Читать книгу The Bata Dancer - Rotimi Ogunjobi - Страница 7

The rest of the journey was thankfully concluded without further incident.

“Where can I find a hotel in this town?” Yomi asked someone along the wide highway which bisected the small town. He indeed knew he had left two hotels behind, both less than five kilometres from town; both with rates higher than what he could afford to pay. And so he wisely moved on. The helpful lad finally directed him to a place called Jolly Guest House which was further up, and near the centre of the town.

Yomi had never liked hotels. He liked this one even a lot less. The room he was offered was cramped and scantily equipped and had a single blue light bulb dangling from the ceiling , giving a suggestion of what sinister activities this accommodation was prepared to cater to most nights and possibly in the daytime too. His imagination served him images of brief sexual trysts; a more decent inner prodding however told him that such a nice and peaceful little town was unlikely to accommodate that much iniquity, at least not on a regular basis.

The room was cheap though, which was all he presently cared about. Nevertheless, he knew he couldn’t stay here for long. First, because he did not like sleeping in hotel beds, secondly because he just couldn’t afford to stay in the hotel for more than a few days. The next step of his plan was to urgently rent a flat for himself as soon as possible.

Yomi was tired and slept soundly. He woke up feeling so weak next morning. There was no running water from the shower of his en-suite room. He washed himself with water brought for him in a metal bucket. Feeling livelier, he went to the reception. The person he found there was, a neatly-dressed young man who didn’t appear to have lost any sleep during the night.

“Where can I get a bottle of tonic water?” Yomi asked, hoping to be able to find a drink to pep himself up with. The night-shift receptionist looked for a while confused.

“The medicine store is not yet opened”, the receptionist finally replied, quite confidently. Yomi smiled, thankful he had not asked for soda water. Thankful that he would probably have been, consequently served a bowl of water with a bar of laundry soap inside it.

Outside, the air was fresh, more invigorating than he had experienced for many years. He felt renewed; he felt accomplished. It was relatively unpolluted with effluents either from vehicles or from machinery. In his mind, Yomi felt like a freshly released convict, wishing to do joyful cartwheels, but mindful that the saner world would not approve. Far away he could see towering hills, completely covered with green flora and faintly enshrouded by a grey morning mist. People said those hills were inhabited by monkeys of nearly every type, but he neither saw nor heard one.

Yomi went on a hopeful stroll down the street. It was around eight in the morning but there was little traffic on the roads, and nobody seemed yet in a hurry to get any work done at all; today was Saturday. A few scantily stocked grocery kiosks were open; most offered no more than small stacks of bread on decrepit wooden tables outside and in front. He was by his nose drawn further down the road, where a portly woman fried akara in red palm oil. He bought four of the fried bean cakes together with small loaf of soft bread. He also bought a can of Coca Cola from another shop as he returned to his hotel room. The akara did an excellent job of completely waking him up. It contained whole finger of red hot chillies, which had him whistling as the pepper exploded in his mouth. Later, his breakfast concluded, he returned to the reception, which was now occupied by a hard-faced young lady, freshly resumed for the morning shift.

“Where can I find an estate agent in this town?” Yomi pleasantly enquired. The young lady appeared as nonplussed as the night-shift person; and for a long minute struggled for an appropriate response to the question. The situation was saved by the erstwhile night duty person who again emerged from a back office on his way home. He halted for a moment to ask what the conversation was all about. Yomi repeated his question for the young man”s benefit: he wanted to know where to find a real estate agent

“Why are you looking for an estate agent?” the lad asked, needlessly suspicious.

“I want to rent a small flat, or room”, Yomi explained.

The young man and the lady exchanged anxious glances. They both seemed torn between loyalty to an employer and the more desirable duty of giving a stranger a helping hand. Good breeding won.

“There is one on the main road, if you come with me, I will show you where it is”, he offered.

Yomi was quite happy to go along with him. He took the man in his car and they were there in a few minutes; after which the young man departed on his own way.

The estate agent’s office was nothing more than one of a row of shops in a thirty foot long unpainted block. His was the only shop that had a glass front, and it stood out amongst the other battened-up fronts. In front of the shop was a tripod-mounted notice board upon which some sheets of paper were tacked. Each typed sheet, Yomi would find, indicated homes listed, either for sale or for rent. The shop keeper girl he found inside made him to know that it might take some time for her boss to come. It was a little after ten; Yomi chose to wait and was given a metal chair to sit on. The shop keeper placed a call to the owner of the business to inform that a possible customer was waiting in the office. Yomi also used the opportunity to call his friend Debola, to assure him that he arrived safely at his destination. The noise of traffic, gradually built up outside as the other shops were one after the other opened.

A sweaty middle-age man arrived about forty-five minutes later, full of apologies. His name was Falana. He listened patiently as Yomi described his requirement.

“I am looking for an inexpensive accommodation – a room or a small flat.” Yomi explained to Falana.

“Where are you from?” Falana wanted to know. It was a question which Yomi did not think was unreasonable.

“I am from Ibadan and I have come to do some work here. I have just got a job to teach at a school in this town. I don’t know how long I am going to be here for, but it certainly will be for at least six months “, Yomi replied.

Falana sat with hands splayed over his face, and appeared for a long minute deep in thought, digesting the information before him. .

“I may have something for you but you will not be able to view it till tomorrow. However, before then you need to pay three thousand Naira as consultation fees”, Falana finally said. Yomi knew about these illegal fees. You had the choice of refusing to pay, and which translated to your being unable to find a place to rent.

“I will bring the money to you tomorrow, or whenever you are ready to take me to see the house”, Yomi offered. Falana seemed discomfited by this suggestion.

“I may even be able to let you see the house by this evening, if I can get the keys from the owner this afternoon”, he quickly said.

“In that case, I will bring the money this evening”, Yomi told him.

Yomi took Falana’s phone number and give him his own too, happy that Falana promised to give him a call before five in the evening. Till then he had nothing to do but explore the little town.

He drove aimlessly around the town .and even travelled as far to the nearby bigger town of Ilesha. He drove back again through Ijebu-jesha and took another turn westward down to Esa Oke where there was a small Polytechnic. The lonely road, which passed through pristine subsistence farmlands, flooded his mind with peace.

Yomi believed that Coming of the Drummer was the best play he wrote at the Heritage Theater. It was subsequently recorded for television. The fictional story was adapted from Yoruba traditional folklore about how drums and drummers came to be. Both stage play and film were so well praised that he was encouraged to do something similar.

It was shortly after, that he met Lamidi Ojedeji, whose Osumare Drum and Dance Troupe, was famous in the travelling entertainment circuit, far and wide. Yomi’s first contact with Baba Lamidi, as everyone fondly called him was about eight years ago. Together, Yomi and Debola ad travelled to Ijebu-Jesa to invite Baba Lamidi and his dance and drum troupe to the official opening event of the Heritage Theater. Baba, who was at that time in his sixties, could only participate in the rather strenuous dancing for a few minutes, but the encounter left a lasting impression on Yomi.

The meeting with Baba Lamidi planted a seed idea for a new stage play he planned one day in the future to write - a one-act monologue, which he titled The Bata Dancer. Yomi knew there would yet be a lot to do, because this new play project had all to do with a theme which he knew practically nothing about. Dance would be a major element of the new play, more specifically the Bata dance.

Now back again in Ijebu-Jesa, he hoped to be able to find the required presence of mind to concentrate on writing The Bata Dancer. Above all, Yomi hoped that Baba Lamidi Ojedeji was still alive, because he hadn’t seen him in eight years.

It wasn’t too difficult to locate Baba Lamidi’s house, in this small town. Yomi had been to visit twice before. It was a well-built storey building with a large front courtyard. The building showed signs that it was built by someone of more than average means. The tired brown paint however suggested that the owner was tired of beautifying a perpetual cost-centre

“Who are you looking for? “. Yomi was accosted at the gate by a lady as he entered Baba Lamidi’s compound. She looked about five years or so younger than him and had a deep voice, almost like a man’s voice. Her voice sounded rather nice and pleasant though. Yomi thought she looked nearly out of place in front of this house.

“I am looking for Baba Lamidi”, Yomi reciprocated her pleasantness.

“What do you want to see him about”, the lady persisted.

“I’ve been here before. I am from Ibadan and I just thought to drop in to say hello”, Yomi replied.

“He is not at home; he has travelled” the lady told him, regretfully.

“When do you think he will be back?” Yomi asked.

“He has travelled to Oyo for an event, and we are not expecting him till tomorrow or the day after”, she explained.

“That is disappointing. In any case, I am here for much longer and I will certainly return to see him “Yomi said.

“Okay then, you are welcome”, the lady replied.

Yomi turned and returned to his car. He thought he should have asked the lady what her name was, but refrained from going back to do that. The last thing he wanted at this time was to earn the distrust of a community in which he was yet a visitor. He noted nevertheless that she was quite attractive. She had an unusual deep voice, but the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

Yomi found a buka restaurant and bought himself a meal of pounded yam and melon seed stew. He ate greedily; the stew was very spicy and just the way he loved his food. Afterward, he returned to the hotel and there sat in the lobby, listening to an aimless and lively debate between three employees, about the music and politics of the day. Falana eventually called at about a quarter to five. Yomi drove to Falana’s office, and together they went to the place which the estate agent was to show him. It was a nasty house; an unkempt tenement building with four dungeon-like rooms on either side of a dark corridor running the entire length of the house. Outside was filthy, with a green stream running right across the front yard. Goats, pigs and chicken roamed unhindered, and the ground all around was littered with their faeces .Yomi was very disappointed to have been brought here.

“This is not even a bit like what I hoped you would find for me. Not anywhere near what I described.” He spiritedly tried to mask his disappointment and anger.

“It is not expensive; you definitely said you are looking for a place that is not expensive”, Falana told him.

“Yes I did say that, but I certainly didn’t say I was looking to live in a dunghill”, Yomi affirmed.

“Okay, I will look for something else”, Falana told him as they returned to the car.

“How soon will this be? My need is rather urgent”, Yomi reminded.

“As soon as I am able to find another, I will let you know. I will need to talk to some landlords. But you know, because you are stranger in this place, the landlords may not be so willing, which makes my work much more difficult”, Falana told him, successfully making Yomi feel like he was the reason why he might not be able to find a house.

Falana promised to again call him next day as Yomi dropped him off at his office. Yomi knew of course that Falana was unlikely to call because next day was Sunday. He returned to the hotel, unable to get over the disappointment he felt. He sat for a while in the hotel bar, ordered a bottle of beer which he drank quickly. He fetched a book from the box in the boot of his car, and then bought another beer which he decided to take to his room.

The title of the book was Eegun Alare, and it was written in Yoruba. It told the story of an itinerant performing masquerade, an Eegun Alare , who left his town in search of fame and fortune; both of which he eventually found. However, he meets with disaster when a magic trick goes wrong and he find self unable to change back from the crocodile which he turned himself into, because raindrops fell on him, and this was a taboo. Yomi could only read the story half way this time before he had to lay it down. Reading Yoruba as an adult was somehow no more easy to do for him; which was quite strange since as a child he read stories in that language without any difficulty at all. This one was written in verse, which made it even more difficult to read.

He though the story of Eegun Alare resonated well with his personal quest. He also left familiar home grounds in search of a new beginning. He wasn’t an itinerant performer like Ojelade the masquerade, but he was nevertheless also in search of bigger achievements. Ojelade was a master of his art though, while he was still floundering and yet in search of himself.

Beyond the mysticism which accompanied Ojelade’s quest, he would recognise that dance still remained the foundation skill of the typical itinerant performing masquerade. Baba Lamidi’s Osumare Troupe was the most awesome dance Yomi had ever seen. Seven costumed acrobats and dancers completely arrested the attention of the spectators for nearly a full hour, and still at the end of it all, the audience were sorry to see them leave. A news reporter attempted to interview Baba Lamidi after the performance, but this never happened. Baba seemed more insulted than happy that his skill could be considered of mere entertainment value. On this day though, the leader of the drummers, a young man whose name was Ayankunle, was too happy to be interviewed instead.

“The drums have voices of their own; individually and collectively. If you don’t understand the language of the Bata drums, it is impossible to dance to it.”, Ayankunle mentioned in the interview, and that quote haunted Yomi for days. He was sufficiently intrigued, to again go in search of Baba Lamidi a few weeks later. This time he felt like there was nothing more desirable to him than learning how those drums spoke. He came visiting Ijebu-Jesa midweek and found Baba Lamidi at a game of Ayo in the courtyard in front of his house. Yomi recognised his game opponent as Ayankunle, the drummer who stood for him at the interview.

He was grateful and happy that Baba Lamidi still remembered him, after he introduced himself, mentioning the Heritage Theater.

“I want to learn the language of the drums. Can you possibly teach me?” Yomi quite nearly blurted out. He was discomfited by Ayankunle’s persistent stare at his legs; and apparently the young man doubted that the limp in Yomi’s leg could be an asset to anyone at all. Baba Lamidi also appeared trying to find the kindest reply to give this young fool from the city.

“What you have asked from me is like the head of an elephant. It is too heavy for a child to carry”, Baba Lamidi told him, very amused.

“Yes I do realize that, but when a burden is too heavy for a child to carry, he calls on his father for help; and that is why I am here” Yomi reverently replied . Baba Lamidi nodded his head wisely.

“And why do you choose to carry this particular burden?” Baba Lamidi again asked.

“I have been in the Heritage Theater for nearly two years. I have seen dance of almost every type, but I must say I have ever seen anything like your troupe does, and that is why I am here.” Yomi replied.

“Is that so?” Baba Lamidi seemed flattered.

“Yes, after watching you, my heart told me there is a destiny in this for me. I want to know the language of the drums”. , Yomi persisted

“Okay I will do as you wish; but how much are you willing to pay for this?” Baba Lamidi laughed. Yomi remembered that Ayankunle mentioned during his interview, that Baba ran a school. Not quite a formal school, but a rigorous and dedicated apprenticeship.

“I am willing to pay the price” Yomi eagerly said, sure that whatever the amount was, could not be beyond his means, considering that this town was far from being a place which regularly accommodated the wealthy.

“I shall think about it. I also want you to go away and also think about it” Baba told him. Yomi sat with them for a couple of hours more, enjoying the banter , sharing with them, the keg of palm wine which he had very thoughtfully bought on his way, as a gift to Baba Lamidi. He watched the game that was in progress and at which the younger man Ayankunle, was unhappy to be constantly losing.

By next morning, and after returning to Ibadan, Yomi agreed with himself that travelling to Ijebu-Jesa every weekend was indeed an impractical and ridiculous thought.

But now back again in Ijebu-Jesa and not about to leave for some time, the quest became again reawakened. He could once more clearly hear the voice of the Bata drums. Only he did not yet understand.