— Unveiling the dilemma of Bayo
Bayo’s Struggles…How it all started
Bayo sat on the long wooden chair permanently erected in the corridor fifteen years ago by Mr. Makanjuola.
Mr. Makanjuola was an energetic, tall, fair, and athletic man in his late fifties referred to as the chief tenant in a bungalow house in Isale Eko.
Bayo wasn’t on talking terms with Mr. Makanjuola, but that didn’t deter him from borrowing his bucket whenever there was no water in his drum. Keeping malice with the chief tenant never stopped him from resting his behind on the bench each time he returned past midnight.
Mr. Makanjuola, on the other hand, never stopped acting on behalf of the landlord. He would get his stick notes and pen, write out the bills in his usual cursive handwriting, and present them to Bayo. Since Bayo couldn’t read or write, he would mumble and chew the words until he could no longer swallow.
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The chief tenant, in response, would say, “I thought as much. You should never engage in a fight you lack the prowess to handle.” This was the usual utterance of Mr. Maknajuola to Bayo.
On September 30, 1989, Mr. Makanjuola stood in the backyard with a chewing stick in his mouth, wearing his agbada, which he now wore as pajamas to bed. Underneath the agbada were black shorts with orange and white stripes, which his younger brother bought for him on his first visit to America ten years before.
The night was cold, and he had no one to tend to his needs. He had three wives in the village, and his sixteen children were farming in his hometown of Ijesha.
He was in Lagos for them; when he retires as the senior messenger at the Lagos Island Maternity Center, he will join his family in Ijesha.
Tonight was to talk to Bayo. While he waited for Bayo out in the cold, he rubbed his palms and coughed sporadically. Bayo arrived late; it was already 12:45 a.m. The wall clock hung on top of the wooden bench says.
“Ogbeni,” he called to Bayo.
“You should have said, Arabinrin,” Bayo replied with a hiss.
In the mood of exchanging words with the elderly man, he stood like the statue erected at Idumota, posing for a fight.
“I know you do not have home training. If you had, a young boy like you, twenty-four years old, would not open his mouth and reply to me.”
Mr. Makanjuola was wrathful; his cheek, now red, was visible in the moonlight.
“Our elders were right when they said that the day a boy starts talking back to his father, just know that he has started sleeping with women old enough to be his mother.
“Tueh!”
As if the saliva that accompanied his outburst wasn’t enough, he dipped his hand into the tiny pocket patched on the agbada and brought out a piece of kola nut.
“Shameless boy like you! The girl you bring in here every Friday came here this afternoon to disturb the neighbors. The noise you both made last month at about 2am has brought forth a fruitful result. The girl is pregnant, and her mother has threatened to scatter the compound if we do not produce you.”
“As the chief tenant with twenty years of experience living in this house, I have never seen such an irresponsible boy like you. I can never bring any of my daughters to come live with me in this compound because of you.”
He wasn’t expecting to receive such news, not after Tina told him two days ago that she was pregnant for him.
Perhaps the old man was just ranting because he had yet to pay his bills. He walked inside after giving him a long, hateful stare. He later realized the impending doom at his doorstep.
The sight of the wooden chair was an interesting offer, and so he settled in with his exhausted self and reflected on how he arrived in Lagos six years ago.
