Courage In The Time Of Harmattan

You were eight years old the first time your knuckles bled from hitting someone. Your father had always pulled you aside with a stern face, to caution you that a boy should never let anyone push him over. So, you had no other choice that evening Chike tried to snatch the fruit your well thrown stone had brought down.

You didn’t feel the crack in your hand but you heard it. Your excitement when the fruit fell, after a frustrating evening of aimlessly hurling stones and hoping to get lucky, had turned to anger when he tugged at your clenched fist and pulled at your collar. Later that night, when your mum cleaned your wound with methylated spirit, and your father stood behind her and watched on, you felt the sting of the methylated spirit, and the beaming pride on your father’s face made your head swell and your heart warm.

It took twice as many years before you would get your next taste of blood. The events of that morning had all been pretty much routine. It was in the heat of harmattan, when the morning cold was harsh, and the dry heat left your nostrils stuffy and bruised. You had lazily woken up to your father tugging at your big toe, a daily act that became a ritual between both of you. You had just started your end of term break, so you weren’t in a hurry to get started with your morning routine. But your mind cleared up, when you stubbed your toe getting to the toilet.

You took the gallons and left for the borehole, shivering under the morning dew. The roads were always foggy at that time of the year. You had to be careful as you lazily drove your wheelbarrow on the tarred street, else you would end up with sore toes at a time in the year when wounds took longer to heal.

The silence of the journey was occasionally broken by greetings to the few people cleaning their shops in preparation for morning sales. You were on your last round, and was about loading up the wheelbarrow with the last gallon when Ebube; the boy whose mother sold the infamous sweet smelling banga soup at the junction every morning, knocked down your wheelbarrow with his mother’s cart.

You would’ve let it pass and gone on with your morning had he apologized, but his sharp retort left a sting on an already tense relation. You had never got on well with him over the years due to his belligerent disposition and uncouth behavior, and you were never one to be pushed over. You quickly blocked his cart, and demanded he pick up the wheelbarrow and put back the gallons. Your demand and his defiant stance, led to a tense situation with abusive words exchanged and threats made.

You don’t recall who threw the first punch, but you remember feeling the crack of your fist as it landed on his jaw. His more muscular stature should’ve deterred you, but the words of your father was already etched deep in your heart. After a few more swinging of hands and a mean tussle, you landed on your back with a bleeding nose and a hand soaked in blood. In that moment, all you could hear were your sparse breathing, and the laughter of the boys who had circled the scene, which indicated you were on the losing end. Yet, you were determined not to give up in the face of an overbearing enemy.

In a desperate attempt to silence the mockery, you lunged at him. But he quickly evaded, and you ended up knocking over his cart, and the coolers filled with white rice, beans, meat and the infamous banga soup. Staring at the waste, the allure of the fight and its intensity quickly faded from your eyes, as the gravity of the situation dawned on you. For as much as you believed in your father’s words, the wrath of Ebube’s mother was something every child had grown to fear in the neighborhood. Her acts of discipline on kids, and occasional outbursts made people walk on egg-shells around her.

You probably don’t regret your actions now, but it still haunts you that you never got to taste her soup.