A cracked fence separated our side from Baba Segun’s old bungalow, which he had inherited from his late father. Baba Segun wasn't a young man anymore. In fact, his eldest son is now a married man with two kids. Yet his love for ogogoro (local gin) and Arsenal has turned him into the neighborhood puppet.
You couldn't pass by Baba Segun any day of the week without him reeking of ogogoro. Be it in the hot afternoon or cold evening. It was either that he was shirtless or covered up in his full Yoruba Chief regalia with a ratchet or cup of ogogoro in his hands. He was loud, stubborn, and full of stories. Half of them were lies, the other half were lies he believed.
But one thing I loved about Baba Segun was his love for his wife and family. No matter how drunk he is, he always remembers his duty as a husband. This I could tell because I do see him help his wife in the kitchen, come back home with foodstuffs, and make sure to take his youngest kid to school every morning. You'd hardly see him stay up late at night in his usual drinking spot, no matter how drunk he was. He always remembers to go back home to his family early.
On this particular hot afternoon, I had just returned from the market. Mama had sent me to get some foodstuffs required to make soup that evening. I had just passed Baba Segun's regular ogogoro spot when I heard his familiar voice arguing at the top of his voice.
“How can we buy a bench player for £35 million? Bench player o! Na Arsenal Wenger I blame sha. (I blame Arsene Wenger)” Baba Segun shouted, slapping his chest to emphasize the 'we'. Seated around him were two other men and a half-finished bottle of ogogoro sweating beside him.
I smiled, shook my head, and didn’t stop. It was a regular scene after all to see Baba Segun start his evening devotion early.
I had gotten home, and while I was helping Mama pound a few ingredients needed for the soup in a mortar in our backyard, we heard noise coming from Baba Segun’s side. At first, he was trying to sweet-talk his wife with sweet names, then it turned to a cracking voice, begging and pleading for forgiveness.
“Abeni, my beauty abeg na (please now). I tried coming home early o but you wouldn't believe what happened to me on the road.”
A loud clattering sound emanated from their kitchen. Then I heard his wife's voice shouting angrily. " This moi moi I'm going to sell is for our good. I only asked you to return on time and help me with its preparation." She yelled.
“Shebi I don come back now na. (I'm home now) What do you want me to do for you?"
"Go back to your drink or whatever that held you on the way. I'm already done. You came back sweating and without your slippers."
"That's what I'm trying to explain to you. Something happened to me on the way home."
I chuckled and looked at Mama. She raised her eyebrows at me for trying to laugh and didn't say a word. Then she shook her head.
I tried peeking through the hole in the wall, but Mama slapped my head and asked me to concentrate and not eavesdrop on a couple's conversation. I wondered how she classified it as eavesdropping when we could literally hear all their arguments.
"What happened? Baba Segun, what happened again?" His wife cried.
I smiled, as if she knew I wanted to hear his side of the story too.
“Thank you for allowing me to explain. It was a masquerade o!” he said. “Imagine me, Baba Segun being chased by a whole spirit! From the junction to the house. A whole me, Segun!"
"So what has that got to do with your slippers that you lost?"
I nodded. That was exactly the answer I had in mind too.
"Thank you once more for that question. As I was running, I tripped and fell. My slippers slipped off my legs, but I couldn't turn back to pick them up because of fear. Then the masquerade collected my slippers!” he paused. "I was lucky I survived."
I shook my head. I guess Mama couldn't take it anymore as she asked.
“A masquerade chased him?” Mama whispered.
I nodded. “And collected his slippers.” I laughed.
Mama hissed and turned back to the kitchen. "My fellow woman has suffered," Mama muttered with pity for Baba Segun's wife.
Later that evening, Mama and I decided to step out for an evening stroll down the road. Papa and my younger siblings were yet to come back. Just as we passed by Baba Segun’s compound his wife, Aunty Abeni, opened the gate and stepped out. She had her big basin of moi moi balanced on her head.
“Mama Marriot, good evening o,” Aunty Abeni greeted Mama.
Mama smiled. “Evening my dear. Hope you've forgiven him," Mama joked.
We all laughed.
Aunty Abeni sighed. “What will I do na?,” she said, adjusting the basin on her head. “My only anger is that the slippers were from my son Segun from Lagos. Segun bought it for himself and it was his first time wearing it. There was no masquerade. He drank and slept off under the mango tree. Someone must have stolen the slippers.”
Just then it dawned on me that I had seen Baba Segun there earlier, loud, drunk, and arguing about football. But I didn't speak. I felt it would add more fuel to the fire.
“That's bad. Sorry, my daughter. Forgive him.” Mama consoled her.
Aunty Abeni took a deep breath. “It's just his drinking problem. My husband is a good man and a father. I don't even need to ask and he'll give me what I want. He helps in the kitchen too and provides for us. I just wish he'd stop drinking." She cried.
Mama held her hand. "My dear, go and sell your goods before they get cold. Stop crying. Let's talk when you're back."
I guess Mama didn't want Aunty Abeni to be vulnerable before me.
We watched as she walked away. Calling out to customers to buy her wares.
That night, just before I slept, I heard Baba Segun again from my room window. This time he was talking to himself on his balcony on that cold night.
“Oh Lord, if only you'll take away this spirit of drinking from my life. Let me be a better husband to my wife and a better father to my small boy.” he prayed.
I shook my head and felt pity for him. Then I slowly closed my window. Then I jumped into bed
I can't tell what made him drink a lot. But from his prayers, I can tell of a man who truly wanted to change.