Things I don’t have eyes to see, my skin feels, my nose smells, and my ears fill up until there are spills. News so sad they send tears rolling down my face.
And there have been spills. Long before my eyes lost their use. Long before I became confined within the walls of this vast compound, dependent only on what came to me here.
Olawale, my son, would often say in those early blind days that he saw blind people going about their businesses all the time in the village. Well, that’s them. They do not feel the pride that pumps up my chest. They have not lived the life of influence that brought me here. How do I, Otunba Jaiyeori, doyen of Foko village, magnate of foreign trade, friend and partner of PetroCo, one who has once traversed the streets on horses and foreign-gifted cars, now trot those same roads with someone leading my way like a common beggar? Hell, no! I’d rather die.
But death can stay away for now. Yes, I had begged it to take me when I lost my eyes. But it is how grief works, and I have circumvented all the stages and realised there’s more to do than wishing death upon myself. First, I need to correct some of these wrongs, starting with cleaning up the spills I helped cause.
PetroCo no longer visits, and they no longer honour my messages, but there is no problem. Maybe they forgot that I own the land on which they built their sprawling offices. Maybe they forgot that I provided the local workers on whom their operations depend. Maybe they forgot that it was my influence that kept them from being held accountable for their oil spills from last year and two years ago. The fish in our rivers had floated dead on the surface, and the crops could no longer breathe under the smear of their poisonous grease. Fishermen, farmers, traders, everyone all hated me alike, all because of them. Now they think they can just abandon me. Jokers.
Was it not also their chemical lab that took my eyes away? Yes, they would argue that I went there uninvited and unsupervised. But what should I have done when I heard that they had put up a structure on the piece of land I had granted Akanbi, one they built in under a week while I was away visiting the District Officer in Abeokuta? This was the land I inherited from my father as his first son, and it was granted only to Akanbi after a long tussle, so people wouldn’t say I didn’t give my brother anything. Did they post a warning that entering the facility without goggles could damage a person’s eyes? And did they not promise that what happened to me is reversible? This is November, seven months after. Where is the reversal?
In those seven months, I have felt the extreme heat that now boils our village. I have smelt the stench of all the fish and plants that have decayed due to the spill. Olawale has filled my ears with the many atrocities that Akanbi has been aiding PetroCo in committing. Such a cheap sellout, offering them land for half the price that I did, stealing away partners that I brought to Foko. I have had Olawale file a cease-and-desist order against PetroCo with the courts in Abeokuta. I have also filed both a damages claim and a request to enforce the necessary cleanup required to restore prosperity to Foko.
I’m sitting outside the house today, waiting all day for Olawale to come back with news. Today is when the court decides, and so I yearn for news more than my stomach’s growling yearns for food. I hear footfalls and loud chants approaching. It must mean we won in court. Before now, the youth used to march to my house when they had concerns to air. Those times, the chants were always angry. Now that we have a win that would benefit them, these must be happy chants. Victorious chants.
“That’s him!” I heard an unfamiliar voice say.
“Useless man!” Another one.
What is going on here? Where is Olawale?
I struggle to rise, but decide it is better to sit back down and let Olawale come lead me inside. The chants grow louder, angrier, hotter, eliciting sweat from within my loins. After what seems like forever, a familiar voice rends the air, calming the crowd down.
“Baba,” the voice says. It is Agidi, the youth leader. “Your secrets are out.”
The crowd howls.
Akanbi warned me that he would turn this case against me. I know he has been plotting and planning with PetroCo. Cheap bastard! Now trying to ruin me, his older brother. What has he done now?
“PetroCo has revealed how much they’ve paid you since you brought them here,” Agidi shouts. “Enough money to build amenities in the village and still have some change remaining. Money you pocketed alone…”
“Thief! Thief! Thief!!”
“They showed us how you signed a note on behalf of Foko,” Agidi continues, “exonerating them from cleaning up the mess they made. How wanting more money led you to the lab where you entered without goggles and blinded your own eyes…”
“Thief! Thief! Thief!!”
“The courts you so know how to use, that is what we also use against you.”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!!!” The crowd echoes Agidi’s sentiments.
“They already locked Olawale up for contempt when he attacked PetroCo lawyers right before the judge. We will be filing our claims against you and your wicked family. All that money you swallowed, you must surely vomit…”
“Thief! Thief! Thief!!”
“Did I speak well or did I not?” Agidi’s voice brims with a sinister sense of pride.
“You have spoken well!’
Their voices slap me, pummel me, climb into my ears and crawl beneath my skin, like tiny ants, with bites sharper than that of termites, stings more venomous than shots from a scorpion. My body convulses, unable to bear the discomfort. My bowels give way, shooting poop into my trousers as a wetness spreads across the front. I can’t make out their faces, but for a second, it feels as though my eyes regain a shade of sight, and the voices before me are arrows shot from dead fish and rotten farm produce.
Adebayo Ibraheem
Adebayo Ibraheem is a UK-based Nigerian entrepreneur, social impact leader, public service professional, and a lifelong lover of literature. He is the founder of RAAHM Nigeria, a social impact organisation committed to combating hunger, malnutrition, and food poverty among vulnerable communities. Adebayo has recently completed two books: Unbecoming: Slave of the Generation, a non-fiction book, and Broken Pieces of Peace, a collection of poetry.
