ESPIRIT DE CORP

ESPIRIT DE CORP

(This story is a product of writer’s imagination, and the characters therein are fictitious, any resemblance to a real life event is highly regretted.)

“Espirit de corp.” He said as he pouted his mouth out of the bus to address the ‘money-thirsty’ Mobile Policeman. To ascertain the originality of his utterance, the Policeman ordered the bus to a halt, and requested for the speaker’s Identification card. The speaker, in his gullibility, flipped from his archaic breaches’ side pocket his school ID card. The Police man became furious, and from his countenance could be read expression of disappointment and he decreed the speaker to jump down from the bus. The Speaker innocently went to meet him, but before he could utter any apology, the Policeman landed on his skeletal chic-bone a hot slap that thundered in our ears. He could not cry, the best expression for that slap was to laugh and he did so.

Out of pity and spirit of cooperation, the rest of us in the bus thought it proper to go and apologise on his behalf, and also considering the importance of the assignment at hand.

The 16 of us had left our base with high spirit and with euphoria of our would-be host considering how important he is in the society and in his occupation. The trip was required of us as partial fulfillment of a necessity.

After pleading for about 10minutes, the policeman demanded that the accused should be left with him, and we should continue with our journey. The accused burst into wide cry as he opened his deformed buka cavity wide to let loose of some hot air. Tears flooded his face and mucus oozed freely from his nostrils. He knew the consequences of not continuing with us the journey, but he had earlier not known the consequences of saying what he knew little or nothing about.

The adamant Policeman insisted on what he has said and the only remedy apart from this is by paying a fine of 5000naira. He was not ready to reduce the fine despite our plea. We gathered all the money at hand and it all amounted to the one third of the required amount. The Policeman said that failure to provide this fine would land the accused in “Kirikiri”, one of the prestigious prisons in the country. On hearing this, the careless speaker burst into another round of cry, he really did not want to go to the prison. Earlier, the Policeman had accused him of impersonation. The words is esoteric, it could only be used by those in the forces. The required punishment for anyone who has committed this offence is 10years imprisonment.

“Let’s leave him to his course.” One of us said, frowning.

“We can not just leave him like that, after all he is part us” A passionate lady objected.

“Maybe we should tell the Policeman that when we got back to school, we would find money and send it to him.” Another fed-up-of-the-situation said.

“Are Policemen that gullible? I am very sure he will not consider that option.” I said.

“Let us pray to God, I am sure he will do something.” The shortest one among us advised. She is known for her spirituality. On hearing this, everyone burst into laughter. “Why are you laughing, are you undermining the power of my Jesus? She said with vexation.

“We are not undermining your God, but we humans tend to draw closer to God when we are in trouble.” I said.

When an hour had passed, we were still contemplating on the way out. Suddenly, an idea came to me. I informed my colleagues and they accepted it. One of us went to convey the idea to the Policeman and as the idea is being whispered to his hearing, he smiled and released the accused ID card. We drove away and we rained on the careless speaker’s soul tirades of different form and shapes. He was demoted from the front seat beside the driver to the last corner of the last roll. Somebody suggested that his mouth be brandished with a cloth so that words would not escape his loose mouth again. Conscious of his guilt, he too did not utter a word during and after the journey. Since then, his name metamorphosed to his careless utterance: “Espirit de cop.”

It is better for the mouth to be shut eternally than opening it to say what will bring eternal damnation to the soul.

Written by Debo Popoola

THE NEW SONG

THE NEW SONG

As Sola walked over the dilapidated pedestrian bridge in Oshodi, he saw, as he had always been seeing, homeless sleeping bodies that have made the bridge their solace. These sleeping bodies seemed less concerned about where they are or who may be passing-by as they snored loudly.  Sola, who also was accustomed to this scene, did not give them any regard like they too had not. What pondered his mind as he walked over the rickety rails was meeting up his schedule with his would-be producer.

 Music was what he regarded as his soul, and when he graduated from the university a year ago, he hated being counted among the numerous jobless graduates traversing the streets of Lagos, submitting many applications for few jobs. He wanted to feed from his talent. Really, Sola, by all standards, was musically talented. During his university days, he won many competitions with his musical group. They were three, and he was the lead vocalist. They had the ambition of rocking the music world after their graduation, but the remaining two could not withstand the scathing comments that all the producers they had met gave about their demo, and they left the band for greener pastures.

The howling noise from the maddening crowd of Oshodi made him lost himself among the unidentifiable hustling spirits and souls of Lagosians. As he walked through this noise capital of the world, the smell from the blocked drainage by the road sank deep into his brain. Coupled with this stink was a carcass that laid on the highway with no attention given to it as flies made a guarding cloud over it. He hurried towards the bus-stop to get a bus heading to his would-be producer’s office. As he walked on, he saw two bus conductors engaged in a sort of fisticuff, the cause of this Sola did not care to know, and passers-bye shew little concern as everyone hurried up-and-down as if being fast-forwarded by an invincible remote control.

Few steps away from the bus-stop, Sola started hearing repeated utterances that sounded like where he was going. These utterances had in them accentual ambiguity because the bus conductor was an Igbo man and he found it difficult pronouncing the Yoruba name. When Sola wanted to verify from the shouting conductor, the bus conductor uttered curses on him, telling him to “go to helli”. It was not until a compassionate man clarified the utterance that Sola became sure of the bus destination. He sat quietly in the bus as he gazed through the window, at the topsy-turvy activities that were going on in his surroundings. It had rained a day ago and the pot holes harbored residue of the rain. As Sola pouted his mouth through the window to let out phlegm from his throat, a speeding okada splashed the stinking water from the pot hole on his face. He wanted to curse him but the offender had disappeared from the vicinity. He boiled inside as he dashed out of the bus to get a pure-water to clean his face. After cleaning his face and wanted to pay for the pure-water he had used, he slipped his hand into his pocket to get his wallet, his hand slid to the bottom of the pocket without any obstruction. He could not believe it, he checked all his pockets and discovered that his wallet was not there. In that wallet was everything that he had- his money, his I.D cards and many other important business cards. He wanted to cry but he found himself laughing and tears oozed freely from his eyes. No sooner had this happened than a boy, hawking puff-puff, came to him with the wallet. He could not believe his eyes when he checked that all his money was intact. The boy told him that he found the wallet on the ground and was told by his mother to trace him to the bus-stop and return it. Sola gave the boy fifty-naira in appreciation. The boy had really made his day.

As the bus drove away, and as it was habitual of Sola to always side-look, Sola saw the bougainvilleas planted for the beautification of the highway begging for attention: they looked weak and dying, their colour had turned to brown; thanks to the scotching sun. Even the grasses were not green again; weeds have taken over power as they, the weeds, looked fresh and greener.

Sola alighted from the bus and walked a little down to his would-be producer’s office. He checked the time from his watch and discovered that he was seventeen minutes behind schedule. He started walking faster. When he got to the beautiful music production building and told the secretary that he had an appointment with the producer, he was elated to hear that the man had not got to his office that morning, and the secretary asked him to wait. Sola sat at the waiting lodge watching the TV. He brought out his demo.

Sola had met this popular music producer through one of his church members. This church member was impressed by Sola’s rendition in church one Sunday, and after the service, she went to meet Sola and commended him. She then promised to introduce him to a music producer who was her close friend. She later arranged their meeting in her house. This popular music producer then told Sola to bring his demo to his office.

Thirty minutes later, the producer arrived in his sparkling Homer jeep. As he walked into his office, he saw Sola, and beckoned to him. They greeted each other and he apologised to Sola for coming behind schedule, and they went into his luxurious office. The producer asked Sola to sit and asked for his demo. After collecting the demo, he went into an inner studio to listen to the demo. Sola’s heart started beating very fast as he prayed within himself that his demo would not be rejected again like  what previous producers had done to it. Memories of the past started flashing like lightening in his mind. He remembered the producers he had gone to meet, he remembered their comments, he remembered the one that said: “This will make little or no money”, and another one that said: “I can’t waste my money on this junk”, and the one that said: “Mr. Sola, I don’t think music is your way, please try teaching or trading.” The comment of the last producer he met hit his heart like a grenade: “You will be the biggest fool if you think you can make it in music”. All these comments gave a grey illumination to the fear inside him. What gave him confidence were the comments of his fans during his school days and the belief and will he had in himself. He was lost in thoughts and did not know when the good looking producer returned from the studio. It was the producer’s touch that made him come alive.

“What are you thinking about?” The producer asked him.

“The past sir” Sola answered.

“Anyway sola, I have listened to your demo and…” As he was saying this, his cell phone rang. He took excuse and answered the call.  

              Sola’s heart beat faster, eager to know what will be his fate. The call took more that five minutes and throughout these five minutes, there was no peace inside Sola.

“Sorry for the interruption. As I was saying, I have listened to your demo and it is fantastic. I love your songs, they teach lessons and I am ready to put all my money into it.”

Good music does not only appeal to the ears alone, good music soothes the heart and makes the soul flourish.

For several weeks, six out of the ten track album topped the charts. The hit track was a song titled “A Will Finds a Way.” The album sold millions of copies and Sola, who was once living in a boys-quarter in Obalende, relocated to a new mansion in Lekki. He became popular and he had thousands of friends on his facebook account and millions of followers on his twitter account.

Sola, in preparation for his second album, was driving to his producer’s office. When he got to Oshodi , he was amazed at what he saw. The pedestrian bridge wore a new look, and there were no homeless bodies as these bodies were seen in uniform cleaning the street. The drainage was clean and no stain of dirt could be seen on the ground. The pot-holes had disappeared and there was no commuter commotion as they all queued for the clean healthy long busses to arrive. He drove on and saw the bougainvilleas looking beautiful and bright again; he saw the grasses now green, and the weeds had been separated from them. As he drove on in his sparking Homer jeep, he saw a giant electronic bill board that says: LETS MAKE NIGERIA GREAT AGAIN!

                                                                                    Written by Debo-Nubia Popoola

                                                                                                08074470120.