Rẹ̀mílẹ́kún

Miìgbọ́: Seventeen years of naming

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Photo by Oyemike Princewill on Unsplash

Dear Bolu,

The rains have come and gone, leaving behind the vengeful scorch of a sun that is eager to rise and hesitant to set. I stand outside my house under the shade of a pawpaw tree—a tree bent along its slender trunk in supplication, like the entire town, to the sun for clemency. My two-piece ankara, composed of long black trousers and a top with three-quarter-length sleeves blends with my dark skin, hiding with a bit of grace, the fact that I’m sweating all over, like a Christmas goat—a black Christmas goat. At intervals, I wipe the torrent of sweat on my face with a towel that would not be fit for use much longer.

After about five minutes of standing and wiping, I hail a bike. The rider’s cap and thick-framed sunglasses remind me that I’m poorly dressed for the weather. I almost rush back inside for my sunglasses, but any rapid burst of movement might turn the drizzle of perspiration on my body into a downpour. Moreover, I am running late to my destination where I am to cover my first story since I began volunteering for Miìgbọ́, the local news outlet.

“How much to P—?” I ask the rider.

“Five hundred,” he replies, looking straight ahead, discouraging any negotiation attempt.

I rarely negotiate with bike riders. This is not because my negotiation skills are poor, well, they are, so much so that on a visit to the market a few weeks ago, I negotiated the price of an item upwards.

“If na like that, your money suppose add, na,” the seller had said.

I froze. He was right. In haggling for a lower price, I’d unwittingly made points that justified a higher price point. The seller was kind, however, letting me make the purchase at the initial price. But I digress. Bike riders don’t get the luxury of beating me at the negotiation table—no, the negotiation roadside—because there is an obvious fair fare range for any destination, and anything beyond that is exploitative. I have little patience for riders like that, and I simply bid them goodbye.

Five hundred naira is fair. I mount the rear of the bike, and immediately feel the burning heat of the seat on my butt and thighs.

“Oga, your bike no get A.C.?” I ask with a chuckle.

It’s a joke I frequently make on hot days, earning a smile or a laugh from riders. On occasion, however, the rider shows commitment to the bit.

“A.C. dey now—wind up the glass, make e circulate,” this one replies.

We both laugh as he zooms off.

We arrive at P— about 10 minutes later. The breeze on the way there is cooling, and I feel more comfortable as I alight from the bike. I pay my fare and tease the rider once more.

“Your A.C. na correct one,” I say, and we both laugh, again.

I cross to the other side of the road, and walk a few paces till I’m at the residence of The Bamideles, home to the story I’m reporting, a naming ceremony seventeen years in the making. The Bamideles’ compound is already alive with colour. A yellow bungalow stands at its far end, with two canopies, one in front of the other, stretching from gate to door. Walking in through the gate, the side of the canopies closer to the bungalow has a long plastic table, draped with white cloth. Three white chairs line one side of the table, and the rest of the canopy is filled with more white chairs and a few people.

I check my phone for the time. 15:00. I’m right on time. I take a seat close to the gate to get a good view of the afternoon’s proceedings. The sun is still in hot form, but the melodies wafting out from the speakers are soothing. Obey, KSA, even Dr. Orlando fills the air. I smile. What a wonderful life!

Before the ceremony starts, I speak to a few guests, asking them how they know the new parents and what wishes they may have for them. One woman that gave me an audience, dressed in a flowing blue boubou, and adorned with matching gold necklace, bracelets, and earrings, said she had no idea who the couple was.

“I heard there was a party here, and I made my way down,” she said, clearly pleased with her achievement.

At about 15:30, the ceremony begins. All the seats under the canopies are taken, and some guests have to stand. The sun refuses to show mercy, and only those with the foresight to leave home with an umbrella are afforded any succour. Seated from left to right at the table are the pastor—short, bald and suited—the father, Mr. Bamidele, and the mother, Mrs. Bamidele holding the centre of attraction in a grey swaddle.

After a short opening prayer, the pastor gives an exhortation on God’s Plan.

“Our exercise of faith is an exercise in patience; what, then, is patience if not the courage to wait?” he remarked.

Then comes the reading of the names by The Bamideles, now on their feet, still cradling the latest addition. They are all Yoruba names. Mr. Bamidele reads each one from memory, slowly, and with happiness writ all over his face in laughter lines and the bounce of his grey beard. Mrs. Bamidele provides the English translation of each name, full of smiles too, swaying left and right ever so gently, never once taking her eyes off the little miracle in her arms. After each read name, the crowd does a combination of clapping, Amen-ing, and yay-ing.

Eight names in, Mr. Bamidele’s voice starts to quake, and a few sniffles are heard after the eleventh. For the eagle-visioned ones, moisture begins collecting in Mr. Bamidele’s eyes after the thirteenth name, but for the uninitiated, the tears only start to form after the fifteenth name.

“Rẹ̀mílẹ́—” Mr. Bamidele says, bursting into tears at the seventeenth name. Still on his feet, chin up, he places his right palm over his mouth, stifling his cry as the tears pour. The pastor offers him a handkerchief; he rejects it. The crowd starts whoo-ing and whistling in excitement. Mrs. Bamidele’s sway becomes less gentle as she adds a slight up and down motion to her movements. With each sway, she brushes her husband’s left arm with her right elbow, until he, like a tuning fork, starts to sway in rhythm with her, his tears stilled.

“Rẹ̀mílẹ́kún,” he says again, this time more assuredly.

“Console my crying,” Mrs. Bamidele follows, and the crowd screams even more excitedly.

The pastor prays for Rẹ̀mí and brings the ceremony to a close. The music is back on and a dish of jollof rice, plantain, and beef is served in plastic takeaway packs. There are drinks as well, and I am given a can of Maltina. Soon it is time for pictures with the family. I’d taken some shots during the ceremony, but I take some more for the paper.

Amid the photo op, punctuated by pleasantries, I manage an audience with Mr. Bamidele, who thanks Miìgbọ́ for covering the event. Truth be told, we’re starved of stories, and we’d cover anything, even a missing cat, if there was one. I don’t tell him this, of course. I thank him, too. I congratulate him. Before I leave, I ask him why he refused the handkerchief.

“Seventeen years I have waited. Each year, I have dreamt a new name I could not call. The tears won’t take that long to dry,” he said with a smile.

It’s 17:30 when I leave The Bamideles, food and Maltina in hand. The sun is an orange glow towering above the horizon, refusing to set. “You’re as stubborn as a goat,” I think. I hail a bike, and there is no negotiating. Five hundred naira is fair.

As the bike speeds away, the heat fades, but the ceremony lingers in my mind. I think of you, dear friend—of the names I’ve dreamt but could never call you. Oh, how they tear at me now. Home, I open my pack of food. I was wrong. It’s goat meat, not beef. The coverage report will have to wait.

Fin.

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- Wolemercy