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3
BEN, A BLIND Nigerian friend of mine in London, had asked me to take
some presents to his family in Ogbomosho, a large town not far from Ibadan
on the way north. Ogbomosho was one of the important centres of
missionary activity in mid-nineteenth-century Yorubaland and therefore
possesses a relatively high proportion of Christians. Ben, himself a
Christian, had grown up in the town until, at the age of nine, he had
suddenly gone blind. As he told it he had been playing with some friends in
the front yard, his mother had called him in for his lunch, and while he sat at
the table waiting for his meal it was as if, he said, ‘someone had drawn a
curtain’.
Doctors who were consulted were baffled. There was nothing physically
wrong with his eyes; there was no reason why he shouldn’t be able to see.
His parents, subsistence farmers, put it down to the work of an enemy.
They dragged him from one native doctor to another, spent everything they
had, but failed to find one with sufficient powers. In the end he was sent by
the government to a special school in Lagos where he was taught, among
other things, how to touch-type. When he was fourteen he won a
scholarship to a boarding school in England. Now he is twenty-eight. He
hasn’t been back to Nigeria since. When I met him he was studying for a
Master’s degree at London University. He was the only student on the
course to pass with distinction.
The journey to Ogbomosho, by ordinary taxi, took two hours and cost
N4. We had difficulty finding the part of town I was looking for. The driver,
who was illiterate and therefore couldn’t read the address, didn’t
understand my pronunciation. Yoruba is a tonal language in which the
same word can mean half-a-dozen different things. He was also anxious to
start on the return journey. We went right through the town to the other
side. He finally delivered me into the hands of a group of women hawkers
outside the gates of the main hospital, one of the landmarks of the town.
None of the women, who were selling food and soft drinks, spoke a word
of English. But they wanted to help. One of them produced a three-legged
stool and ordered me to sit down. As they conversed amongst themselves,
I watched a completely naked woman wander about in a small circle
grubbing in the dirt for scraps. Nobody paid her any attention.
By consulting passers-by the women finally figured out where it was I
wanted to go. The youngest was delegated to escort me. She tied her
baby on her back, relieved me of my bag, and hailed a taxi. We went
deeper and deeper into the centre of the town, raising an immense amount
of dust as we swerved this way and that to avoid potholes and pedestrians
and the open gutters that ran either side of the laterite road. Many of the
houses were simply one-storey buildings of mud and corrugated tin. They
were packed close together with only a bare patch of red earth between
them. There was very little vegetation anywhere: the predominant colour
was a dull red.
By the time we came to a stop we had taken so many turns that I was
thoroughly lost. We made for one of the few concrete buildings, parted the
curtain over the entrance and entered. It was dark and bare inside and I
could see straight through to the open kitchen at the back. We were
directed by a group of children to a nearby room. An old man with white
hair and a simple cloth tied round his waist lay on a mat on the concrete
floor. He sat up slowly and with great difficult. I shook his hand. He point
to a wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. The children
clustered about the doorway and simply stared at me: this was undoubtedly
an adventure and they weren’t about to miss out on it. I started talking,
explaining who I was and why I had come. He raised his hand and said
something to one of the children. The child took off and presently returned
with a young woman. Although she wasn’t related to the family she was the
only person in the vicinity who understood English. I began all over again,
pausing now and then for her to translate. I’m not quite sure what I had
expected at the end of my recital but it certainly wasn’t the silence which
followed. Was this man the father or not? Was this in fact the right
house? Then the girl told me to bring out the presents. I placed them on
the floor: two plastic handbags, two dressing table mirrors, a viewfinder with
slides of London. Finally the letter. All the while there was complete
silence. Were they disappointed? Had they anticipated more from a man
who had come such a long way? I looked at the young woman. She
seemed amused. Then she explained that the parents were away on the
farm and wouldn’t be back for a few days. I asked if it was possible to go
and see them, or for somebody to be sent to get them. It seemed to me
that, more than the token gifts, they would want to have a look at the
person who had last seen their son. She shook her head. The farm was
some distance away, about sixty kilometres.
I was still reluctant to go. I continued to sit where I was; the spectators
remained where they were; the presents were left untouched at my feet.
Only then did it occur to me that they might be embarrassed by the poverty
of their surroundings. From their point of view London must have seemed
an impossibly fabulous place. What could they offer me? But I wanted to
give them a chance to question me. After a few more
Continued...
BEN, A BLIND Nigerian friend of mine in London, had asked me to take
some presents to his family in Ogbomosho, a large town not far from Ibadan
on the way north. Ogbomosho was one of the important centres of
missionary activity in mid-nineteenth-century Yorubaland and therefore
possesses a relatively high proportion of Christians. Ben, himself a
Christian, had grown up in the town until, at the age of nine, he had
suddenly gone blind. As he told it he had been playing with some friends in
the front yard, his mother had called him in for his lunch, and while he sat at
the table waiting for his meal it was as if, he said, ‘someone had drawn a
curtain’.
Doctors who were consulted were baffled. There was nothing physically
wrong with his eyes; there was no reason why he shouldn’t be able to see.
His parents, subsistence farmers, put it down to the work of an enemy.
They dragged him from one native doctor to another, spent everything they
had, but failed to find one with sufficient powers. In the end he was sent by
the government to a special school in Lagos where he was taught, among
other things, how to touch-type. When he was fourteen he won a
scholarship to a boarding school in England. Now he is twenty-eight. He
hasn’t been back to Nigeria since. When I met him he was studying for a
Master’s degree at London University. He was the only student on the
course to pass with distinction.
The journey to Ogbomosho, by ordinary taxi, took two hours and cost
N4. We had difficulty finding the part of town I was looking for. The driver,
who was illiterate and therefore couldn’t read the address, didn’t
understand my pronunciation. Yoruba is a tonal language in which the
same word can mean half-a-dozen different things. He was also anxious to
start on the return journey. We went right through the town to the other
side. He finally delivered me into the hands of a group of women hawkers
outside the gates of the main hospital, one of the landmarks of the town.
None of the women, who were selling food and soft drinks, spoke a word
of English. But they wanted to help. One of them produced a three-legged
stool and ordered me to sit down. As they conversed amongst themselves,
I watched a completely naked woman wander about in a small circle
grubbing in the dirt for scraps. Nobody paid her any attention.
By consulting passers-by the women finally figured out where it was I
wanted to go. The youngest was delegated to escort me. She tied her
baby on her back, relieved me of my bag, and hailed a taxi. We went
deeper and deeper into the centre of the town, raising an immense amount
of dust as we swerved this way and that to avoid potholes and pedestrians
and the open gutters that ran either side of the laterite road. Many of the
houses were simply one-storey buildings of mud and corrugated tin. They
were packed close together with only a bare patch of red earth between
them. There was very little vegetation anywhere: the predominant colour
was a dull red.
By the time we came to a stop we had taken so many turns that I was
thoroughly lost. We made for one of the few concrete buildings, parted the
curtain over the entrance and entered. It was dark and bare inside and I
could see straight through to the open kitchen at the back. We were
directed by a group of children to a nearby room. An old man with white
hair and a simple cloth tied round his waist lay on a mat on the concrete
floor. He sat up slowly and with great difficult. I shook his hand. He point
to a wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. The children
clustered about the doorway and simply stared at me: this was undoubtedly
an adventure and they weren’t about to miss out on it. I started talking,
explaining who I was and why I had come. He raised his hand and said
something to one of the children. The child took off and presently returned
with a young woman. Although she wasn’t related to the family she was the
only person in the vicinity who understood English. I began all over again,
pausing now and then for her to translate. I’m not quite sure what I had
expected at the end of my recital but it certainly wasn’t the silence which
followed. Was this man the father or not? Was this in fact the right
house? Then the girl told me to bring out the presents. I placed them on
the floor: two plastic handbags, two dressing table mirrors, a viewfinder with
slides of London. Finally the letter. All the while there was complete
silence. Were they disappointed? Had they anticipated more from a man
who had come such a long way? I looked at the young woman. She
seemed amused. Then she explained that the parents were away on the
farm and wouldn’t be back for a few days. I asked if it was possible to go
and see them, or for somebody to be sent to get them. It seemed to me
that, more than the token gifts, they would want to have a look at the
person who had last seen their son. She shook her head. The farm was
some distance away, about sixty kilometres.
I was still reluctant to go. I continued to sit where I was; the spectators
remained where they were; the presents were left untouched at my feet.
Only then did it occur to me that they might be embarrassed by the poverty
of their surroundings. From their point of view London must have seemed
an impossibly fabulous place. What could they offer me? But I wanted to
give them a chance to question me. After a few more
Continued...