MY FRIEND, ABU

We were sitting on the floor when Abu rolled his head around, cocked it to the right and said. "I want to go to Airforce."

"The one in Jos?" I rotated my feet like helicopter blades. "I did their interview last year."

"Really?" He had his right leg drawn up, so his chest was resting against his thigh. "How did it go?"

"You will have to remove your shorts. Then someone will hold your scrotum in his hand, to make sure you have all your testicles." I kept a straight face.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, Abu asked, "Which one is scrotum?"

"You know the sack…" I pointed downwards.

He screwed up his face. "Is that what they call it?"

I nodded.

"Testicles?"

I answered calmly, "Your balls."

 "That's why I don't want to go to the kind of ajebo secondary school you're going to." Abu laughed. "I'm sure they won't be calling it 'testicles' in the AirForce Military School."

"They called it 'blokos'."

"Ehen!" He nodded his head in approval. "So, they made sure your own was complete?" He drew up the other leg and repeated the stretch. "Is that all? My own is complete. No problem."

"That's not all." I said it a bit angrily. "How can that be all? You also write tests."

He turned sharply to look at me. "As in maths?"

"The normal things now. Quantitative Aptitude, Verbal Aptitude…" I purposefully let my voice trail off. Abu shifted around a bit. After a while, he sighed out loud, "I just want to be somebody."

Ah! The way he said it made me feel bad. I looked away. And he just sat there, very quiet, as if he'd forgotten I was still there. I traced a line on the concrete floor. I was even about to say, "Don't worry, Abu, I will help you with maths", when he snapped up, and dug into the black nylon bag beside him. True! It happened that quickly.

"Abu?" I whispered harshly, looking around. "What are you doing?"

He pulled out a plastic cup.  Two packages wrapped in transparent foil followed - granulated sugar and the unmistakable yellow of Ijebu garri. And he fished out a sachet of water as well, and tore open the corner with his teeth. "I'm hungry."

"What?" We were sitting at the back of the hall. But there were people everywhere. Anyone could see us. I looked around again. Abu didn't care. He was already slurping on a dripping spoon, eyes shut tight. And if you were watching us, you would have sworn that I pinched him, the way he jumped again, to rustle through his bag. Another wrap came out. This one had groundnuts. The next spoon he took carried the whole combination. I tell you, the look on his face was like how you would look if you were finally urinating after holding it in for a very, very long time

"Abu!"

He opened one eye. "Do you want some?"

I shook my head, scanning the room frantically. "Are you mad?"

 "Ajebo!" He laughed.

I elbowed him sharply. "I am not an ajebo."

"If it was custard cream now, you would be eating it with me."

I looked at him. Custard cream biscuits and a cold bottle of Orange crush… The thought made me swallow.

So, we didn't see Hassan at all, until he was standing right on top of us. But he wasn't interested in me. He grabbed Abu's ear and pulled him up. Conked him twice. "Stupid boy! Are you supposed to be doing this now?" Another conk. Abu gritted his teeth. "Can't you hear them calling you, eh?" He dodged the fourth conk; but Hassan had him by the back of the neck and was dragging him off.

That was when I heard it, crackling over the loudspeaker. "Abdullahi Mohammed! Blue corner!" I froze. "Dike Chukwumerije! Red corner!" And, I tell you, before I could even think of turning anywhere, heard it again: "Dike!" No use running. I took a deep breath and waited patiently till my 'ogo' had been properly slapped. "Are you deaf?" Che snapped. "Where have you been?" But he didn't wait for an answer. He was already wrapping the bodyguard around me, and pushing me forward. "Too tight!" I gasped as he tugged at the cords. "Shut up!" My brother said. And slackened the cords.

We were at the edge of the ring now, the worn wooden floor marked out with masking tape. Che snatched off my glasses, handed me a head guard, and shoved me in. Because the centre referee was indicating impatiently, pointing at the spot where I should have been standing. I ran to it. Abu was already there, both arms rigid at his sides.

"Cha rhyut!"

I snapped to attention.

"Kyung nae!"

We both bowed.

"Kyorugi choon bi!"

I did a fairly civilized battle-cry, "Ah-hay!" Nothing too fanciful. And shifted into my own favorite posture, right leg behind, arms dangling down, bobbing gently on the balls of my feet, like a ship in calm waters. But Abu? Bloody showoff. His scream reverberated around the hall like a pack of rabied dogs.

"Saijak!"

I'll explain it to you. Look, I'm more like a hit-and-run driver. They're plenty of them in Lagos. Even if it's not your fault. True! Even if the person ran, leaped over two stalls and dived beneath your front tyres, once the people around lay their hands on you, you and the car you're in are going up in flames. So, everyone runs. That's how I fight. I bounce on my toes, change the positioning of my feet from time to time, keep my guard low, so you think I'm sleeping. Then, just like that, I'm in and out. Pam! The sound of a point scored.

But Abu has my medicine, because his own specialty is counter-attack. He just waits like a rattrap. They drill it into them at Stadium. Sometimes, he would stop moving so he can hitch up his trousers. They're always longer than his legs, that's why he folds them at the bottom, but not enough times, because he still has to stop and pull them up from time to time. Don't mind him. It is all 'sense'. When you're attacking him, he will tell the referee he needs to fold his trousers.

So, most of the first round, we circled each other - rat versus rattrap. The referee got tired and warned us. He jabbed two fists together. Fight! I feigned to the right and, to my surprise, Abu bought it. So, I shot out my leg and caught him in his lower belly. But his turn-around-side-kick returned like a bullet.

The bell rang.

One. One.

Che poured water on my head. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I was breathing too rapidly to answer.

"Combination!" He moved his hands like dance partners, slapping one side of my bodyguard with his right hand and then the other with his left hand. "Pam! Pam!" I nodded several times. He clenched his jaws. "Go and win this thing."

Abu was moving around a bit more now. He rolled his shoulders to throw me off, jiggled his hips, wobbled his knees, shuffled his feet - trying to 'fake' me. But I knew he was tired. That's what he does when he's tired. So, I raised my leg and hopped towards him. He stepped back. I put the leg down and kicked. He stepped back again. I attacked!

Che was happier. He pummeled my thighs with his fists. "Good. Good."

But I was a bit afraid. You see, the last time we fought, Abu waited till the last round to do that turn-around-jump-kick that switched the lights off in my head for a few seconds. But, this time, he was dragging. I could see his intentions from far away, as if his body was having trouble keeping up with his brain. It was too easy, side-stepping everything he was doing. And just at the end, I blocked his kick and punched him in the chest.

"Kalyeo!"

I was blinking back sweat, as the corner judges conferred. The center referee came back. When he swung my hand up, I actually dangled on one foot. Not a good thing, because that ankle was throbbing. Che grinned and patted me on the back. But everything was muffled – the loud cheering around the hall - like there was cotton wool in my ears. It was the Inter-Club Championships after all, not some weekend tournament; the Junior Heavyweight Finals, at that. And Abu and the other boys from Stadium were iron fisted; if not for Taekwondo they would be breaking into cars. I put my glasses back on. Ikeja Club was for custard creamers and Orange Crushers. That's what they liked to say.

I slid to the floor, and studied it. Ah! The ankle was already swelling.

"I'm not good at maths", Abu said.

I glanced at him. "I can teach you."  Still gasping out our words. "It's not that hard."

"To you, maybe. You know what? Even if they don't take me, I'll still join. I'll join as a recruit."

"Why?" I wiped my forehead on drenched sleeves. "Why do you want to join the AirForce?"

"That's a stupid question." He had already pulled off the top of his dubok and was using it as a towel. "I'm tired of being…down."

"How?"

He glared at me. "Didn't you hear me? I said I want to be somebody."

It didn't make sense to me. I reached over to touch my ankle gingerly. "Was it Mister Nobody that gave me this swollen leg?"

Abu laughed. "Mister Nobody? I can't believe you are in secondary school already. That is not what I meant…"

I raised my hand. "Is your name Abdullahi Mohammed?" I shook my head. "No! Just answer me. Is your name Abdullahi Mohammed?" Abu looked at me. "If it is, I don't care, you are the 'somebody' I beat this afternoon."

"Beat?" He wrinkled his forehead and looked away. After a long while, he hissed, "I shouldn't have eaten that garri."

 

DISCLAIMER

Just in case the people who made cameo appearances in this story ever read it, let me confess, this particular sequence of events NEVER happened. But, yes, I had a friend called Abu, and, yes, we used to have interesting conversations, and, yes, there were days those conversations were interrupted by competitive fights with each other, often for the title. Because Abu and his brother, Jafar, were my only real competition in my weight category. And, yes, in those days, our big brothers didn't mind 'conking' us, from time to time, to set us right. What can I say? Love works that way, sometimes. And, as long as you respect the rules, a bit of fighting can actually end up bringing you closer. True.

 

 

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