HONEY OF BITTER TASTE!

 HONEY OF BITTER TASTE!

A fictional story

By

Abubakar Sulaiman Muhd

14/09/2013

“Aaaah! death? Asma’u what are you saying?” I cried wildly from the toilet throwing away the book in my hand and the water spilling over the floor from the metal container as I made a violent surge out. I ran half way from the toilet to the parlour but when I came to a glass door only a turn to reach the parlour I saw my image in the mirror and quickly became aware that I was nude with soapy form covering my body. I returned to rinse my body and had my clothes put on.

          I slumped into the jarcoozy to take a bath as I made it my hobby to relish in the Sunday morning bath, and since it was weekend I would leisure in the read of a book before going out to attend wedding ceremonies. Every Sunday is a perk to many in Kano for not having going out early to their businesses. Sunday is sacrificed to be a wedding day.

          “I heard it now on radio,” Asma’u began speaking again, “Nasir Zango has just told it on his programme.” I had known Asma’u to be an avid listener of radio. Every morning she woke up she would tune on VOA Hausa service, BBC Hausa, DW and RFI before she changed the dial to Freedom Radio to listen to Inda Ranka weekend package, a special news magazine programme coming every Sunday anchored by the indefatigable, proactive, overzealous Zango.

          “You mean he is dead?” I asked for confirmation.

          “Yes he died.” She confirmed.

          “How do you come to believe it is really him?”

          “By the description, it is all his features. The hairstyle, the dress and his face description.” She started. “Exactly the description we gave to the police when we spent three days without finding him.” Asma’u continued her explanation.

          It was a period of mass exodus to the overseas by the sons of riches especially to Malaysia. They went there for study as they would initially tell their parents when they had the news that a friend had gone.  But they ended up as tourists, sightseers, and club fans until they became notorious disarrays to the Malaysian authorities.  But because they bring riches to the country the Malaysian authorities refuse to bring the issue to the Nigerian consulate. Only those   who go there could tell you the real happenings. Very few of them are doing what brought them to the country. As an international businessman I could tell you this: I was travelling to Dubai and had to board the same flight with a young man travelling to Malaysia. He sat next to my seat in VIP section. As I observed the guy must have been a Nigerian. “Man are you from Nigeria?” I asked. “Yes, I am.” He replied. The reason for my asking him was to chivy him into a conversation when I came to know that he fell silent since the time we took off about three hours ago. I quickly changed into Hausa language and the guy seemed to be happy with this. I realized that communication proved too difficult for him because the English he spoke was not standard. If the flight attendants spoke to him he couldn’t understand them because the accent sounded too strange to his ears. Na him among dem who speak pidgin dey here and make tink go work outside da country. Because of the noise hindering the course of communication he failed to avail himself of the services the flight offered. I came to the rescue of the guy and he was pleased with this really. 

          Our plane landed in the country before preceding other passengers to their various destinations. When we arrived I decided to put off my journey to Dubai and had to spend a day or two in Malaysia so that I could meet some Nigerians as I believed there were many of them studying in the country and perhaps I could find a business.  I asked the guy if he could join me to my hotel but said that he would go to campus. I asked him his family and the information revealed that he was a son of a serving State Minister. I asked him what he went for to Nigeria though it was not holiday and the lectures in progress. He told me that he went to Nigeria every weekend but this time went for the birthday party of his sister who was also studying in the UK. The frequent visit of abroad Nigerian students to their homeland made me to remember the time when I felt the urge to ask Hajiya the mother of my nephew about the frequent shuttle of the boy from Malaysia the place where he was studying. “Hajiya is the boy really studying here or outside the country? Because I see him almost every other two days.” I asked in surprise. When I asked the guy what they did when they visited Nigeria he told me that they went mainly to buy Fura and shish kebab at a Suya spot along State Road in Kano.

          “But how do you manage flight shuttle so often like this?” I asked in bewilderment.

          “Must of us here have a private jet. Our fathers buy it for us.” He answered confidently.

          “But why I see you now taking a commercial airline?” I pressed further.

          “Mine got broken and I have to take this. My father paid me a five-year flight,” he dived into his pocket and produced a document backing his assertion. A bundle of US dollar flopped out and he bent down to collect it. When I asked him the name of his school he told a familiared name. It was the school which my nephew, Hajiya’s son enrolled. A school for the children of VIP Nigerians.

          “Do you know Haladu?” I asked. He squinted one eye in thought and puzzlement to recollect the memory. “I mean Khalid Usman.” I said to simplify the description when I detected the confusion registering in his face.

          “A tall,” he said, beginning to give his features, “giant and slightly dark guy, right?” he described.

          “Exactly.” I said in affirmation.

          “Oh…,” he laughed, “you mean Dan Hajiya. You should either say Dan Hajiya or Wizzy so that I could understand.” He said.

          As we came out from the custom office for screening, we exchanged few words and promised that he would search me in my hotel the next day to take me a stroll since it wasn’t a distant walking from the school. I took a taxi to my accommodation and watched the boy go to a convoy of saloon cars parading to celebrate his arrival.

          When I entered the school I thought I was in one of the Nigerian universities because of the number of Nigerian students I witnessed. They were in high sipirit and elation, everybody doing his own business. It was a free life there, everyone minding his own affair and nobody seemed to care what another person was doing. A couple came to pass before me. The guy with the girl put his hand around her waist and she, lost in kissing his cheeks. They ambled in subconscious from the pleasure they garnered and each of them carrying a can of wine. I was shocked and was on the verge of going to the girl to say ‘hey you lady, are you not a native Hausa girl’, when I heard her speak the language. As they came nearer I placed her face. It was Salima a daughter of a former Governor in Bauchi State and her mother happened to be the daughter of one late president, while the boy whose face I didn’t know was told to be a son of one government functionary in Enugu State whose father served as a Petroleum Minister in the last regime. They were completely descend of rich in their making. I remained waiting for some minutes to see the coming of Khalid Dan Hajiya.

          “Wizzy what about the party tonight?” Zicko a friend of Dan Hajiya asked. His name was Adamu but used the sobriquet as an alias. 

          “It will be a big show. Guys all over the city are attending.” Dan Hajiya spoke.

          “We shall make a splendid outing, big show really.” Bross another friend chipped in who was concentrating on his cigar, grabbing it between his fingers. Zicko felt the urge of snatching it to show him that this was women style, the men style was to hold it between the index and thumb fingers.

          “Do we have the medicine Wizzy?” syrup or drug, “you know we can only make a special show by the amount of syrup we take.” Zicko suggested.

          “We can even give some to others who fell short of it to show them that we are ahead of them. Dan Hajiya do we have them?” Bross asked as a comment.

          “It has finished. I drank the remaining in the morning and you know money is hard to get these days.” Dan Hajiya said.

          “Oh no my man,” laugh, “what is the use of Hajiya if she allows you to go without money. Just complain to her she would ask your uncle to give you.” The two pals went out leaving him with a girl on the bed.  

         

          “Hala the belonging of riches.” Dan Hajiya said fondling her nipple.  A loosened sensation surged over her body and felt deflated as she lost her weight from the contact.

          “Babban Yaro do you know what?” Hala bet.

          “I am all ears, tell me,” he said.

          “I just get the appetite for ice cream.” She said.

          “Ok where do you want me take you to? Five Star, Stream, Blue Sky,” he began mentioning bakery shops, “Big Time or 77 Park? Which one my love?” he asked locking his fingers into hers.

          “Anywhere my baby it is your honour.” She left the choice to him.

          He pulled out from the blanket and dressed in his usual swagger dress of tight trousers and tight skimpy T-shirt with a moccasin shoes, and the belt around his hip was peeping through the gap between his shorts and the shirt. His haircut was Ballotolli style - partially cut from either side leaving a long streak of form to run at the top. He descended down the stairs and made to the car. He pulled it out and tuned on the music from the car equipment. The deafening roaring music was detonating so madly that one could not fathom what it was saying. The music so strong that has the force to make a ramshackle building collapse. It echoed in the body that made the heart to thud in rhythm.

          Hala came out in the same appearance with every shape of her anatomy in showing. A headphone over her head and the speakers blotting her ears. A big round brownish goggle set in her face like a frogperson. Her hairstyle, a perm cascading over her shoulder. She walked to the car dancing to the tune of music, her hand raised in the sky, clicking her fingers in joyous mood.  

          “My love why did you stay long?” Dan Hajiya enquired.

          “I am sorry my baby I just have to splash water in my face and have my clothes put.” She winced in an erotic seductive manner. “You know it was hot time yesterday night.” She said.
          “Do you really mean it?” He asked.

          “I enjoyed it really.” She said.

         

          They drove the car to the Big Time Bakery Shop and entered. The man on the desk came over to attend them. They ordered the ice cream and waited the man to return. “My baby we are organizing a birthday party to Rooky and you know one million is just a stingy shit for a befitting show”. Hala spoke. In a moment waiting the man returned with the ice cream.

          “Take this.” Dan Hajiya tossed the man with a bundle of cash notes. The seller received the money to count it.

          “Hey you guy, you left your change.” The man called to them when they were about exit.

          Turning, Dan Hajiya said, “It is your tip.”

          “But such huge chunk?” The man said in amazement.

          “Man is this the first time you have heard of Dan Hajiya Babban Yaro, Wizzy baban Kudi?” Hala cried in boast.

          It was a long time now after my visit to Malaysia. Dan Hajiya came home on vacation as he always lied when he wanted some days off to rest.

          “This stupid boy,” I said in rage speaking to my wife Asma’u. “He is neither serious to the school nor to the market. I don’t know when he will get sense?”     

          “Alhaji,” Asma’u began, “the contemporary youths only prayer is their guide. I tell you that you shall always be patient or else you get blood pressure infection.” She warned.

          “But do we allow things to go on this bad way?” I said in fury. “Clubbing, smoking, drinking, stealing and drug taking. He even sold the car Hajiya gave him and lied to her that it was stolen.”

          “Alhaji be patient, it is not everything he does I bother to tell you because you can be cardiac. Last time when you travelled to Abuja, he came to Hajiya’s house with a lady and spent the night with her.” She narrated. “Myself I’m not spared. If I give him food he doesn’t return the plates safe. When he comes to bring it back he will smash it to the wall or will throw it at me to break, but I have never told you this.” Asma’u concluded.

          From there I rushed to Hajiya’s place to complain about the boy. Though it was 3:00 in the evening but Dan Hajiya was still in bed to exhaust the effect of the last night drinking.

          “Hajiya,” I said, “You are spoiling the boy. You pamper him too much. You appear too poodle to him as if he is the mother not you his. What kind of vacation is it?” I asked. “How would he come back and stay put at home for more than two months now and tell you that it’s vacation. Does the school authority go mad?” I shouted shaking my head sideways in decline. Perhaps he might come back when he learnt that his resources were getting dwindling after years of being dismissed. Many of such students stayed at the country they were studying after they were expelled from the school to malinger around dancing houses before they came back to Nigeria under the guise of completion to hold public offices. It happened to one politician Mr Lesun Oroga from Oyo north senatorial district and one National Assembly Speaker B.S Liman from my own constituency Nassarawa LG, who lied about their qualifications and later got sacked from their posts when the truth was uncovered. “It’s too odd. It’s impossible.” I lamented.

          “Why are you shouting this way? Is he your son?” she asked. “Let my boy enjoy his life and nothing more.”

          “But Haji…” she cut me shot.

          “But what?  Didn’t you know that you’ve offended me last time and now you have the guts to holler in my face? Ok now tell me; tell me what did he do yesterday you sent him away from the shop?” Hajiya queried.

          “I caught him again stealing money from the shop.” I replied.

          “But you have the knowledge that the shop is not your personal fiefdom, right?” She said sarcastically. “It’s the family heirloom so he has the affair in the wealth.”

          “But as his guardian I cannot fold my arms and see him go astray since his father put his trust in me before his demise. Everybody would put the blame on me if I let him go nuisance in the society.” I explained to her.

          As they had a shokoro show tonight, Dan Hajiya went to tell his mother that he was returning to school and that she had to give him money for registration. This was how he lied swindle her when ever he needed money. With other swagger friends of his, they dressed in the usual dress, tight shorts and shirts with their hairstyle. They walked in swagger, staggering from side to side as they got drunkard by the syrup. Passers by had to give them way in order to avoid being shoved to the culvert by their zigzagging. On arriving at the party hall, the drunkard men slumped down in concussion. Boys and girls were mixing and dancing as the music was blaring from the huge speakers set at the four angles.

          A man rushed to the police station to report the stealing of his car he had just parked to enter a shop to buy things on his way back home. He run crying, hands over head in tears. The DPO sent his men to track the thieves. But the thieves could have no features to identify them. The DPO told the officers to arrest anybody they deem fit looked criminal and bring him to the station so that police sleuth would prove him innocent or not. The officers saluted and left for the arrest.

          “Police raid…Police raid…” the dancers were shouting trying to make escape. Everybody ran away, only the intoxicated guys remained glued, unable to badge.

          “These must be the thieves.” One of the police suggested. “See their appearance, sergeant. They are drunk and look exactly criminal. Look at their dress, and the hairstyle looks damn criminal!” The police arrested them and whisked them away to the station where Dan Hajiya Wizzy rotted from pulmonary disease after we spent days looking for him before we heard his tragedy on the radio. We buried the mess another day. May his soul rest in peace!