The crossing

Mide’s Abor with Olamide Longe

Email:  araokian@gmail.com Twitter: @araokian

It was mid morning on a hot Thursday. Jide sat in the midst of his classmates, their excited chatter going over his head. They were going on a field trip. He was bored. As usual. As far back as he could remember, he’d always detested field trips. You were meant to be on your best behaviour, expected to ask questions of your guide and then go home and write all about your experience. He would have no problem with any of these, if the experiences turned out to be nothing more than endurance tests. It began with being squeezed into a bus and having to suffer quietly while your feet are treaded upon and elbows dug into your ribs.

He decided to zone out by replaying the wrestling match he’d seen with his big brother the previous night in his mind.

He returned to the present when the bus pulled to a stop and he was jolted by one of his mates. They trooped out in a file, with the teacher and her assistant barking orders at the same time. Someone was bound to get a knock on the head soon.

The building had Jide gaping. It was quite ugly. He gazed at it trying to work out what it was meant to represent.  The teacher’s assistant gave him a slight push. “Move! We haven’t come to stare at the building.”

Why not? If ever there was a building to stare at, this was it. He shrugged. Whatever it was, the building made an impression.

He caught up with his mates as they entered the reception. It was refreshingly cool inside. The teacher conversed with the receptionist.

The reception was an indefinable shape. It was huge with high a ceiling. The only other place he had entered that felt like this was a church. A curious painting hung on the wall above the receptionist’s desk. He squinted at it, no sense of what it was.

He got mad at himself. Why was he noticing things? What did he care about these things? So what if the room was odd? And what about the painting? He frowned. It looked like a woman, but he wasn’t so sure. Those lips he could make out belonged on no one, whether a man or woman.  And if those were hands sprouting from a waist, then it was time to switch back to the wrestling match.

A man came out of the door to the left of the receptionist’s desk. Jide shook his head in wonder. It was a pregnant man. He exchanged greetings with the teachers and then greeted the children and introduced himself as their guide. Jide knew the question he would love to ask him. How did your stomach grow so big? He chuckled. His teachers would die or kill him.

A girl standing beside him gave him quizzical look. He scowled at her.

The tour began. Their guide led them from one room to another, each filled with all sorts of paintings hanging on the wall and different kinds of carvings and sculptures. He heard words like abstract, surreal, and other strange words he was hearing for the first time used to describe the works they were viewing.

Everything was fascinating.

Wrestling match forgotten.

One particular room held a painting that had a strange pull on him. It was huge and dominated an entire wall. Three women. Their hands outstretched towards the heavens, fingers splayed, their heads thrown back, eyes closed. They looked as if they were being churned in a whirlpool. They wore nothing safe an indigo woven wrapper tied around their chests and heads. Their feet bare, were at unusual angles. Layers of beads adorned their necks and ankles. They were voluptuous; their maker had captured every curve, even their outstretched arms seemed to undulate. Colours sparkled around them in different hues, dark hues. The expressions on their faces at the same time showed joy and pain.

Confounding!

When they all exited the room after some of them had asked questions of the guide and he had answered satisfactorily, he snuck back and went to stand before the painting. He had to see it alone with no irritating chatters and someone breathing down his neck.

His heart started. Did the women just move? Certainly not.

He heard the sound of drums.

He looked about him. He was indeed alone in the room. He could hear excited voices coming from other parts of the building. His mind was playing tricks on him. He returned his gaze to the three women.

Fascinated by their expressions, he moved even closer. Again, he heard the sound of drums. This time, it was very loud. He could make out a pulsating rhythm and the ground seemed to tremble beneath him.

Alarmed, he looked down. He saw brown earth, and thick brown dust covered his feet. Frightened, he looked up; there was nothing but open sky. He looked around him; all he saw were shadows, shifting shadows. He began to sweat.

The drumbeats got louder, still.

He felt himself lifted. He soared on wings he could not see. The beats became his heartbeat. He jerked his shoulders. He stamped his feet. He flipped forward, then backward. He shook his shoulders. He stamped his feet. He whirled like a dervish. He went down on his knees and folded back until his back met the ground. Soon he was up again and spinning as if he would never stop. His head swelled with an unfathomable feeling. His head felt like it would burst. His eyes squeezed tight; his teeth gritted. He wanted to stop, but he was incapable. This was beyond him. On and on he went. He was never going to stop.

Someone was chanting his name.

The voice seemed to come from a distant place.

The chanting got louder.

His head was going to burst.

Then someone jerked his hand with great force. He fell to the ground.

“Are you all right?”

He opened his eyes slowly and saw his teacher looking down at him with a frightened expression. He held his head in his hand. His palms were wet. What had happened to him? He sat up slowly.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You tell me.” She sounded angry. “We’ve been searching for you. Your mates are in the bus. Time to go back to school. You have all of us worrying. Do you want to get us in trouble? Thank God we did a head count. Very naughty of you.”

He stretched out his hand to her. “Help me up, ma.”

With a frown, she did as he asked. “Are you all right?” she asked again.

“I fell.”

“Sorry. But, I kept calling you and you wouldn’t answer. Your eyes were closed and your head raised as if you were praying. I shook you and you fell. You hit the floor before I could stop you. We will look at it in the bus. Let’s go meet the others so they will stop the search.”

He nodded.  He glanced back at the painting. The women were smiling at him.

He kept his hand firmly in his teacher’s as they walked out.