NAH MAN YOU BE

‘Nah man you be’. The first time I heard that I was barely five. I came home from school crying like some baby whose sweet was stolen from his hands. I wasn’t crying because of that. My ass got whopped like the five-year-old I was. My whopping machine was one the same age as I was but with the strength of a ten-year-old.

His name was Rukevwe.

I cried home that night, in the hope that my father – defender of the muscleless – would follow me to school the next day and defend the family’s honour. In an uncharacteristic way, he waved off my plea to follow me to school.

As a young child, I did not quickly notice that it was after I mentioned Rukevwe’s surname that my father grew cold feet. He preached the path of peace for what seemed enough to cook beans. When he was done, dinner was ready. I did not know Baba to be one to shy away from a fight; he was usually the one to step on the Cobra’s tail.

Later at night, mama told me a tale that shed light on Baba’s earlier preaching. Apparently, he was in the same class as Rukevwe’s father, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience for Baba.

It was Mama that told me ‘Nah man you be’, no end up like your papa’ her way of gingering me in the native pidgin she only spoke when she wanted to insult you.

The next day I went to school full of energy – I was ready to stand up to my nemesis. Let me just say it didn’t go as planned. I got body whopped this time around. But I came back again, and again.

It was a sermon my Sunday school teacher preached that kept spurring me on. ‘Though a righteous man falleth seven times, he shall rise eight times.’ I was determined to at least try seven times, by the sixth time my uniform was torn in hidden places. I was essentially a cockroach without a head.

A miracle happened. Light shone in my darkness.

If I couldn’t beat him I might as well pay someone that could. So I saved up my allowance for a week and paid the biggest boy in school to do my dirty job for me.

One of the conditions I gave my defender was that it must look like I was the one that did the beating. On the day of the beating, I lured my prey to an abandoned building on the way to his house – I made sure people saw him run after me into the building.

Safe to say he didn’t anticipate how peppery the stew I had prepared for him was. He was so beaten he never set foot in our school again.

Dawn had not broken the next day, but the news of my victory had spread wider than the shores of the village’s river. I was a champion. I somehow felt like the head of state that tried becoming a democratically elected president but didn’t win until the fourth time.

Even though my victory came at the sixth time of trying, I still felt we shared something in common – we both didn’t really deserve the victory. We were just fortunate to be the face of victory.

When the good book said ‘at the mention of his name knees would tremble’, well my name did have that effect on people from that day henceforth.

I became a demi-god and popular. If anyone dared me, all I had to do was look them in the face and scream so everyone could hear ‘Nah me ooo, Nah man you dey threaten shoo.’ It became the job of onlookers to warn tell my challenger, words like ‘you won die, you no know who im beat. Nah him beat Rukevwe ooo.’ 

It always worked, well almost always worked. By the time I was fourteen it had grown stale, but it didn’t matter again.

I still engaged in fights, I won a few and almost lost a few. It was simple logic if I noticed my opponent was winning, I came up with a ruse – ‘snake, snake’, ‘my eyes ooo, he don punch my eyes ooo’,  or I simply poured sand in their faces – and give them a blind beating.

At twenty-one, I joined the military. Well, I joined.

I entered the barracks gates as a recruit. On the first day of training, I collapsed. The second day of training, I fainted. The third day of training, I knew the military wasn’t for me. But I survived that week and the next.

By the third week, I was done. I left as I came, through the gates. But I didn’t go back to the village – I went to the city to hustle. After my first night in the city, the name ‘Nah man you be, died an effective death.’  I would leave the story of what happened to your imagination.

I worked in the city for two years – the city was like weather to me. The day the heaviest rain fell for me, I ran.

Well, I stole a client’s money. ‘Nah dollars im be.’

My return to the village was met with celebration. ‘Soja, Soja’ rented the air. My parents were happy to see me, the village head was happy to see me. People kept asking what I brought back from war. I was almost tempted to say ‘death, blood and bone’ but I laughed and even bought drinks for everyone that came to our house.

The name ‘Nah man’ was reborn that day – it became ‘Nah soja,’

My reputation in the town was that of a king, it felt like I was five again. The village head ran everything by me. I even became a chief. I did not disappoint also. The dollars I had, afforded me enough to paint my father’s house and buy a small Audi car.

Young boys from the community trooped to the front of my house like a school of fish migrating. They wanted me to train them. They too wanted to become soldiers. I drilled them in useless exercises and they, in turn, treated me well. The boys always came with something for ‘Nah Soja’.

The community’s ladies were not spared, I had my fill. It was like I was shuffling through a playlist. My life became the human representation of LG’s signature words.

Sugar that is food to ants also brings them close to the hands that would kill them.

‘Nah soja, dem they rob for community, village head talk say ma we come call you.’ I peed in my pants after I heard this. When did I become the police, I wanted to ask them.

The stupid village head sent people to me because the community was under attack by robbers.

‘The robbers dey wait you ooo, village head don yan dem say soja dey dis community.’ I felt a silent gas escape in my anus. I told them to go, that I wanted to change to my uniform.

Immediately I heard their feet lift off the floor of my father’s compound, I jumped out the window of the house and scaled the fence.

I ran, I ran till I felt my lungs threatening to burst. I ran till my feet could no longer take it. But I wasn’t alone, I had on my backpack, dollars were still much in it.

I took the first bus that was leaving to Ibadan the next day at the garage.

I no be Man, abi Soja again.

My name is Ovie.

That’s all.