Number 225, Katakata Street (A Story By Centino) - Season 1 - Episode 4

6 years ago

Number 225, Katakata Street (A Story By Centino) - Season 1 - Episode 4

SATURDAY MORNING

I know you are eager to know what happened when I followed Maya to the backyard. I have to say that I am taking things easy with her. Maya has had a harrowing life. Raped and deflowered by her own father at a tender age, maniacally protected by her mother as a result, she is not the kind of girl you follow to the backyard and begin to lift up her skirt. It seems to me now that she may be ready for some fooling around, because one evening when they suddenly took light, she found me where I sat on the soakaway slab and searched out my eyes in the darkness and said “why have you not tried to touch me?” So far I have refrained from describing Maya’s bodily features in full because you may think I am exaggerating or carried away. But anyone who shows up at number 225 Katakata Street for the first time and sees Maya will believe Mr Cosmas’ cosmic assertions about circumstances of birth, because it would only take something fantastic for a being like Maya to turn up in this dump. Perverts for whom face-me-I-face-you was designed will happily fill out hell’s register and check in without thinking twice because of her. But I have earned her trust, and respect I hope. And it is equally important to prove to her mother that ‘Calabar’ people are not dogs. So I will leave Maya and the backyard thing for the time being.

I like Saturday mornings at number 225. The day starts at 5am with Sister Esther disturbing our early morning sleep with her amplified admonition to the whole street to repent, after which she would sneak back into her bed till about 8 o’clock when she would join the rest of us in front of Talabi’s shop.

Mr Zubi is always the first one out. He has recently taken up yoga, and takes immense satisfaction in remaining unshaken in his lotus position even when cars and motocycles splash mud over him in front of Talabi’s shop where he spreads a mat for his new hobby. “It is the discipline and serenity of soul yoga gives to you” he will say when quizzed about all the distractions, some of which were pure mischief. He of course does not utter a word while he practices. Everything requiring his attention waits until he is done. His wife has promised to one day come and pour hot water on his head while he sat in that “hausa position” any day he stepped out without leaving money on the table for their Saturday eggs. “He will soon get tired of it” She will say to everyone. “If he reads on the internet tomorrow that the Chinese have started eating naked on top of trees for enlightenment, he will get up from there and go and start that one.”

It is Suleiman, our newspaper vendor’s horn that brings the yoga practice or whatever the fad of the moment is to an end. Mr Zubi will straighten up, place his hands together at his heart, bow his head and utter ‘Namaste’. Then he will turn and look at one of his sons who will inevitably be waiting with a message from his wife and bellow “what do you want? Ewu Gambia”. Then he will grab a chair he had kept and collect the bunch of papers Suleiman would hand to him. One by one we will all gather around and explore the issues of the moment.

“The senate has summoned Fashola to come and explain his comments that ‘the lawmakers displayed stark and worrisome gaps in knowledge about the budget.” Mr Zubi said when he looked up from the first paper.

“What kind of Senate is this ehn? You don’t wear uniform, they summon you. You say something they don’t like, they summon you. If you fart at Eagle square sef, they will summon you.” Akunna said.

“We should send Alhaji Sirika to them. After all, he built this death trap and still wants rent for it.” Achike said.

“If you like don’t go and pay your rent” Akunna sneered.

“What else is hot Mr Zubi?” Achike will say quckly. He did not like the subject of his rent.

“The Acting President visited the President in London.”

“You see? Did I not tell you nobody is acting anything? The man is still giving instructions from his deathbed!”

“Shut up Achike. You do not speak of a sick person in that manner, not to talk of the President. Show some respect! The least you can do is to pray for him.” Akunna said.

“See this one! When you are sick where do you go to? Philemon’s chemist! But despite all our wealth our elite fly abroad even when their anus is itching them. Did you ever hear that Mandela was flown abroad? All the times he was sick he was treated at home. He died in a South African hospital.”

“Nnamdi Kanu addresses crowd” Mr Zubi announced next.

“You see what I was telling Alhaj?” Achike continued. “This man has committed treason and they won’t touch him. He is flouting court orders left right and centre and they are turning a blind eye. The Government is unsure of this whole Biafra thing. If not they would have grabbed the man again and locked him up and thrown away the keys. Me I don’t want war. I have a small land in Sango.”

Mrs Zubi had joined the gathering unnoticed. She spoke up when her husband said “Another Nollywood death?”

“Why won’t they die when they keep playing with fire? Today they are inside coffin, tomorrow they are tying red cloth around their waist and painting their eyes with chalk and chanting names of demons. They say it is acting but they don’t know that the devil does not know the spelling of Nollywood. Rather than go to look for one correct prophet that will wash their heads after playing such roles, they will be going from place to place mimicking Hollywood red carpet. Next day they fall down and die. When Funke Akindele did not miss one minute of the hallelujah challenge last month, the others thought she did not know what she was doing.”

“Sports please!” Josiah said.

“Chelsea sign Bakayoko from Monaco” Mr Zubi said, and held up the colourful centre spread.

“Another African player. The guy is too black.”

“He is not an African player. He is from France” Talabi said.

“He is from France just like I am from Japan” Josiah sneered.

“He is French-born and carries a French passport. What is your problem with African players?”

“They do juju. Very soon you will see that those that are competing with him for position in the team will start breaking their legs and in training they will be kicking the air instead of the ball until they find themselves permanently on the bench.”

“Then whose fault is it when they themselves get injured? This guy just had a knee surgery and may be missing the start of the season.”
Irikefe snuck up to me from behind and whispered in my ear “Bros Freke. Sister Esther is cooking for The Undertaker.”

“Shut up Irikefe. Sister Esther is here.” I looked around and did not find Sister Esther.

“Come” Irikefe said, and grabbed my hand.