…OF THE CRESCENT MOON

We could as well have been ethereal Sirens, sneaking into the rocky plain of the crescent moon, snuggled in folds of touching bodies and becoming cheeky for lack of charming admirers. We could have been Assalatu maidens in Helenic hijabs, curled around praying mats, trailing the tracks of the Tasbih, fondling flushed toes, with eyes flipping sideways and singing songs of our restless glee. We could have been prostitutes tainting Ajah’s streetlights in Lagos, showing off thin torsos in twinkling tinsels, strumming seductive strolls and unwittingly throwing teasing tits, moist middles to a nearby harmonic havoc of “Customer Dadani”. We could have been anything at that moment when we chose to sit astride one another on a rowdy remonstration of rugs and carpets, when we tilled tunes of tales and sowed seeds of stories into the night, when we played the role of murmuring muezzins to the cold celebration of Eid El Kabir.

It was unlike us, this Scheherazadic camaraderie. We were usually these serious species, seaming sorry solemnity into our slow Sun-days. We were perfect reminders of the redeemed Ruth. More so, we were the kind that envassaled our everydays to being enlisted in the envoy of enchanting Esthers, we vented out against Vashti’s lack of virtuosity, denounced Delilah’s demonism, jabbed Jill flirting Jezebel, but made a pact with prayerful Priscilla- we had willed ourselves to become the Daystars to some diligent Daniel. Our fattening house of stringent terms allowed no such time for flimsy frivolities like…fun chats.

But that day proved different. It’s hard to tell why; it might be the orange streaks of sunshine that seized the night sky and froze dreams, it might be the grief of the crescent moon that is without a star to kiss his tail and prevent the cloud from manacling him. Whatever it is, the fact remains that no icy igloo could compare to the warmth that radiated from the rays of that telltale night anchored by bashing breasts. It all started with the general outcry about how expensive things have become,

“Rice is now #600 per kongo”

“No o, I heard it’s now #700”

“Things have changed oo.” another said, “Back in the days when I was still in the North…”
It never did occur to anyone that the back-in-the-days of this certain dark Cinderella with high cheek bones could be anywhere near the domestic docility of Kainji in Niger state, so we all listened attentively like parrots learning a new choral song.

And yes, she didn’t fail our ears. She strung together stories of a cheap childhood and almost free food; she talked of Acha, kunu, Doruwa used to make locust beans, moringa mixed with white beans, Tuwo rice… Soon, the rhythm became familiar and echoes began to weave themselves into a complex pattern of playful reminiscence. Back-in-the-days became a colourful tapestry of Ekana Gowon, GoodyGoody, Paco biscuit, Baba Dudu, Robo sweet, garri cake, Olobeloloko TV show…
Somehow, the reminiscent rhythm got higher by an octave so that childish pranks became celebrated trophies. The pitch of each prank determined the intensity of the laughter, tapping of thighs and clicking of fingers,

“When I was still small, I asked my mom if I should come home from school myself. She said, ‘ehn, come home na, you know you have been the one coming home yourself…I obeyed her and I fell right in front of a trailer…”

(Laughter)

“When we were still small, my twin sister and me punished a grown man who used to come to our big house to steal mangoes…we made him sweep the entire compound so that we won’t tell Daddy…”

(More Laughter)

“Greedy man”
“Did he come back again?”
“Yes oo”
The laughter reached such a forte that our songtales became a discordant harmony of hiccups
We needed a lead singer.
We found her , and too soon- she was a pink lipped petite Snow white who we thought could barely crush a bad apple, much less good words,

“My mother, ehn, she was very stubborn in her days. She lived with her granny…”
She then went on to tell us of how her mother wrecked this granny, eating the Akaras she was meant to hawk, chasing customers away with her ajantala antics, throwing stones at the granny’s house, breaking her louvres, even singing abusive songs that seemed to have no referent,

Kampala la so ole (Kampala is the cloth of the lazy),
Kampala la so ole (Kampala is the cloth of the lazy),
Ole ko ni aso meji ju Kampala lo (A lazy person has no other cloth other than Kampala),
Kampala la so ole (Kampala is the cloth of the lazy).

[The old woman wore kampala all the time]

Of course, granny was no easy beef; what followed every prank was her, being tied to the ceiling fan and given a thrashing befitting for an aggressive goat. One sure safety valve for this ajantala child, however, was to run to one great great grandpa’s house where even granny could not touch her.

It was at the point of this fickle family connection that I realized I had no place in that great circus of talebearers. Unlike them, I had no childhood memory to spindle into glitters of laughter; Bare metals, Black milk, Bleeding meadows, these are all I can conjure of my back-in-the-days. I wouldn’t dare to want a place amidst those animated faces of Dark Cinderellas and Adimole, pink lipped Snow whites, but something tells me I am the golden haired Rapunzel hid behind a taming tower, sullenly staring at floating lanterns, wishing they held the headword to my appositions; I am that doe eyed Daisy whose sunflower hair has been shaved by my very Heartbeat so the wicked Grendel will not kill the only memories I have stored…

“Wait, wait, there is this marching song we used to sing back then,”
CALL: Sha sha sha we match together,
Sha sha sha we march away…,
Sha sha sha we march together,
On Monday.
RESPONSE: Mama Jollof rice.

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We all went into a marching spree filled with comical caricatures which crescendoed into a cosy collision of laughter that highlighted our outlived innocence, so that all at once, we became the five points of the one star needed to incite the crescent moon into a fertile feeling of festivity.

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Tesbih- praying rosary of Muslims
Adimole- a Yoruba hair style
Kampala- Dyed cloth
Ajantala- mythical stubborn child

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Written by @funmiakinpelu, edited and posted by @camzy

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All images used where gotten from PIXABAY

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