Nathaniel Oyelola Rejects Davy Jones Locker

A strange event floats into my quiet space like an aimless freak and stuns me harder than a shock-wave. Damn! I was not expecting it. The indigo lights had come on. That indicates a great personality or deity is ready to visit Davy Jones Locker for some unpur knownpose. Or is it unknown purpose. Then the light goes out, making my eyes fall to the ground then return to their sockets with a little dust to itch them later. Such a one-in-a-billion chance event must be a cancellation or an error. I am worried.

Alone in the cavern, I pondered the fate of Davy Jones Locker if Nigeria were to break up. “Against Tribalism,” I muttered, questioning the future of the 4-7 Creed. The few burning candles barely illuminated the darkness, and I shivered despite my thick clothing. 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 need 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, I go Gbogborogbo! And for six hours. My invocation of Imati is secret. She appears and I lay my complaint to her about the lights.

“The Forgone Terror is Nathaniel Oyelola aka Bony Bill. It was a mistake to schedule him for Davy Jones Locker,” she says with an enticing voice.

“Where will he go then, if not here?” I ask.

“He is scheduled to go to Fiddler’s Green. He rejects the Davy Jones Locker.” She replies.

“Where or what is Fiddler’s Green?” I ask in follow-up.

Imati begins laughing in a pitch that causes my body to tingle all over. I had become asexual by the restrictions of Davy Jones Locker. But I think  about what the disaster–resistant looters, 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 Loot-diers are also trustworthy, “Ever rumming, never looting.”

“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 younger ones can be considered,” she informs me.

“Is Paramole in Fiddler’s Green?” I ask.

“No. He did return on his birthday in Davy Jones Locker because he wanted to tame your excesses. Paramole still believes in you, more than you can imagine. He gave you a task. Fulfil it,” she said raising her voice.

I am silent.

Imati only allows a maximum of seven questions and then she disappears without ceremony.

“I have another question” I requested. Imati nods her head.

“Are there any other places besides Davy Jones Locker and Fiddler’s Green for forgone sailors?” I ask.

“Lyonesse. Fiddler’s Green is for those who have earned their rest and eternal enjoyment. Lyonesse is where the  selfless 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. There are other places for sailors,” she declares.

“How come I never heard of Fiddler’s Green and Lyonesse before now? I ask.

“Does it matter? The day you are Christmas’ed, Gbogborima decides where you will spend your forgone years due to his All-seeing Eyes.”

“That’s interesting. No, its shocking!”

“Keep your voice low. 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 ask.

“You can Bony Bill pick up and take him to Fiddler’s Green. Try getting to know him,” she said handing me a map and disappears.  

Not wasting time, I board my submarine. Lost in thought I head eastwards across the Atlantic.  Talisker 10 years and chewing dried octopus and seaweed sticks accompany me. My latest lesson is ruggedity gets you to Davy Jones Locker. Only love and selfless dedication thrusts you into either Fiddler’s Green, Lyonesse or elsewhere. Wow!

The hours it takes to get to Bony Bill passes like minutes. Thought has its own unique time horizons that stretch or shrink by necessity. The Forgone Sailor is a member of the Original Seven, the men who formed the Prates Confraternity in 1953. A Pyrates grandee.

Bony Bill recognises me as I approach him. He looks jolly but a bit frail. I greet him and beckon him to board my submarine. He ignores my “Ahoy!” and gives me non-verbal cues not to claw him with a handshake. For almost a quarter of an hour he stands looking at me speechless. My mutiny-spirit is alert but yet to activate. It’s always very slow to anger. I suspect it twinkles in my eyes, not sure though. But hope he does not see it.

“Are you ready to take me to rest?” he asks breaking the long silence.

“O Cap’n, at your orders.” I reply.

“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.

“Unnecessary notoriety follows my name. Its no fair.”

“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 board the submarine together. Bony Bill eases himself into the same seat Fabio Romani had used. It gives 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 are heading for  the place where only the best of sailors go to rest in pleasure for eternity. I wonder if I will see Ahoys Wota Koloho or Spitfire there.

Our conversation was yet to commence. He closes his eyes and pipes an ancient sailor’s song I had never heard, then steps it down to the familiar

Hokpe Halele O,

Hokpe himalele” 

I supply the chorus.

It is a damn short song best enjoyed with endless iterations. He has initiated a basis for a brotherly interaction between us. An interesting journey the the Forgone world lies 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.