Almost Okolowe and Child

Almost Okolowe and Child

In late July of 2024, when I met Maggie in Warri, she left me anemic. Shuo! If you meet a Tsunami babe, pray she does not love you too much. The combination of her experience, knowledge, technique and cultivated passion was far beyond both my expectation and capacity.  This is 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! Apalan! 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 indescribable. I wish it on no guy.

Thirteen straight hours of sleep after my humbling I woke up and headed back to Davy Jones. My insiders on land assured me my presence was not necessary in Abeokuta. “We’ve got it all under control,” they said.  I could see the flames of Total Mutiny flickering in their eyes like starter fires. I needed no further assurances. It’ll be the right thing or nothing! My men only need me in times of conflagration. To be honest I just want to hang out with the guys and play. I will learn how to play more in future.

The difference between Mutiny and Total Mutiny is that the former removes bad leaders and the latter uproots moribund or decaying systems. 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. Things fall apart.

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. When they arrive my watch blips. As usual, I waste no time to go on board my submarine to check the message. They are often opportune time-critical, no time for lateness. An Ahoy to my Insiders!

My submarine’s cabin smells a bit musty. A quick systems check informs me the submarine has no leaks. Perhaps, something is stale or stuffy. 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.”

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. I secretly adore her though. In my experience, showing overt love turns you into a lady’s football.

Crucial care is not critical care or was Me Be We understating 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!

An unwelcome thought floats cheekily into my mind and refuses to float 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 leaving me to figure whatever.

I break into song without a sensible reason,

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 it thousands of times with men over the past four decades. Never did I think it would apply to me. It could have been worse, I tell 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 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.

“Awa Political Selection you are not welcome Atos. I will be away for some hours. You will see the grey still lockers. Press 999 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.

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!

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 stay 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 Me Be We, my rugged Pally.

Be good, not lucky.