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This morning, I have a strange urge to look for my school mother on Facebook. Maybe the urge is not strange at all, I mean, I fell asleep last night; just dropped off, the vodka and juice at the foot of my bed forgotten, untouched, and I slept straight till dawn. God forbid that I let it go to waste, so on discovering it this morning, I took a healthy gulp. Then another. And a last. And in the alcohol-induced euphoria and flash of brilliance that can only be trumped by smoking weed, I decided I missed my school mother, whom I last saw in 1992 or thereabouts. All I know of her is her name. Bunmi… Bunmi Oke.
So I asked Facebook. Facebook has all kinds of strange suggestions and faces, none of whom look like her, unless she is using someone else’s face/picture on her profile. Or she has a married name. I call on all ex-Federal Government College Ikom students to help me in this matter.
I remember being puzzled—a short pudgy child of about ten, with dirty pink daywear and thick glasses, unkempt thread hair and a sharp mouth. I asked her how it was that she had one Yoruba name and one Igbo name. She looked down at me from her great height – seniors then really looked like seniors, kinda like gods, larger than life – and kindly explained that this was the Yoruba Oke, minus the “y”. She however stated that her mum was Igbo.
Senior Bunmi was really beautiful. Plump, very fair, tall and soft spoken, she protected me where she could, when my sharp tongue got me in trouble. She gave me milk and Cabin biscuits and hid me in her corner to sleep away activities like labour and sports. When a very mean senior Caroline sent everyone outside to lie face down on soldier ants for making “a hell of noise,” senior Bunmi did not interfere. But when I returned, dirty, swollen from the bites, and crying, she cleaned me up with a damp towel, rubbed Vaseline on the swellings and put me in her bed.
I remember her in her Yellow-House check, and all-back hair, which she plaited in straight bold cornrows, about 3-6 braids, never more, pulled back from her forehead and the actual weave beginning about three inches from her hairline in the style we called “brush”, and slicked back with Apple hair cream or petroleum jelly. She had long black hair; I would look at her hair, her white gentle eyes and shy smile, her lovely plump body, and wish she were my mother. She had the gentlest ways and I had no difficulty seeing her in a few years as a wife and mother. She had that aura.
When the first ever Lux Beauty Queen, Ibidun Ajayi nee Ighodalo, came visiting us at my aunt’s in Dolphin estate in the year of her reign, I took one look at her and Bunmi Oke resurrected in my mind and began to live vicariously again to me, through Ibidun; so striking was the resemblance, except Ibidun was slimmer and darker-skinned. Maybe it was just the eyes. Or the long black hair. Or the simplicity and gentleness. Or maybe they did not look alike at all. Who knows/ I was ten. When Ibidun joined my sister Racheal and I in the kitchen and drank Ijebu garri with us, I wanted to hug her and ask if she was related to a Bunmi Oke. But I was shy. She was a beauty queen. I was. . .well, I was a nerdy kid with big glasses, awkward ways, a fat ass and no social graces.
When my mother died in ’95, I wished with all my heart for Senior Bunmi. Now I could displace my mum with no guilt at all, after all, she was done good and dead and here was a life human surrogate mother-to-be material and where was she? I don’t know. We did not have GSM phones then, hardly any phones at all. What did we say when we left each other? Did we say we would keep in touch? I doubt it. The memories are vague. But she rises out of them, out of the ashes of memory, every time, untouched; a Daenerys Stormborn rising from the ashes at Vaes Dothrak, unburnt.
Every once in a while, some lady would show up in my life, fair-skinned, long black silken tresses, soft-voiced, limpid eyes and alas, a strange name. Not Bunmi.
Now here I am in Lagos, and to think that there is even a one percent chance that she is here, that somehow, the air I breath has diffused through time and space and been inhaled by her, or is it the other way round; that we have shared a breath. I realise she could be living on the very next street! And then I wonder, does she even remember me?
But on days when I wake and don’t dive straight into last night’s vodka, here is what I think. I think that nobody is that perfect. I think that reality does not live up to the expectations of fantasy. I think that idols have clay feet; idols must stay on the pedestals we have placed them upon. The years have passed, and in the cobwebby haze that is my childhood memories, I, a fantast, like a ship on a storm-tossed sea, have held onto the vague memories like an anchor, magnifying them by my illusory wonderings until they are larger than life and startlingly real by the very fact of their vagueness. Then in a moment of lucidity, I wonder how reliable my recollections are.
So I rally my fragmented thoughts, gather my wits about me, wave my friends a happy weekend. And watch the tumultuous waves of life crash against the shore.
Bunmi Oke please show up and make this beautiful, witty, nerdy woman very happy.
I wish i could remember my school mum, all i remember is generic beauty and big tits…..but i remember and still hang with my school father till date, for his family and mine where close pals and lived not far from each other.
Hang in there, your wish shall come true……….someday ***checking my orb***
Your orb is working well oh. Cuz someone has already offered her details.
Yes o, my training at Hogwarths School of Wizandry wasn’t in vain……
when is the reunion, need to watch on my magic mirror….
I’m happy that you are happy
By the way, remain my own vodka for me mbok!
You can write….and I can read. Nirvana!
Then all is well with the world.
Well crafted piece! I hardly can remember that name Bunmi I pray someday you will reconnect with her again. Long live our College, FGC Ikom our school most dear! We shall fight to bring you fame!
Thanks!
Here is one beautiful writer. More!!!
Oliver twist. But the twist in the tale is that this time, you don’t get your wrist slapped. You actually get more.
Think I liked you better in your vodka-induced mood . . . And good luck with your search for Bunmi Oke. 🙂
Thank you. I will try to stay drunk as often as possible
Nice Rambling, Pearl. Reminiscing is just one part of us that can’t be disregarded. This piece will someday materialize in some cobwebbed memories too.
I hope so. Maybe she will read it and find me
I love this piece… Kudos?
Oh thank you so much. Started out as a facebook post
🙂
🙂 LOL
Found her yet? Or perhaps you decided the pedestal’s a better place for clay feet?
I WILL. I will make that call. 🙂
So…have you yet?
Beautiful pearl ,very beautiful,I will keep reading and we shld drink together sometime
Oh yes we should. Thank you so much!
That you write great are no news to me after having read a few of your pieces but this one has really touched me for personaly reasons.
Greetings from Germany to you from Minah Anyaso.
I’m not sure why but thank you so much. And hey, say hey to Hitler’s children for me.
Hitler,as far as I am informed, had no children ,dear Pearl..unless you refer to any german as one of his relatives.
Oh Minah, i had to open the post and reread to understand your comment. i was jokingly referring to Ede Amatoritsero’s poetry collection http://amckiereads.com/2011/09/09/review-globetrotter-hitlers-children-by-amatoritsero-ede/
just didn’t feel good but it’s alright,@Pearl.
Another wonderful and well crafted piece from Pearl. I dont just know why i had to found this blog for a long time. U’ve got th thank Pa Ikheloa for leading me to this land of great stories.
Thank you so much. Please follow the blog for future updates? Thank you.
Hello Pearl,
I rendered absolute tears of the then innocent years in Ikom, hope you’ve seen Bunmi. she is still a knock out and well,here in Lagos. We should meet.
Iyke- President FGC IKOM ALUMNI, Lagos Chapter
Lost my nerve. LOL. Sending you a message now. Thanks.
How did I get here…? First, memories came in in trickles. I could have locked up all openings, but then I allowed it in till it landed me here. Incidentally, she was my school momma too. Can’t forget that face… nice woman.
I don’t like this nostalgic feeling of mine.
Nice write-up sister
…and remember to tell Racheal that I greet