Almost Okolowe and Child

Almost Okolowe and Child

In late July of 2024, when I met Maggie in Warri, she left me anemic. I did not bleed but my blood cells were exhausted while she was looking fresh all over. All the work and all the fatigue was my portion those few days.  Shuo! If you meet a Tsunami babe, pray she does not love you too much. I wish I had known better. The combination of her experience, knowledge, technique and cultivated passion was far beyond both my expectation and capacity.  This was despite the fact I had overdosed myself on the root known as Aviresiwẹmuẹdia’a a.k.a. Man Cannot Compete in Standing with a Tree. Gbogborogbo! I am not complaining. Maggie’s humbling of my manhood was decisive but I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Years without a woman and in exile under the sea is an indescribable gap in a man’s life. I wish it on no guy.

Thirteen straight hours of sleep after my humbling, I woke up and headed back to Davy Jones Locker. My insiders on land assured me my presence was not necessary in Abeokuta.

“We’ve got it all under control,” they said.

“I cansee the flames of Total Mutiny flickering in youreyes like starter fires. I needed no further assurances from you. It’ll be the right thing or nothing in Abeokuta! I trust. The troubles need firm and clever political sleights of hand to end the charge of an inferno. My men, you only need me in times of conflagration. To be honest I just want to hang out with you guys and play. As much as I enjoy battles of all kinds I must learn how to play more in future. Age is not on my side,” I tell them.

The difference between Mutiny and Total Mutiny is that the former removes bad leaders and the latter uproots entrenched leaders and the moribund or decaying systems the support them. I would have loved to be part of the cataclysmic uprooting of a system of sworn enemies turned idolators of convention. It’s not personal, it’s Change over Stasis – rotten incurable stasis of backwardness. Things fall apart; a new centre is needed.

This afternoon in late April 2025. Ahoy We Be Me sends a radio message to my submarine. Those messages from on land insiders are rare; they are always emergencies. When they arrive my watch blips. As usual, I waste no time to go on board my submarine to check what the message has to say. They are often opportune and time-critical, no time for lateness. An Ahoy to my Insiders!

My submarine’s cabin smells a bit musty. I had not bought air fresheners for months. I use oud incense instead. A quick systems check informs me the submarine has no leaks or other defects. Perhaps, something is stale or the air is just stuffy. Fuel prices make me use the air-conditioning less than usual. I will find the smell’s source later.

With a light touch of a keyboard the electronic message screen comes on. The message reads, “Awa Almost Okolowe, Maggie needs crucial medical care. N2 million needed. Ahoys Jungle Rumbler and Annus Horribilis have paid the hospital deposit. Come fast if you can. Ova n Out. WBM.”

Why would Maggie tell an insider Pyrate to send me such a message? I am neither her father, relative nor husband. All we have is sexualitze between us and just over one weekend. I secretly adore her though; she knows how to scatter my brain. I will never let her know that though. In my experience, showing overt love turns you into a lady’s football. I prefer being a midfielder.

Crucial care is not critical care or was We Be Me understating the seriousness of Maggie’s situation. I take a deep breath and meditate for five minutes sitting in the pilot’s seat. I care for Maggie far more than I had presumed. How could I still have oxytocin, the love hormone, swimming around my brain? Stop it! That’s what I shout to myself.

An unwelcome thought floats with cheek into my mind and refuses to fly away. It appears to need my urgent attention. It says, “Maggie needs a caesarean section op.” I tell the thought, “Go away!” a few times but it refuses to budge. I now ask the thought, “Is her child mine?” Both thoughts fade away as if their missions are complete. They left me to figure whatever I need to think or do.

I break into song without a sensible reason. What else could I do in a submarine pilot’s seat all alone,

I set am pull am o

I set am pull am o

I put am for corner, I put am for centre

Why you no come remove am when e dey sweet e you

Why you come pull am out when e dey sweet e me

If I loot Maggie O, na Maggie I loot O

Why, why, why O!

Nine months later

Chineke born boy e dey O!

Internal bazooka

At the song’s end, I know why I sang it. I had sung this song thousands of times with men over the past four decades. The lyrics are about an unexpected baby nine months after the pleasure was forgotten. Never did I think it would apply to me. “It could have been worse,” I say aloud to myself.

The lights start to flash in Davy Jones Locker. Ahoy Political Selection is the latest Forgone sailor to arrive the Locker. Another young man awaits transition. So sad. He must wait in the Rendezvous Hall while I attend to matters concerning mother and child. During my grooming in the 1980s I had to answer a question,

“If a Pyrate and your mother are drowning in a river and your boat can save only one person, who will you save?”

My mother is the right answer. Sense before Slogan is part of the 4-7 Creed. Be practical, wise and human – that’s how we should live. Too many fail at it though.

I refuse to enter back into the Rendezvous Hall fulfill my duties as Mascot of the Forgone Terrors.

“Awa Political Selection you are not welcome Atos. I will be away for some hours. You will see the grey steel lockers. Press 00:00 to open the top left locker door. You will find two 2 litre bottles of water, a bag of seaweed biscuits, half bottle of goscolene, two thick blankets and an inflatable pillow. Make yourself comfortable,” I instruct him via the public announcement system from the submarine.

“An Ahoy!” he replies.

Political Selection is yet to reach middle age. An avid fitness geek, he cycles tens of miles daily. A trailer crushed him on his bike one fateful evening. Oh Dear! Nigeria being a democracy, cyclists like most other citizens have no rights nor protections. Hailers of Nigeria’s democracy especially those who live in havens overseas are blind to this fact and the countless daily losses of life it manufactures.

Those fails should be another challenge for Pyrates as their bothers are dying in their democracy. What do you think?

“Dead men don’t vote,” I say and I say it again. “Dead men don’t vote!”

Even in a so-called democracy.

“Go home and live there,” we should tell the Hailers who supports political fantasies they expect others to live and die while the reside in other places in the world where things work better. There is a word for such people.

I switch my mind to the navigation controls; I have a long journey ahead of me. All systems are Go. The submarine now makes its way to Warri steering into a stormy undersea current. I never use fear as a solution. My vessel wobbles and struggles to gain balance for half an hour but stays strong. I only venture ahead to my lubbish deck because I know the route well. I cannot see anything ahead of me. Guts are it men! Otherwise, he ocean’s soul may also be signalling me to keep my mind calm.

Thank you, Ocean. I am an Oceaneer, after all. My spirit is in touch with the Ocean.

Maggie, I won’t be long. Keep the child safe. I wish she could hear my thoughts. Maybe, I should send it to her via Ahoy We Be Me, my rugged Pally.

Be good, not lucky.