Happy Birthday, Paramole

From my periscope I spot Paramole ashore in the distance standing on a spit that juts out from the Lagosian coastline. He is wearing a dark tan short sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck, a pair of khaki cargo trousers and leather flip-flops. Ever erect and looking skywards away from the sun, Paramole is the same old fellow otherwise known as Ayo Odebisi. Alone and the only person visible for hundreds of metres, he must have walked at least half a mile on the unmotorable beach to reach the spit.

Viewing the landmass from the sea this morning is great. Only foreign sailors and oceaneers talk about its beauty and amazing nature. In the old days Nigerian navy personnel did too. A thin stretch of beach like a pencil mustache separates the sea’s greenish blue waters from the land’s deep green flora. The shore looks like a flat head.

The waves are not aggressive this morning and the sky is clear but filled with far high clouds. I now raise my submarine to the sea’s level and horn Pam Pam-Pam. He looks out towards my submarine and smiles waving both arms. The sea breeze was cool, refreshing and I today like other times believe I could smell the salt. Natural air and air-conditioning are not mates especially underwater.

The pleasure of seeing Paramole again overwhelms me. I cry tears of pure joy. An Unsung Great Man of the Seas and Brooks is once again here with me for his Birthday. I so miss him.

We are now sitting in our cushy soft reclinable seats and pull open the flick-out tables with cup and plate holders in them. Unfastened plates and cups can mess up the cabin with a little turbulence. We can talk now.

“Omi Paramole, it’s so great to meet you again. How in the world have you been all these years?”

“Working hard and enjoying life.”

“I can’t call you Wrong Someone anymore since you no longer belong and have refused to return.”

“You can call me Almost Okolowe.”

Paramole bursts into long uncontrollable laughter and soon tears form on the inner corners of his eyes.

“Almost Okolowe? People always said you are crazy. I agree but not in a clinical sense.”

“I have to survive.”

“You always do because you are a Pyrate. You can call yourself Nonexistence or No Contact but you will always be a Pyrate.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

“Almost Okolowe, you should be sure.”

“The dream of the Pyrates Confraternity died long ago. It was a great dream to create the better society. Alas, the leaders lacked the will to handle the task. The PC was going to transform the world by the excellence of the 4-7 Creed. For where? Dreams require clarity of thought and qualified lines of action to come true. The leader or leaders did not have that. So, like all things its time came and passed the confraternity by. For good.”

“I told you; you had a responsibility to play a role in keeping that dream alive any way you could. But you failed.”

“Responsibility does not work well with constant fraternal betrayals and weak men who hide behind spots. Casting saviour responsibilities upon me is moral cruelty. Have you not heard the saying. ‘If a Juju wants blood, he would not accept palm oil.”

“All Pyrates are saviours by oath. And there is no Juju in PC.”

“Wole Soyinka is a living deity in the eyes of members and even non-members. He is not Captain Blood for nothing.”

“Die that logic, permanently! You cannot make figurative language literal just like that.”

“I always learn from you, please put the figure in a more logical way.”

“I will not give you the pleasure. Do you have ice in this your ocean cabucabu?”

“Yes, plenty. This is a submarine for personal use not a cabucabu.”

I get Paramole a small pail of sixteen chunky ice cubes and a sparkly crystal whisky glass. From one of his trousers pockets, he brings out a stainless-steel hip-flask of whisky. The usual content of the flasks is either Chivas Regal or Johnny Walkers Black Label. I wonder if such brands are available onboard Lyonesse, where he now sails.

“Are you not drinking.”

“I drink goscolene these days.”

For myself, I bring out a Fanta bottle of goscolene corked with a rubber wine stopper. Paramole smiles.

“Almost Okolowe, I hope you have not become an ogogoro master.”

“Goscolene rhymes with my body.”

“Good for you.”

He pours the whiskey to half fill his glass almost absent-minded then puts in five cubes nearly overflowing the glass. After four minutes he says a silent toast. I raise my glass; chink and we drink. We had done this gesture thousands of times before. The surprise is he lights no cigarette.

“Have you stopped smoking?”

“No. I ran out of filters.”

“I have some.”

“Have you started smoking?”

“I bought them for you.”

Paramole pulls a cigarette from a pack, fixes a filter on it and lights it. He takes his first drag then relaxes his head back into his seat. For long now I had not smelt cigarette smoke. The smoke is light and mild. The air-conditioning will deal with it. He turns his face to me. I try to take his photo but he covers my phone’s lens with his palm. Any picture of his in existence was taken without his consent.

“What do you do these days apart from fomenting trouble within the fold?”

“I don’t like the question.”

“Answer it.”

“I am doing the research you said I should.”

“Where?”

“Self-study.”

“I told you to get admission to a top university and do a one-year MPhil in it. Oscar will pay.”

“I have tried countless times to reach Oscar and no show. I guess he is not too happy with me.”

“You guessed wrong.”

The submarine takes a hard jolt with a loud bang causing the lights to go out then returns flickering. Thanks to the drinks holders the spills were minimal. The pleasant scent of goscolene and whiskey fills the air.

“What was that?”

“It must have been a shark bumping into us. If it were a metal object or a rock my sonar would have warned us adequately. A torpedo would have killed us.”

“I can’t die again you know.”

“Let me do a system analysis audit to check if the submarine is seaworthy.”

The ten minutes it takes to complete the audit we sit in silence but with a lot to ask and say to each other.

“Shit. There’s a moderate dent on the starboard. We’ll have to reduce our speed by three knots.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Why don’t you want to return to the fold.”

“Captain Blood hates my guts and I don’t like him either.”

“Look you are at fault here.”

“I accept. Then I have got to live.”

“You swore to uphold the better society.”

“I have.”

“You don’t stop. It’s a vocation.”

“While everyone else seeks NAS office by any means necessary? They should do some hard meaningful work for a change instead of amassing derisory red spots. All I got is hatred and black spots for wanting the better society.”

“Do black spots mean anything to you?”

“No. But that’s beside the point.”

“What is the point?”

“If I am a convicted thief, a murderer, a rapist or drug dealer I would still be inside the fold sailing away if not forever. Does that not tell you something?”

“PC is not a judiciary. It’s a brotherhood of men fine and flawed.”

“I have flaws too. Why are everyone else’s flaws forgiven and mine not.”

“You never ask for forgiveness in the real sense. You apologise and leave it at that.”

“Those I forgive do not have to beg. Why should I beg? To avoid spots?”

“Why are you being so difficult?”

“I’m just refusing to be a fool in the name of the 4-7 Creed.”

“Don’t you want to remarry? Living alone can be tough for a man.”

“When I recover, I will remarry. I am only single because of health challenges.”

“People with health challenges marry.”

“In my experience most Pyrates’ wives hate the confraternity.”

“Don’t think I was suggesting that if you get married you would be more willing to rejoin the fold.”

“They don’t want me. You should try persuading them to take me back. Have I not been through enough?”

“I see your point.”

Happy Birthday to you

Happy Birthday to you

Happy Birthday, O Paramole

Happy Birthday to you

“An Ahoy to you, O Almost Okolowe.”

“An Awee!”

“I am hungry.”

I dish some steamy octopus pepper soup into two deep pans. The chunks of flesh are large and juicy. He starts eating.

“Living alone has turned you into a great cook. No wonder you don’t want to marry.”

“Glad you liked it. It’s your birthday breakfast special.”

“What’s for lunch.”

“Smoked stingray and crispy seaweed.”

“That’s great. You remembered what I like.”

We eat the rest of our meal in silence. The spicy taste of seafood cooked in freshwater does wonders with the right condiments. I had put in enough pepper to make us sniffle.

“What’s your problem with the PC?”

“The PC is a replica of a one-party system. Only the candidate backed by the dictator for life wins so-called elections. When an outsider wins honest elections the dictator for life turns into a common fool.”

“You have got a nerve, you know.”

“Truth Before Cant. Is that not a lie too?”

“Anger or bitterness will not solve the problem. We know the problems. All you need do is help solve them.”

“So that lazy office and rank hunters can ask me ‘are you the only one?’”

“You know why they ask that.”

“I left 13 years ago. PC is doing fine. They are still recruiting new members, have branches all over the world, making more money from members, and everyone is happy. PC needs more obedient members and more money not ideas or 4-7 Creed edification.”

“You know that argument does not fool me.”

“I do. PC still had a direction and a focus then. Now it has gone to the dogs.”

“Who else will it go to? You gave me a pamphlet to read when we first met. Have you forgotten what you said about the future of the PC back then?”

“As you said, I failed. I agree now let those who succeeded as Pyrates enjoy their success.”

“PC is a solution to societal problems and I want you to be part of it.”

“The PC you knew was an antibiotic to society’s diseases. Now it is a virus. Do you want me to be infecting people with pretend good intentions?”

“You are incorrigible.”

“You can accept me as Almost Okolowe. A lubber. The people running PC are thinking about power, money, drunkenness and Converge sex. PC has moved on.”

“Almost Okolowe it’s our duty to turn PC back into an antibiotic.”

“If Captain Blood with all his huff and puff cannot do it, you think you and I can?”

“Team effort does it. All hands on deck.”

“If fish wan rotten…”

Paramole gazes to silence me. His eyes are frozen shiny but his face is blank. I guess he is holding his anger back and will probably dissipate it before he speaks again. If I could anger Paramole so much in this our short conversation, I must be lucky to be alive.

“Uncle Ayo…”

“Stop that!”

“Omi Paramole, I’ve listened to you and I agree. I will try one more time to return and hopefully they will reject it.”

“Before you toss any letter in let Oscar and Wicked Bandito read and edit it.”

“Done.”

He stretches out his hand to claw me. We shake hands. His smile is incomplete but I know Paramole’s love for me is unconditional. Who else will put up with Almost Okolowe.

“Let me take you to Akosombo Trench. It’s not far from here.”

“What’s the place like?”

“It’s like Fiddlers’ Green.”

My surprise is the three full hip-flasks are now empty. I reach for the drinks cabinet to bring out one Chivas Regal 1.5 Litre bottle and a small funnel to refill the flasks. Meanwhile, I had finished two shots of goscolene. To cruise to Akosombo without losing control, I must avoid rumming further for the rest of the day.

An alarm buzzes.

“What’s happening again.”

“New Forgone Terrors are waiting at the Davy Jones Locker rendezvous to transit upwards.”

“Let’s go there instead we can’t keep our brothers waiting. How many are there?”

“Twenty-Eight. Mostly young men.”

“You are not serious.”

“I am serious.”

“What is killing them so fast?”

“I don’t know. Wait. Could it be the modika?”

“Modika does not kill.”

“Who said?”

“Now you have a job. We must reverse or remove Modika from things fast.”

“I will write to the NAS Capoon.”

“Be serious!”

Paramole coughs a little then drinks some water. We could see thousands of fishes near the sea’s bottom running for cover but not what was chasing them. I have never seen a sea monster yet in all my journeys underwater. The real danger are the naval submarines particularly the nuclear ones. Their crews are quite suspicious but have not intercepted nor cautioned me yet. That would be exciting.

“Are you sure you want to go to Davy Jones Locker, O PM?”

“Yes. We may meet Captain Blood there.”

“I won’t greet him.”

“You will prostrate to him and apologise. And you will do it!”

“I…”

“Die it!!! You used to go on about Naman in the bible who had leprosy and Elijah told him to dip himself in the Jordan river seven times for his cure but refused. Well, until his servant told him if the prophet had asked him to bring a thousand heads would he not do it? He dipped himself in the river seven times and his cure was complete. That is the same with you.”

“I am not Naman!”

“You are Naman himself. Any time there is a fight, you cannot wait to get involved standing at the front taking all the risks. But when it comes to towing simple lines of action, you refuse. You are a thug.”

“So, I am now a thug?”

“Not by your nature, not by your upbringing, not by your training but by your weakness. Some men cannot resist money, praise, women or status. You can resist those things but you cannot resist fighting.”

“It has taken me over fifty years to learn that about myself.”

“Good. People like fighting other people. You like fighting systems and you fight hard. Stop fighting systems you belong to and I promise you people will embrace you.”

“I am now in a state of lapotidunity. I want to meditate.”

“Almost Okolowe, meditate on how to stop fighting systems you belong to and the heavens will welcome it.”

“You know we can make a better society through lubbish organisations.”

“You are not a lubber. Don’t you get it.”

“Somehowly, Omi PM.”

“An Ahoy!”

As we cruise along towards Arianna Trench the sea is dark but the submarines flashlights are powerful. Our rare visuals show a school of dolphins tailing us. They have done so for several miles. I don’t see too many whales like I used to and more of them have barnacles all over. Poor things. I hope they are not going extinct. What I see more of daily is floating plastics and plastic bags. The ocean is now more of a glorified dustbin and a taken for granted geographic feature.

Paramole’s birthday party is yet to begin. I will tell you about it.

Happy Birthday, Paramole, meanwhile.

Be good, not lucky.