The First Flute

Rice Biscuits

Most of the writings in my memoirs are based on incidents from my secondary school days, but I sure got some interesting stories from my early childhood. Here, let me share one of them with you today:

Before the creation of Ekiti state in 1996, I lived in Ikere-ekiti with my family. (Motun was our last born as Seun wasn’t born then.)

Normally, you won’t find me anywhere near the house on a Saturday afternoon unless hunger sent me home from wherever I went to play, and soon as I got something to fill up my belly, I was off again, till dusk when Mom would either stand on the balcony of our storey building tenement apartment and shout my name or she’d send my elder sister to go fetch me home. (Sister Tomi always knew where to find me)

On the very rare occasions that I’d be playing with the other kids around the house, mom had a way of taking the fun out of me. It always played out like this:

Mom: (hearing me screaming excitedly as I ran to and fro with the other kids.) Junior!!!

Me: maaaaa!!! (I’d quickly rush to attend to her so that I can get back to my play.)

Mom: (pointing to the nearest chair) oya fi ìdí e lé ilè sí ibè yen (sit your butt down there)

She would then return to whatever it was she was doing while totally ignoring my incessant query about what she needed me to come do for her. She’d pretend as if I wasn’t even there at all, and I dare not leave my apportioned seat.

Panting like someone that just completed a 10,000m marathon, I would grudgingly but obediently sit where she pointed. Within minutes, I’d be sweating profusely, shifting uncomfortably from side to side on my seat. Then I’d start begging her to let me go, soon I’d b sniffing and groaning, and tears will start flowing.

Now, that was the greatest punishment anybody could give me.
So, I don’t stay near the house on Saturdays, unless I was ill. (Oh, did I mention that I was highly susceptible to malaria?)

I hated being sick, since the readily available pills for malaria in those days was chloroquine and I am terribly allergic to chloroquine. It usually meant injections for me, and I’ve always dreaded that thing.

Only my Pops’ presence would ensure I cooperated when it was injection time. He would hold me tight with his strong, vice-like knees, a good cane in his right hand, while he used the other hand to pull down my trousers or shorts. I’d scream with all my might as the needle mercilessly went into my buttocks. (P.S. I am still scared of injections till this day.)

Anyway, there was this Saturday in the early 90s, Pops had gone to the farm in the morning and he would not be back until later in the evening. Sister Tomi took Motunrayo (our last born then) to get her hair plaited. Me?

Ok, I’d gone to play félèlè football with some kids in the neighborhood. Mom was home working with her sealing machine and also taking stocks of the goods she’d purchased for Annunciation school’s buttery.

Suddenly, I dashed inside the house, I didn’t greet mom nor did I say anything to her, I just made straight for Pop’s bedroom (I knew nobody will dare enter that place to look for me) and quickly disappeared under the bed.

Mom stopped what she was doing and quietly came inside the bedroom, she couldn’t find me on the bed or anywhere else, so experience told her I’d be under the bed. She didn’t even bother to look, she just bent down, stretched her hand, grabbed one of my feet, and unceremoniously dragged me out.

I was sweating and breathing hard, and she nicely let me have a few minutes to catch my breath, then:

Mom: what have you done again?