REMINISCENCES

To those of us who have enjoyed the better part of Nigeria both in terms of the economy and the socio-cultural situations have a lot of stories to tell to our younger ones. Our standard of living at that time was so easy and so cheap. The purchasing power was so strong to the extent that with one shilling you could buy a lot of things. For instance, it will suffice you to spend in the company of 2 or 3 friends during a Sallah day celebration. You could buy things like sandals for your Sallah outing, chocolates, a fried chicken, a dozen of eggs, drink some couple of soft drinks, visit to cinema house and there will still be some change for you to spend the following day.
Socially, we lived in an extended family setting where everybody knew each other and we could go to each other’s house to eat or pass the night without any fuss from anybody. There was zero tolerance to any misbehavior as your neighbor could discipline you without your parents raising any eyebrow. My father who was a veteran of the 2nd world war had vast experience in dealing with different situations; he was a disciplinarian of sort who used carrots and stick when necessary. He never got tied in giving out advises to us, that we should be patient with everything and take our chance whenever it is due, render assistance whenever you are in the position. His popular maxim was that –treat people first as human beings before any consideration- We were taught some skills needed to be happy and become useful members of the community. Some of the skills were how to feed oneself, dress up, look after animals, help in the running of the home, respect other people’s property and the authority of parents and elders of the community. We did almost everything collectively, going to school, going for errands, even when taking our meals. That sense of togetherness was instilled in us right from our childhood days. I still remember how I always bring out my father’s dinner every blessed night where about 5 to 6 of our relations would also bring theirs for them to eat collectively; this practice had been going on until the demise of almost all of them.
We began our Quranic studies at very tender age at Makarantar allo under the tutelage of Mallam Audu Mahardaci. For us to learn to say our five daily prayers we must have crammed some portion of the holy quran. At the age of seven, I was admitted at the Kofar Sauri Primary School which is about one and half kilometers away from my house, so I could trek to the school very early in the morning not minding the perennial heat or the severe northeast trade winds that ravaged most parts of the West African sub- region. The classes started as from 7,30am to 1.30pm. While from 2.00pm to 4pm I was always at the Makarantar allo, with the exception of thursdays and fridays and of course any Islamic holiday. Our daily activities were so regimented that we had no idle time. Immediately after the makarantar allo session, I would always go and play football with other kids from the neighborhood in front of the Emir’s palace. During one of those evenings I met a boy who was of the same age with me kicking his new pelele ball, I, without hesitation joined him and when the other boys came we had a very good match. It was after the match the boy told me his name was Geoffrey and that he always escorted his Dad to the Emir’s Palace. His father was one of the Engineers who were engaged in putting telephone cables at the palace. As we could not pronounce his name very well we resorted to call him Dan Inyamiri. We immediately became friends with him, especially when he could play very well and more importantly, I think, because, he would always bring to us new ball to play. After playing ball every evening he would follow me to my house and when it was getting dark I would escort to him up to Kofar Soro gate, this continued even after his father’s contract had expired at the palace. My father often asked what of your friend referring to him and I would answer that I have just escorted him or something.., everybody knew Geoffrey in my neighborhood. The last time I saw Geoffrey was on the eve of my journey to Zaria where I was supposed to spend the next 5 years as a student at the Government Secondary School. I think I didn’t even tell him I was travelling.
During the vacations we could go to the farms, I had two options during the vacations: I could go my grandfather’s farm house or I could decide to stay with my brothers at home so that we could visit our father’s farm almost on a daily basis. My grandfather’s farm was a large expense of land measuring several square kilometers; it stretched from the Governors house round about (GRA) runs through Daura road to the newly constructed Police Headquarters, from the right, it stretched from the GRA roundabout to WTC’s roundabout. The farm is composed of three important sites; the farm house, which is a very large edifice that used to accommodate almost every one of us, the children, the grandchildren and other house helps; the main farm where mixed cultivation of crops, the rearing of animals and keeping of birds such as chickens, ducks, turkey and guinea fowls take place, and more importantly is the farm garden which is almost one square kilometer. It has almost all the exotic fruits you can think of, ranging from guava, orange of different varieties, pawpaw, mangoes, apple, etc. The garden is watered through such a traditional lift method of ancient Egyptian origin - the Shaduf. Where by water is brought out from an open well using two pails attached to the two ends of a rope, as one of the pails is out of the well full with water the other one would be right inside the well in this way water is drawn and distributed into the garden through the channels. Our job here was always to open up the channels to allow water pass into a particular tree or block the channels when the tree has enough water. It was always a delight to watch people drawing water using the shaduf. The bulk of the fruits harvested were mostly consumed by us, very little of it was sold to some white men.
I spent my 1st two years at Government Secondary School Zaria but as fate would have it my direction was changed to Katsina Teachers’ college where I completed the next three years and passed out with a Teachers grade 11 certificate. I was immediately employed as a certified Grade 11 teacher and posted to Majen Gobir Primary School about 25 kilometers away from Katsina. I taught for almost one year but during my almost one year sojourn in Majen Gobir I never passed the night there as I was always going to the village in the morning and returning to Katsina in the afternoon. This was made possible because of the motor cycle (Kawasaki Z200 model) my father bought for me in appreciation of my stellar performance at the college. The motor cycle was almost the only type in the whole of katsina, its color (red) added up to its beauty. One in town you could possibly refer to it and indeed it was.
One day I was coming back from Majen Gobir after passing Lambar Rimi I saw a man by the road side with the bonnet of his car wide opened an indication that his car had a glitch, incidentally, he was to be the one to avail me with the opportunity to take the 1st big step in life. As I was about to run pass him, one of my father’s words crossed my mind- give a helping hand to somebody in need-I quickly returned back to where he was standing and the moment he saw me coming back he started to move towards me. After the familiar platitude, he told me he was looking for a mechanic for his car which I quickly drove back to Lambar Rimi and picked a mechanic. I decided to stay while the mechanic was doing the car; the man told me he was going to Katsina from Kano to see a friend when the car broke down and I told him that I was a teacher coming back from my working place. Within a short time he asked me if I wanted to further my education which I answered in the affirmative. He then told me to pick up the admission forms next week from a certain address he gave me which I later learnt to be the place of the same man he came to visit. I had no idea of the school until when the forms were brought to me and found it to be Bayero University, Kano. When the forms were completed I returned them to the same man as directed. After some couple of weeks, I was invited for an entrance examination which took place at the Faculty of Arts and Islamic Studies and a week after, the results were pasted on the general notice board of the University for everyone to see, that was how I was admitted at the school of General studies, preparatory to a three year degree programme. After about one month or so as a student at the school of General studies, I together with some students were summoned by the academic office to sort some issues hanging on our admissions but to my surprise I was directed to Academic Secretary’ office and on entering the office I saw no one but that person I helped at Lambar Rimi, who incidentally was the Academic Secretary of the University, he called on me to find out how I was faring in my new environment. He told me if there was anything he could do to make my stay at the University worthwhile I should not hesitate to get in touch with him. I thanked him very much for his assistance and left. I never visited the office again and he never called on me.
I surely had enjoyed the better part of University education albeit it was the era of manual typewriters, no computer and no internet. Our meals were about the best you could possibly find in a 5-star restaurant. Tea and coffee in the mornings and evenings were always free of charge (FOC), while fruits were free during lunch. We stayed maximum of 4 persons in a room, we had our clothes washed every week a maximum of six items per person, we had unlimited access to books, journals and other instructional materials. I had graduated in 1983 and was deployed to Ondo State for my one year compulsory youth service. My primary assignment was in one Holy Savior’s High School, Ile Oluji about 12 kilometers away from Ondo town. I had initial problem with Ile (as the town is called for short) which dampened my spirit but had to arouse myself with the fact that it was going to be my home for the next 12 months. I really enjoyed myself with all the escapades of a youth corper. Our monthly stipend was just 200 Naira but it was just enough to keep you buoyant till the following month. I travelled a lot, visiting other corpers in different states and within my state of my posting. One of my friends also a corper who was posted to Lagos State paid a visit to me at Ile, he came to show me the car that was attached to his office but instead of spending the weekend at Ile, we decided to go back to Lagos. So we left Ile very late in the evening on Friday. His driver Adewale, a typical Yoruba man with tribal marks drawn all over his face drove the car from Lagos. He looked very tired and worried but he had no choice than to obey his master. Ade as he was called by his Oga could hardly drive pass 80km per hour, he was driving as if he was going into his garage and sometimes as dead as a snail speed. I told my friend that may be the car had a problem but he told me it was a tacit way of protest by Ade. We drove passed Ore on to the express way which was under construction, it was raining and already getting dark and we were nowhere near Lagos, sometimes you have to swop into the bush before you could come back to the main road because of the construction work. As fate would have it, as we swopped into the bush to avoid passing into an uncompleted bridge we had a flat tyre. Ade screamed at the top of his voice- flat ni! flat ni! - My friend asked in annoyance why you screaming? Ade said, Oga na flat tyre. With an aura of youthful exuberance my friend commanded that Ade should park the car off the road and have the flat tyre changed, I knew that would not be easy considering the environment we found ourselves. We all moved out of the car and pushed it off the road to enable us fix the flat tyre but to our utmost surprise the car had no spare tyre in the boot, we stood there dumbfounded wondering in consternation. Ade was so frightened as you could notice that from the way he was talking. My friend and I were not really perturbed with the whole situation. My friend who was a chain smoker was annoyed as he could not locate his matches to light up his cigarette, as I was telling him to use the car’s lighter we heard a voice coming towards us as it was in a dream ‘Salamu Alaikum’ it sounded. I took up courage to answer ‘Waalaikas’ Salam, a man wrapped in a blanket stood in front of us and said in hausa that he was coming back from his farm when he heard our voices and decided to come and check. We were astounded to see somebody at that particular place and time speaking to us in hausa. After hearing our ordeal, he told us his name was Patrick and that his house was about 100meters from where we had the flat tyre. As we were moving towards his house he told us that he stayed in the north for most of his life time, after trekking some couple of meters we arrived at the house which was composed of two separate rooms and a mighty hut which I later learnt to be the store where various food stuffs are kept. He opened his room and brought a key to the other room which belonged to his nephew who had gone to the city for his daily business. While we were standing in front of the room contemplating on what to do we heard a sound of a motor cycle coming towards us. Suddenly, Patrick told us in excitement that his nephew is around. After some discussions with his uncle the young man started to welcome us in hausa, he appeared very friendly. What would you like to eat? He asked. Surely we were tired and what we wanted was food and where to lie down. He knew we had no choice of what we wanted to eat but I think he wanted to make us feel at home. He jumped into the kitchen and prepared nice jallop rice and plantain which we all enjoyed eating, I commended him for the efforts, and while thanking me for the compliments he even proposed to cook tuwan dawa and miyar kuka for us in the morning. I was so fascinated with the gesture that made me asked him where did he learn to cook hausa food, Abukur he said almost immediately, I did my primary education in Katsina, my father worked there for a long time. So you know Katsina, I asked, very well, he answered. He asked me whether I know Katsina and I told him I was from there! Which part? He asked, again. I told him from cikin gida. Where is cikin gida, he asked momentarily and in disappointment, Iam from Kofar soro! You mean the emir’s palace? You’ve been there before? I asked almost smiling. Yes! Sure, it was a very long time ago; I was always escorting my father to the palace and used to play football with some kids at the play ground in front of the palace. I said, ok! Wait, who you played with at that time. He said with, eh, eh, I think Pele, there was this kid... Pele was the name I was called. I quickly jumped the gun and said don’t tell me you are Dan Inyamiri. Yea! That was the name I was called, he said in total submission and I told him I was Pele but before I could finish what I was saying, he jumped out of the room and rushed to his uncle’s room and after a short while they came back together in total surprise. Meanwhile, my friend and his driver Adewale were busy sleeping; we spent the rest of the night narrating our various stories to each other until day break.
The following morning we had our car fixed and by afternoon my friend headed for Lagos and I had to pass another night with Geoffrey and since then my friendship with him was rekindled.