NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2015 Volume 15.2 | Page 9
Ipoba River
Matron helped finance my mother’s
burial ceremony, everyone knew that.
She did more than I expected by paying
for the musician and the abundant
drinks. On the night of the obito after
everyone had eaten, drank, danced
and left, she called me inside the house
and said “Itohan don’t worry, I am
your mother now and I will sen d you
to Europe so you can further your
education there with my other
daughters,” I thought I was hearing
double, “there are good nursing schools
there; you can work part time to
pay your school fees. And once you
graduate and pass your board exam,
you will make a lot of money.” I fell
on the ground and started worshiping
her dust-coated feet. Matron’s promise
lifted me from the sorrowful depth my
mother’s death threw me. I could not
thank her enough.
I hear voices behind me. I turn, Matron
is here now; she is wearing a long
ceremonial gown. She looks more
serious than when she is trying to force
patients to take their medication. She
is followed by a short man dressed
like a high priest; a white shirt with
red lines running from top to bottom
follows her. Soon I see Prince behind
the short man, wearing his usual big
jeans, tight fitting T-shirt and big gold
chain necklace. Two handsets dangle
from both side of his belt like guns.
Even if my eyes were closed, I would
still have known that Prince is in the
place because his perfume is always
very strong as if he bath in it. He had
helped Matron arrange all the paper
works without me stepping into any
embassy. Matron said she will pay all
his expenses once I succeed in entering
Europe. Matron is not looking like
a mother today; maybe she is upset
about something.
BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE
I stare at the dark glassy running water;
it is not dawn yet and everywhere is
quiet except for chattering weaverbirds
on the palm trees. I am shivering and
small fear is entering my stomach.
Matron had said I would meet her here,
but she is not anywhere to be found.
I do not have my phone because she
said I should only come with a day old
chick required for the river goddess
and a white wrapper, nothing else. I
got the day old chick from Matron’s
friend who owned a poultry near Uselu
Market, not far from the psychiatric
hospital. I never knew a day old chick
was more expensive than a fully grown
chicken. The poultry owner explained:
“It is not easy to watch egg hatch to be
sure the chick is actually a day old. Na
because Matron send you, I go charge
you five thousand.” And I wondered
how much it would have cost ordinarily.
Morning is getting brighter, yet no
sign of Matron. A batch of bats rises
from a swamp tree and clouds the sky,
everywhere is dark again. Are bats
really blind? If so how do they fly?
Why does Matron even want us to
come here, we have already been to
church to pray about my journey.
Maybe she really wants to make sure
nothing goes wrong with my trip to
Europe. Matron can be over caring
sometimes; people say it is because has
no child of her own that is why she
cares so much about other people’s
children. She has already sent about
twenty girls, whom she affectionately
calls daughters, to Europe. She is so
proud of them and they send her plenty
money and gifts. Whether the hospital
pays salary on time or not, Matron
doesn’t care. Rumor has it that she has
houses in Lagos and Abuja. Everybody
loves Matron, Iyenorkhua — Great
Mother. Even the worst mental patients
love her, one word from her and you
will see the craziest of them behaving
like a small child. Gossipers in the
ward say Matron uses otumokpor to
deal with the patients, but I can assure
you she is not a juju woman at all
because she is the most active member
of Christ Living Faith Ministry. She
donated the refectory to the church,
a fanciful building she built all by
herself — there is a “Thank you”
plaque with her name by the entrance.
7
I hold a paper bag in one hand with my
blue uniforms, which I will later wear,
after this ceremony, to the hospital
where I work as a Psychiatric Ward
Assistant. The wrapper round my chest
is pure white; whiter than the straitjacket
we use for tying patients to beds at the
hospital. My upper body is naked and
I am shivering in the morning cold by
the bank of Ipoba River. The coconut
trees sway in the early morning breeze.
I came through the small path and
I am sure I have not missed the spot
Matron described for me. The river can
be seen from the old rusty bridge that
links Ipoba Hills and Ramat Park to
the army barracks, where we used to
live. Though I grew up around here, I
have never stepped on the banks of the
famous river, until this morning. I did
not know people come here to make
sacrifices; I know builders come to the
bank to load their tippers with white
sand. They can be seen from top of the
hill when you are riding the tuke-tuke
bus to Guinness Breweries.