There is one funny yoruba statement I’ve heard several times on the street: Amugbo l’oko aje, which means that a marijuana smoker is a witch’s boss. In my opinion, nothing can be more real.
In some local communities, there usually are some set of old women generally tagged witches, not because they have visible wings or because they’ve been caught drinking blood, cooking viscerals. . . but because their “impacts”—yes, impacts—have been felt in one way or the other.
Forget Harry Potter kind of witchcraft/wizardry, these witches don’t need a broomstick to fly. Long thing! They just lift up and reach Mach4 before you can pronounce the ‘M’. Awesome aerotechnology right? In such communities, they are generally avoided as well as respected, from afar of course. . . except you have a better technology.
Now, let me introduce you to another personality.
Despite the foregoing, the ignition of a thick wrap of the “wonder weed” on the lips of a ganja-man, followed by some consistent deep down inhalations are all it would take to change the situation around. That thing gives them (weed men) the ability to go into night mode even by day, slap supposed witch senseless, give her a warm forced hard-reboot, and then forget the straight “night flight” and imminent blood sucking.
It just makes them do things that are seemingly impossible, irrational, risky. . . or insane.
So do bullets.
When a colleague heard the joke about a [bloody] civilian and a Mopol sometimes back he never knew fate was already cooking something up for him as well, big time. The said civilian was told by the man in uniform to get into their SUV during a raid but he refused, until that just one (one is very enough, two would be disastrous) once-in-a-lifetime-pooah-sounding strong slap hit him where it mattered most. Trust force men na. It was said that he complied straight up and then claimed that some unknown voices brought a new command “enter” at both infrasound and ultrasound levels.
His ordeal took a different shape. He narrates:
On this beautiful morning, the weather was great just like every other perfect days. I’d planned to visit a friend in the next town. I felt the need to have some cash on me so I made my way to the bank. Typical of many banks in the town, two of the three ATMs were on leave, displaying messages I hate reading. I was really annoyed. The thought of staying on the long queue alone could cause an abortion so I decided to move into the banking hall.
The frown on my face disappeared—by evaporation or sublimation I couldn’t tell—when I saw this voluptuous figure eight-ish young miss. All my worries fled and an euphoria took over as I began a soft melodious whistle in a glaring moue. She was in a tight fitting denim and a light shirt revealing enough of her anterior
resource endowment, plus a spectacles that made her just perfect. Our eyes met and I briefly smiled, but she simply looked away.
I’m a good looking dude, the type that dresses to kill always, even when my destination is the loo. As you would expect, I like ladies; pretty ladies that can make one want to stop being a Reverend father and get married immediately, or think of divorce if married, also immediately. This lady (let’s call her Vivian) was a typical example so I advanced to do my duty of knowing her. Before I could finish my first sentence in my best available accent, she curtly replied in a rather better accent, “Don’t bother chap, it’s not happening”.
I shook within, trying my best not to mouth the “Hoin! Kilode?!” that was all over my mind. This girl is rude, but I’d like to get to the nude, among other things. Her response was silencing but I didn’t. I can’t. I reloaded and almost released, then it happened.
Apparently some persons had loaded something strong. Something stronger.
Just like in the movies, the glass windows and doors came down crashing, bulbs exploding, and the noise, deafening. The building shook like it would implode. I could faintly hear the sound of dropping shells and the shouts and screams of fleeing customers but my heart beat sounded louder. Nobody told me to lose the height and go down very low. Sweet Vivie had already beaten me to it regardless of the high heels. Her reflexes are definitely well fed.
“Everybody down” rented the air. I was already down. “Don’t make me lose my temper” followed. Ogini kwa? You won’t lose this temper o. L’oruko Jesu you won’t. Vivian, the girl I thought was likely Beyoncé’s cousin and incapable of anything local mumbled “Mogbe!” (“I’m doomed”). At that point I knew doom was really somewhere close.
Ironically, in the midst of the ordeal, funny things were happening. But the mirth won’t come. Fear is cruel brethren! Sweat beads trickled down my body even as the AC blew cold breeze, I suppose fear and heat are related in a way. Then and there I realised how culturally diverse we are. Different languages and corresponding numerous exclamations and names of God poured concurrently. “Chimo!” joined “Osanobua!”, “Jehovah!”, “Jcheesox!” and “Allahu!” followed. My very own “Jesu!” was resounding.
A man at a corner was speaking something I couldn’t understand, it was very foreign. I dare not raise my head to know who he was but he was obviously shaking, peeing too perhaps. A few seconds passed before I made out the verse turned mantra: I shall not die but live to declare the glory of God.
I tapped into his anointing but my mouth didn’t move (my mind did), not after he was silenced by the butt of a gun. Silence reigned. No one had to write names of noise-makers, the sound from the clash of two titans—a head and a butt—was enough. True he didn’t die, but I’m certain he won’t live very perfectly either to declare anything within the next few days that followed.
Vivian was scared senseless. She was already all over me, oblivious of the fact that her softness was entirely on the same guy she just “shush-ed”. Maybe she knew, but at that point it didn’t matter. Strange. On a very good day I should be feeling it and enjoying myself, but I was just numb. Very numb. Her spectacles was mysteriously about eight feet away, close to a woman who hugged her bag like it was her saviour. The woman had lost her wrapper in the process but she wasn’t missing it I’m sure, she probably didn’t even notice.
Minutes seemed like hours. Seconds took longer to count. Moments later it was over.
So we thought.
The story continues. . .
Happy birthday to Adewoyin Tolulope.
Wishing you the best Sis.