Kokoro to'n j'efo

After I titled my story "The Insect that eats the Leaves..." and received blank stares from my class, I was advised to consider what the message of the Yoruba proverb really is, in an effort to retranslate accurately.

I told my dad, "Daddy, no one understood what it means! I said it meant 'the insect that eats the leaves lives on it.' I said it meant the problem of a thing comes from or lives around it. But no one got it, really." 

My dad said, "Ah. Okay, ehn, I'll think about it and let you know."

So.

It's like Ayi Kwei Armah's Chichidodo:

“Ah, you know, the chichidodo is a bird. The chichidodo hates excrement with all its soul. But the chichidodo only feeds on maggots, and you know the maggots grow best inside the lavatory. This is the chichidodo.”

—	The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born (1968) (Oxford: Heinemann, 1969), 45.

... but not quite, maybe. I don't know. If anyone has a clearer translation please contact me. Thanks.

Meanwhile, here's a section from the story I submitted. The piece - what we call a good first draft - is an experiment in building a story with seemingly unrelated sections. People thought about Crash and Magnolia when they read it. Hopefully I can make it work on a bigger scale.

***

Turn by Turn

The long queues at the bank are good for some things (no, not for getting anyone to lend you a pen.) One learns that oral hygiene is a relative concept, that many people still favour chewing sticks to Close-Up toothpaste, that brown stains on white teeth are symbolic of old age, laziness or lager, and that the most efficient way to communicate with a stranger is by welcoming yourself into their personal space and breathing directly into their nostrils.

It is neutral ground, where no one cares where your shoes are from, or that your designer hand bag is really a knock-off. On the contrary, it is a safe place for anyone who has ever used a glitter pen to engrave the word ‘Gucci’ unto their sandals, or jewellery. Everyone stands in line, willingly dispensing effervescent personal odours and waiting for their cheques to be confirmed. But then they come in, our big Ogas, whose rotund bellies are too heavy for extended periods of standing or solitary strides.

On the left is the Senior Assistant in charge of Briefcase Holding, closely followed by the Special Assistant on Mobile Phones (SAM – The ‘p’ is silent.) SAM’s belt is adorned with three phone cases, but the only noise that comes out of them is a low buzzing that vibrates against his groin and hip and butt – his personal phones must remain silent. In his hand, he carries a Virgin Atlantic bag with the words ‘Upper Class’ written on it. It is inside this emblem of exposure and extensive international travel that Oga’s phones lie. There is a phone for every network, state and mistress – Oga must always be reachable. All his phones are ringing.

He nods at the counter on his way to the lounge chairs in the manager’s office. Tellers scramble for account opening packages, deposit and withdrawal-slip booklets, and the Chosen One gathers the lot and joins his entourage. The chosen one is a woman, but you already knew that. The men grumble in their seats, amidst only slightly disgruntled women. When the transaction is over they would all share the thank you gift. Last time there was enough in there to top up all their phones and buy lunch. This life, the women say, is turn by turn. Tomorrow it could be you or me. The men reply, “It is always your turn.”

The queuing customers add to the conversation by expressing their impatience. The tellers punish the interruption by saying, “the server is down, there will be further delays. Please make sure you pre-confirm your cheques before you queue up, or you’ll go back to the back of the line.” And no, they are not authorised to make enquiries; they only work there.

“Excuse me, sister,” someone is saying, “Oga upstairs say he want you to have his card.” It is SAM. On the back of the business card someone has written, ‘Sugar, so sweet like pap. Mweh. Chief.’

“Tell him I’m on the queue.”

“Ehn?”

“I’m standing in line like everyone else, and I don’t have time to be hit on by an obese individual who perpetuates inequality among the people by flouting common rules of morality and mutual respect by ignoring the lines that have been created for orderly and fair customer relations.”

“Ah.” SAM scratches his head and returns to Oga Chief. He returns soon after and hands her a sleek Blackberry Porsche. “Oga is on the line for you, sister.”

“Hello?”

“Baby,” he starts. It sounds like ‘bebe’. “This phone you are talking on, it is my personal own. I have five other like it; I am even calling you from another one. You know it, the Blackberry by Porsche? It is five hundred thousand naira in the market now, yes!”

“Look, with all due respect, there are basic rules of decency. I do not appreciate being spoken to by a man who believes that he can buy a woman’s affection just by quoting the price of his ill gotten wealth.”

“Ehn?” There is a click.

Another phone rings. SAM picks it up. He listens. He nods. He puts it down. “Sorry, sister, Oga say to tell you the battery have die.” He eases the phone from her fingers, but leaves the business card.

Later, on his way out, Oga winks at her. She tucks the card into her designer bag.