Obalùfòn

"The king who lived for centuries. Obalùfòn, the name associated with greatness, longevity and divinity".

“Not all those who wander are lost.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien.

Photo by Micah Camper on Unsplash

Early weeks of December, last year.

Never leaving my pocket is my aeroline inhaler, since the dryness and dustiness of the harmattan season is always apparent.

I got on a “town-gboro” bus in the evening of a cold dusty December.

“town-gboro” is a 12 passenger bus that moves between suburbs and small towns within the little city

I was on my way to pick up my laptop from my friend who kept it safe for me while I travelled to another state, since thieves break into houses around where I lived. I couldn’t travel with my laptop also.

I take beautiful pictures of nature too. This is not the obalùfòn road though.

An old woman got on the bus with me. She was having a little chit chat with the driver of our bus. Seems they'd known each other for a while.

I will later figure out that the old woman’s son, was the bus driver’s colleague. (the old woman’s son was a bus driver).

The bus driver went ahead to ask after Sunday. Sunday was the old woman's son.

“Sunday ti ku o” (Sunday has died o), “tirela ni ó paá ní obalùfòn” (a trailer killed him at obalùfòn road).

This was the elderly woman's reply to the driver, in Yoruba language.

What a dusty December looks like over here. Foggy and messing with people’s nervous systems.

The bus driver was dazed for a moment. It was very easy to notice the moment of shock the bus driver had.

One would have thought, I mean, superstitious people who heard the nonchalance with which the old woman announced the death of her son to the bus driver, would have thought she ate her own child.

Through the dispassionate way she mentioned the death of her child, there was no way to escape sensing the pain she felt.

That, probably, was the way she coped through the tragedy.

The driver of our bus repeated several times, “Sunday ku ke?” (you really mean Sunday died?) in Yoruba. The old woman went on to say, “beeni o, ola ni yo pe ose meta ti o ku o” (yes o, by tomorrow, it will be 3 weeks since he died).

Now,

3 weeks? More reasons for unenlightened people in this part of the world to think she ate her child.

“Why is she outside when her child died? She should at least mourn for 40 days and forty nights”

“If she do not mourn for the definite number of times, someone else in her family will die”

“She contributed that child to move her rank up as a witch in her coven”

A number of thoughts ran through my mind as I listened to her sad report.
Thoughts of what neighbors and people close to her will say when they see her carrying her tomato baskets to the farm.

Yes, she was holding a basket of tomatoes.

She is definitely strong. Strong enough to pick up herself, and her tomato basket after a tragedy.

What people said and thought of her at that moment didn’t really matter.

She still had the will to live.

We stopped by at the obalùfòn junction to pick up 2 more passengers. The same junction where trailer killed Sunday.

Ironically, Obalùfòn is the name of a king, the name associated with greatness, longevity and divinity. Obalùfòn now eats people, and devouring human, drinking their bloods.

As much as my mind had a lot to process from the very short discussion she had with the driver, I got reminded of a very popular phrase,

“To people, be kind. You will never know how hot the hell each human is going through.”

While reaching into my pocket for my fare as I alighted the bus, my inhaler fell off. I thought to myself, I’m also living in hell, I just may never know how hot it may become.

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Colton Dixon’s Miracles kept me company while I wrote this piece, it is my new favorite song! I think you should have a listen.

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