He drew his last breath years before I had my first, but I will grow up to be numbered among the plethora of "breaths" he enabled.
My paternal grandfather, christened Davidson upon his conversion to Christianity, could've as well been named Abraham, owing to his paternal prowess. Unlike the biblical Abraham, whose status as father of many nations was spiritual—futuristic at most—my grandfather's was here and now.
If I merely call him a polygamist, I will be doing him a huge injustice by attempting to conceal the degree of his polygamy. Perhaps you'll be misled into thinking that he had two or three wives. But, hell no! Grandpa took the practice of polygamy to an ethereal height; while still breathing, he built himself a paradise with many rooms and graced his beds with over 12 fair maidens.
I didn't grow up to meet all of them. I learned that, after his demise, some, especially the younger wives, evacuated the cubicles he provided for each of them in his large bungalow building.
They departed in hope of finding yet another and perhaps a more frequent bed warmer, especially during rainy seasons—my thoughts.
Yes! Some left, but not without leaving an offspring in Grandpa's name. And their self-eviction did very little to reduce the number of those who remained to a few. I still met about eight of his wives. All were fertile.
As I grew in stature and consciousness, my eyes opened to a multitude of uncles and even larger multitudes of cousins. Then there was Ayanime, one of my cousins. He'd later take the name Tutyt when he became a musician.
Possibly influenced by the fact that Tutyt's dad was my father's immediate elder brother, Tutyt easily became my closest cousin. As a matter of fact, Tutyt and I were too tight.
Also, our parents were of similar economic class, we had similar educations, and to crown it all, Tutyt and I are about the same age—these must've also contributed to our closeness.
Despite having some things in common, personality-wise, Tutyt and I were worlds apart. I guess the law of magnetism was at play here because, despite being on opposite poles, we attracted each other. His traits opposed, or maybe complimented, mine.
Tutyt was bold, brave, courageous, outspoken, outgoing, mischievous, and maybe too forward for his age. He was the kind of kid a typical African mom, including mine, would warn you against.
On the other hand, I was cold, reserved, quiet, well-mannered, somewhat shy, and timid—a kind of kid commonly perceived as a symbol of good mannerisms.
Obviously, we weren't birds of a feather, but we flocked together.
On one occasion, while in the village, Tutyt requested that I accompany him to a nearby compound. As you might've noticed, I'm more of an indoor person, but I couldn't help but agree to go out with him since that's my only hope of immersing myself in the culture of my kindred while also intimating myself with the landscape of my hometown.
My energetic cousin and I stroll in silence under the mild morning sun, which gently caresses our skins in symphony with the cool morning breeze. The heavenly feeling we were savouring was about to be interrupted as we came to a stop in one of the lowly-built bungalows in the neighbourhood.
We met some boys there. I waved at them while standing some distance away. Tutyt, the outgoing one, moved towards the boys and struck up a conversation, which I paid little attention to. The things I lack outwardly, I make up for in my mind.
While my cousin had conversations with real people, my mind was conversing with me—admiring, judging, and noting the tiniest details of everything that met my prying eyes. I had my foot in two worlds—the one I created for myself in my mind and the one many will call real, where Tutyt and the boys are bantering.
Oblivious to the context of their banter, I heard,
"She's given birth."
"where's she?"
"She's in that room."
On hearing this, I leapt out of my imagined world, my gaze shifting to meet one of the boys pointing towards a room in an inner building of the compound.
We left the boys and made our way towards the inner building. The building is higher and more modern than the outer one, and the metallic roof is shiny—not rusty like that of the first, implying that the building was recently erected. We reached the building and sauntered towards the room the boy pointed to.
The door isn't closed. Tutyt raised the curtain, and I followed him in. The room is in shambles. Nothing in it suggests the presence of a nursing mother.
There's a somewhat high bed standing on the left side of the room when entering through the front door. And just like every other thing in the room, the bed is unkempt.
A sheet dangles from its side, preventing us from seeing under the bed. Tutyt lifts the sheet. He bends to look under the bed. In a flash, he zooms past me into the open. Impulsively, I bolted along with him. I have no chance to make out the sound I hear from beneath the bed.
While racing, the sound became clearer, even though it was now mixed with yelling from the boys. The sound is familiar. I've heard it several times. In a jiffy, everything became lucid. A lactating dog is on my heels; I am on Tutyt's. The boys are yelling at the dog to stop.
The dog, a protective mother, is infuriated beyond control. She pays no attention to the owners' call. She's determined to shred at least one of the intruders into pieces. I am already feeling a wet, cold, and slimy substance rubbing against my heels. From my side, I see one of the boys charging towards us; he dives and pins down the dog just before she completes her mission of sticking her fangs into my heels.
We are still running without stopping until we get to our parlour. Panting and checking my heels for a scratch, I find none. At last, we are safe. I'm back home—my safe zone.
We're still struggling for air. Tutyt drawls, "Don't tell anyone, please." I agreed to keep his shenanigans a secret.
We weren't even ten years old when the incident occurred. Thinking of it now, I understand why Tutyt pleaded that I don't spill the beans. He wanted to save face and preserve his fragile ego.
I didn't tell you that, in addition to Tutyt's other attributes, he was also a leader, a chronic jester, and somewhat of a bully. If you dare goof in his presence, be sure to have the myriad kids in Grandpa's dynasty coerced to deride you.
A mocker and a bully panting, flapping hands, and other hidden organs—his heels almost touching his occiput while he helplessly flees from what he went to visit out of his volition—will make for a good laugh. I suspect that it would've still been a subject of ridicule among Grandpa's descendants today—humour lives among us.
Had I spilled the beans, the kids would've roared and scoffed, poking fun at Tutyt, the villain, while retelling the story in the most hilarious way possible. The gods would've been praised, and innocent karma would've been accused. But no thanks to me, the cool kid. I denied the gods their praise. I exonerated Karma. I agreed to conceal the fun.
PS: This is my entry for the creative nonfiction contest in the Ink Well community, based on the word prompt, agree.
