies, or, more precariously, what it doused…Camp.

Back in the bus, the air is dense with silence and philosophies. The tragedy flies at me from all directions — Affinity’s confounded look, Jibola’s vicious sweat, Isoken’s blue syllables — and everyone I engage in a conversation has a charming frustration to weave.

Back in the bus, I'm discovering things. Malala has visited! Gordimer is dead! But every tick of my wristwatch conveys a wave of meaning, of discontent and gratitude yet. I realize time has sacrificed its transience on the wall of one sweet stubborn togetherness, of a year made corporeal by passionate teamwork and impact.

This night, no one betrayed their meals. Some ate and danced. Some danced and ate. A ship blares far from the distant night lagoon. I imagine it wading towards the compound and Doctor scaling the fences first.

Somewhere, Debola's Korean laughter spills across the dark. I steal a glance at Ebun, a faraway look in her eyes. Next year seemed the same. And then it didn't. I feel like I will write a poem tomorrow. 

ENACTUS (Entrepreneurial Action in Us) is an international body with a head for business and a heart for the world. Through a vast network of universities worldwide; seeing possibilities, taking action and enabling progress. On July 15, Babcock University participated in the annual national competition that took place at Eko Hotels and Suites

You can know more about Enactus Babcock University here and here.