A strange event floated into my quiet space like an aimless freak and stunned me harder than a shockwave. The idigo lights had come on indicating a great personality or deity was scheduled to visit Davy Jones Locker for some unpur knownpose or is it unknown purpose. Then the light went out, making my eyes fall to the ground then return to its sockets with a little dust that itched them. Such a one-in-a-billion chance event had to be a cancellation or an error. I was worried.
Hitherto that moment of the lights, I was there alone in the gigantic cavern brainstorming the fate of Davy Jones Locker if Nigeria breaks up. “Against Tribalism,” I said aloud. Will the 4-7 Creed be scraped or revised or undergo its own Tower of Babel? What concerns a map-maker with chromium content of stainless steel? I was shivering a little despite wearing thick woolly socks, a trouser over tracksuit bottoms, two jumpers, a black beret, and a great coat. There were only a few candles burning with still flames and darkness seemed ready to pounce on me. Not a place for the gregarious.
Imati, a junior deity to the Goddess Oshun, had given me invaluable advise a few times in the past. Now again I needed her wisdom. Only men who were cyclo-sex for over three years or more could invoke her. Woe unto those who say there is no benefit in abstinence! Imati is so beautiful, each time she appears to me, Gbogborogbo! And for six hours. My invocation of Imati is secret. She appeared and I laid my complaint to her about the lights.
“The forgone sailor is Nathaniel Oyelola aka Bony Bill and it was a mistake to schedule him for Davy Jones Locker,” she said with an onyokorising voice.
“Where will he go then, if not here?” I asked.
“He is scheduled to go to Fiddler’s Green.” She replied.
“Where or what is Fiddler’s Green?” I asked in follow-up.
Imati began laughing causing my body to onyokorise all over. I had become asexual by the restrictions of Davy Jones Locker but I thought about what the disaster–resistant luters, the group–raters, and the obrushiners would do if they were here. Tsunami onlyers are trustworthy in these circumstances but a different breed, even Oshun is too young for them. The Lute-diers are also trustworthy, “ever rumming, never luting.”
“Fiddler’s Green is where those who sailed with clean and genuine hearts go. They must “be good not lucky” and served so for at least fifty years. But some who served for over thirty years are considered,” she informed me.
“Is Paramole in Fiddler’s Green?” I asked.
“No. He did return on his birthday in Davy Jones Locker because he wanted to tame your excesses. He still believes in you, more than you can imagine. He gave you a task, fulfil it,” she said raising her voice. I was silent.
Imati only allows a maximum of seven questions and then she disappears without ceremony.
“I have another question” I requested. Imati nodded her head. “Are there any other places besides Davy Jones Locker and Fiddler’s Green for forgone sailors?” I asked.
“Lyonesse. Fiddler’s Green is for those who have earned their rest and eternal enjoyment. Lyonesse is where the builders and workaholics go, they do not want to rest. If they had lived as long as Methuselah, it would not be sufficient to complete their dreams. Ayo Odebisi, Tunde Bajah, Bola Ige are in Lyonesse working on the problems of an unjust society,” she declared.
“How come I never heard of Fiddler’s Green and Lyonesse before now? I asked.
“The day you are Xmas’ed, Gbogborima decides where you will spend your forgone years due to his Akashic Eyes. Those fed to the sharks do not go to Davy Jones Locker, Fiddler’s Green, nor Lyonesse. But don’t worry, the sharks refused to eat you,” she said hiding a smile.
“Can I take Bony Bill to Fiddler’s Green?” I petitioned.
“You can pick up Bony Bill and take him to Fiddler’s Green, get to know him,” she said handing me a map and disappears.
I did not waste time to board my submarine. I was so lost in thought as I moved eastwards across the Atlantic using Talisker 10 years and supported by dried octopus and seaweed sticks. My latest grooming was ruggedity gets you to Davy Jones Locker but only love thrusts you into either Fiddler’s Green and Lyonesse. Wow! The hours it took to get to Bony Bill passed like minutes. Thought has its own unique time horizons.
Bony Bill knew who I was as I approached him. He looked jolly but a bit frail. I greeted him and beckoned him to board my submarine. He ignored my “Ahoy!” and gave me non-verbal cues not to claw him with a handshake. For almost a quarter of an hour he stood looking at me speechless. The mutiny-spirit was alerted but yet to brew, it was always very slow to anger. I suspect it twinkled in my eyes, not sure though.
“Are you ready to take me to rest?” he said breaking the long silence.
“O Cap’n, at your orders.” I replied.
“And Ahoy to You, O Man of Wrongness! You look and act so respectful. I heard you were genuine but utterly mutinous.” He said pausing to see my reaction. “You look like a new born puppy,” he furthered with a quizzical smile on his face. “Never mind, on the way to Fiddler’s Green, please tell me your grievances, if any. I can straighten them out,” he said in a remarkably cheery manner. “You were only able to take me on this journey because our sailors require 30 days to arrange the transport,” he informed me. To own and run a submarine is not easy O!
We boarded the submarine together. Bony Bill eased himself into the same seat Fabio Romani had used, it gave a good view of the ocean and its floors. I could now understand why Paramole sat somewhere that would not entertain or distract him. Work, think, work. We were headed for where only the best of sailors go to rest in pleasure for eternity. I wondered if I would see Ahoys Wota Koloho or Spitfire there. Our conversation was yet to commence. He closed his eyes and began to pipe an ancient sailor’s song I had never heard, then stepped it down to the familiar “Hokpe Halele O, Hokpe himalele” and I supplied the chorus, it was a damn short song best enjoyed with endless iterations. We had an interesting journey ahead of us.
Oceaneering is too sweet. I reserve my Ahoys and Honours to the great Bony Bill, Supreme Master of the Clippers till we get to Fiddler‘s Green.
Be Good, Not Lucky.