Grandpa used to say words were like soldiers, always coming home after being sent to the front lines of people's ears. He used to say it with short stories of his experiences in the war. Every evening, he would sit on his rocking chair at the balcony, smoke a pipe and reminisce about his own days in the trenches. He did it in a manner that would make you believe the TV commercials were lying about tobacco causing a thousand sicknesses.
In my words, as a child, I remember saying in front of everyone at Sunday school that my Grandpa was a fine smoker and going on to argue about how cool smoking was when my grandpa did it.
"You smoke like you the white man used to do. Sometimes, I wish I could ask you to pass the pipe or walk down the stores and get mine" his friend from the army Ekpeyong used to say.
In truth, he was a fine smoker. There was this vintage and classy way he smoked. He would first of all stuff the pipe with the tobacco nicely, doing it meticulously and making sure he didn't leave stains on the table like other old men did. Then, he would stick the slimer end of the pipe to his mouth; it used to be at the right corner and he'll use his lips to hold on to the pipe while he reached for his lighter.
Grandpa wasn't cursed with shaky hands like other old men I knew. His hands were steady they had the precision of a well programed machine. With his steady hands, he'll light the pipe by moving the burning lighter round the the stuffed hollow of his pipe and after a few seconds, the pipe would be an active chimney.
After lighting the pipe, he would stuff the lighter into his coat pocket and like something delicate that came with the "fragile" shipping sticker, he would hold the pipe with just his thumb and index finger. He kissed the pipe like a lover would, I think he held his lips that same way when he kissed grandma.
He'll suck the pipe for a few seconds, if you listened well enough, you could hear the burning tobacco sizzling and after that was a "pffffffffffffff" as Grandpa puffed the smoke into the air and oh, that sight of milky smoke escaping from his mouth and dancing in the air before disappearing into thin air leaving that smell ( the third thing my nostrils loved after petrichor and the aroma of Grandma's cooking )
After, doing the sucking and puffing for a minute, Grandpa would reach for his bottle of foreign whiskey he used to buy from the town store. He would pour a measure of it into his tumbler and then down his throat. I wondered which burned more, the whiskey of the tobacco?
I remember one Monday evening, I was in the yard playing with my cousins when Grandpa returned from town. That image of him in a grey three piece suit and hard hat, the sun setting behind him and a burning pipe sticking to the right corner of his mouth is yet to find a replacement in my head. Not even the slow motion of Thomas Shelby in the Peaky Blinders beats that image till today.
* * *
Maybe I remember the said evening not because of the image of my grandpa in a grey suit, a hat and smoking a pipe. Maybe it's not the spicy chunk of fish grandma dropped into my soup that keeps that image in my head and till today. Maybe it's because there were other things that served as the pins that clipped that image permanently and stubbornly to my memory. Maybe it was the military Range Rover that carried Uncle Emma and two other officers. Maybe it was because the next time the Range Rover came, it took Grandpa and he never returned.
***
Uncle Emma was Grandpa's second son and my father's Junior brother. Of Six children, he was the only one that signed up for the military like Grandpa. Uncle Emma joined with a degree and was a Colonel. He was the favorite son.
Uncle Emma, who wore shiny lace ups and well ironed uniforms. Uncle Emma, who had three stars on his shoulders. Uncle Emma who was always in the company of his escort soldiers whenever he came visiting until that Monday evening. Uncle Emma who loved Palm wine and roasted fowl. Uncle Emma who had a pistol strapped around his waist; one time, I heard he shot a towns man in the leg with it. Uncle Emma who always said the head of state was a complete asshole who ran the country like he was drunk.
Uncle Emma, who came with the officers and spent the whole night talking in hushed tones with Grandpa in the living room and left before sunrise. I could only get small snatches of their discussion and it only happened when they raised their voice a few centimeters above their noses.
"You know I left the military because of things like this... Dimka is a good soldier, his plans won't fail... The risk... There's a reward, you'll head the district... You are like a father to us... Do just this one for the country... Just hold on to the files until we need them..."
***
Grandma was a graceful woman and fierce as well. She wore her skin comfortably and with her, anyone could take the best lessons about self confidence. She used to be a woman that would never stoop low for the comfort of anyone. To the towns' people, she was the no nonsense wife of the retired Major, a radical feminist that didn't fit to any enslaving societal construct, the Calibre of woman you wouldn't want to mess with.
Once, one her way back from the market, one of the touts made a joke about her buttocks and in a matter of minutes, he was sleeping in the army confinement cell for a month. He came back to call my grandma "Eka" meaning mother.
Many children used to wonder how I was able to cope with a strict woman like my grandma and sometimes, I used to wish they knew who she was.
Under the tough no nonsense feminist woman, was a loving and jovial grandma. She would make the best meals and jokes. She sent me to bed with a lot of stories. Some of them from my English reader and most were our people's folklore and war stories too.
I used to love the folklore and war stories. The folklores contained stories about the tortoise and the hare, romance from Ibibio literature like "Sedibe", and adventurous tales like "Mutanda".
She was in the war too, as a military nurse. Grandma told stories of the war but not like Grandpa. While my grandpa studded his stories with proverbs and figurative language ( most of which were too complex for my childhood mind to understand ), Grandma had imagery, her war stories had vivid descriptions. She paid more attention to creating the mental images of the mushroom shaped clouds of black smokes the bombs made. In her voice, I could hear the soldiers chant and charge, win and lose battles too.
About the jokes, Grandma used to mimic the comic characters on TV. She would tie her wrapper and pretend to be Mama G, wear Grandpas' khaki and pretend to be Sam Loco Efe. " Omo I'm just a clown" she used to say whenever she succeed in making us laugh so hard until there was tears in our eyes.
Grandma was a good vibe to be around when she was happy and although she mostly was, the few times she wasn't used to be hell. One of those few times was after Uncle Emma visited Grandpa that Monday evening.
The next morning, there was trouble. Grandma kept yelling at Grandpa. " This son of yours won't kill you! Did I not warn him to stay away from this bloody military politics?"
Throughout that week, she kept having outbursts and ended up yelling at people. She yelled at my father on the telephone, she yelled at my cousins and our neighbors, even on Sunday during mass, she yelled at the church warden.
Grandma was far from being in a good mood. Her face would do the job of telling you to keep to your Lane and not cross her path. She answered questions in monosyllables and didn't laugh when we shared a joke. She would not walk with Grandpa to church and she wouldn't join the morning prayers either.
I knew the whole toughness wasn't a true reflection of what she felt. I could see beneath the fight she was putting up and could tell what it was that was driving her. Fear.
I could see it. Grandma was afraid. I noticed she had stopped keeping late nights and added more strictness to ensuring the doors were locked before we went to bed. She listened to the radio and made it a duty to not miss the news. She quickened her steps whenever she was around soldiers. Grandma was afraid, but of what? I never knew until the last night I had seen Grandpa.
***
The night of the day the head of state was assassinated, was the last time I saw my grandpa. The whole country was in trouble and our small town wasn't left out. The soldiers were on a rampage, tearing down market stalls and flogging the women with their koboko. They wore their combat uniforms like we were somewhere in war torn Iraq and exchanged bullets for the stones hoodlums threw at them.
We were listening to the evening news. The presenter was talking about the coup. She said the military government didn't want us to worry, that everything was in control.
" In control? Does that mean that Dimka soldier failed?" Grandma asked Grandpa. He was about to answer when the land line rang. It was Uncle Emma. "Okay!...Oh Jesus!... Okay!... thank you... You too be safe..." Was the only thing Grandpa said.
The moment Grandpa hung up, he reached for some files in the cupboard under the TV. They were brown and fat with the numerous documents inside them and had "CONFIDENTIAL" written boldly in red, slantly across it's face.
Grandma sprang up from her seat. "Ette Udeme, Nside?" She asked. Grandpa didn't answer, he buried his face in the files and kept counting the documents. Even when grandma started yelling "talk to me! Have you decided to kill us?" He only spoke when he was done. " Ifiok, get my shovel, woman please stop shouting and bring petrol..." He planned to dig a whole in the yard, burn the documents and leave the house before the soldiers came but it was too late.
"Gbaaaaaaam!" Grandpa didn't finish talking when the front door came down with it's frame. Seven soldiers jumped into the living room with their cocked guns. They held torch lights and didn't forget to point them into our faces. Grandma held me and kept muttering "don't worry, everything is okay" but her voice was too shaky to calm me down. I was trembling like a child with cold.
One of the soldiers was a Sargent, he only had a pistol, and was smoking a cigarette. He was the leader of the troops. "did I hear petrol? What are we burning please?" He asked. None of us could give him an answer so he slapped Grandpa.
"Ye!!!!" Grandpa yelled as he fell on the ground.
"I don't think we'll be burning anything." The Sargent said and puffed a smoke as he reached for the files. "Take him!" He shouted at his comrades and from the ground, they grabbed grandpa rudely with just a wrapper around his waist and took him to their truck.
Grandma struggled with the soldiers from the living room all the way to where they parked their truck. She held on to the Sargent's belt shouting "please don't kill him" and crying until he kicked her and sent her rolling in the mud before they drove off.
The rumors said they wouldn't do anything to Grandpa and my Uncle Emma had fled the country to return when things were calm, but none of them ever came back, not Grandpa, not Uncle Emma. Ten years later, we did a funeral with empty coffins and their names on them. The preacher said they died for a noble cause, he said like soldiers, they had returned home from this trench they called life to be with the creator. I thought he was exaggerating when he said he saw them in heaven until I did see them in my dreams two months after the funeral.
Grandpa on his ceremonial millitary suit with golden insignia on his shoulders and a pair of wings behind him. Uncle Emma in the same regalia, dinning with angels. What dream could beat seeing my late Uncle drinking palmwine and eating roasted fowl in paradise and my grandpa smoking a pipe beside the throne. Grandma said I was having malaria so after I took a few pills, the dreams went away.
FICTION
Episode 2 drops next week.
- Ifiokobong Etuk ( KING of the QUILL )
