The Little Wanderer

By Ige Hunter

These are true stories told to me by my best friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546223894

Book preview

EARLIEST CHALLENGES

I cannot forget those early years. The time I lived with my paternal grandmother was so beautiful that I continued to dream of her until very recent.

My father’s mother had very light skin color pigmentation, only a shade off white. She was so beautiful that I always wondered why I did not inherit her beauty. She took such great care of me that the memory of her still lingers on.

Born in Kaduna, a city in the northern part of Nigeria to a postmaster and a nurse, I had to be moved around the various towns and cities where duty called my father. As the surviving half of a twin set of babies, I grew to know that I had an older sister and a younger brother. My grandmother and I paid many visits to my grandfather’s house, only a couple of blocks away. I remember playing with other children which included my older sister, a very beautiful girl who was only two years older than I was then. In my grandfather’s house we were looked after by my step –grandmother who fed us and guided us from morning till evening. I cannot forget the day I had a bad cut on my big toe and my step grandmother treated the wound with freshly released urine. She took me along with her to the bathroom and there she let out hot urine from her bladder onto my exposed toe that was bleeding. It burned me just like Iodine solution and it was just as effective.

After a while, I no longer saw my older sister, and then, I was moved to live with my maternal grandparents in a village nine miles away from the town. There I lived with my immediate younger brother with whom I played most of the time along with other children in the neighborhood. Both my brother and I were still bellow School age, so our daily routine was to eat, play and sleep.

PEASANT FARMING

I recollect this period more clearly than earlier times when I was much younger. This time, I experienced living in a farming community in which my grandparents owned a sizable piece of farmland operated by the family. Here was where I had my first experience of farming at the peasant level. The labor force was the members of the household and so it was that the strength of the labor force depended on the number of wives and children the man had. This was also an indication of his wealth.

I always enjoyed going to the farm with my grandmother in the morning and joined the women and children in doing some of the farm work. We usually had one break in the morning during which time we cooked and ate from the harvests of the farm. Then we worked in the shade during the afternoon when the hot sun made it uncomfortable to work outside. We fetched water from the stream, boiled and cooled it for drinking.

Fetching water was always the first assignment as early as 5am for the house and for farm use. It was always very refreshing to walk down hill to the river/stream from which the bulk of the water for farm operations was collected. You could feel the cool fresh breeze as you walked to and from the river/stream making it so enjoyable for me to go with the water-fetching crew. I now recall that experience with the beautiful coolness of the early dawn, the sweetest part of the breaking of each day. Oh, how I wish I could re-live those experiences again; so sweet, so cool, refreshing and beautiful.

One of the most memorable operations I enjoyed participating in on the farm was the processing of palm oil. This is an operation which has been mechanized and is an industry in the oil-producing countries of the world today.

PALM OIL PRODUCTION

T he processing line began with the collection of palm bunches, a function too big for my age at that time. However, I picked single palm kernels that dropped from the bunches into my small basket and carried to the shed. This was usually done in the morning or in the evening. The next activity was to separate the kernels from the bunch which consists of the red, fleshy kernels (the Carpels ), the Sepals ( Strong and sharp ), the Petals and the many other palm fruits in one bunch. This was a fairly dangerous business because one could easily get cuts in the hand caused by the strong, sharp thorn-like Sepals. The kernels were then emptied into huge pots of water that were sitting on top of fire places made of three huge stones. Pieces of dried wood were then arranged under the pots and ignited using fuel and fans to enhance burning of the wood. The kernels were then left to boil. The next step was my favorite activity during which the fleshy part of the kernel was separated from the hard shell. The kernels which have become very soft were deposited into a long boat-shaped container. This structure was long enough to accommodate six to eight or more people standing inside it. Everyone that entered the boat was made to scrub their feet very clean before entering. My grandmother always washed my feet for me to allow me into the boat. We all marched or trampled on the softened fleshy kernels to separate the fleshy, fibrous and oily ectoderm from the very hard shell (the mesoderm ). This was fun for me as it felt like we were dancing while releasing the oil-containing fleshy part of the palm fruit from the hard shell that contains the nut. I always looked forward to this particular activity on the farm which, now in retrospect, I see as a game and form of indoor exercise for all involved. This was continued until the dark colored shells were seen to be cleaned of any red or orange color. Then each one of us in the boat disembarked and cleaned our feet to either sit down to rest or eat.

The next activity was to pick out the cleaned kernels from the oily chaff and stored away to dry for further processing. These kernels contain the nuts which can be chewed like coconuts, or processed to extract the oil in them.

The pulp left in the boat was collected into the pots again and subjected to further heating. Then the clear orange to red oil floating on top of the pots were carefully removed into jars and capped for storage. That completed the oil extraction process.

It is said that no part of the palm tree goes to waste or, better put, no part of the palm tree is useless. The hard shells serve as fuel while the chaff from which the oil has been extracted also serve as fuel. The trunk of the tree when dead and dried can be used for roofing or building or as fuel. Of course there are the leaves of the palm tree which are also used in various forms, as brooms, roof covers, tooth picks, building huts, tents/canopies, strings/ropes, artworks and others. The palm tree can also be tapped for wine which is a source of income to the palm wine tapers. Even the roots are put to good use in the local setting, fresh or dried.

On my grandfather’s farm, I experienced farm life where you harvested yam and either boiled or roasted them to eat with fresh palm oil or peppered source. Water was fetched from a well or stream, filtered and sometimes boiled for drinking. These constituted memorable experiences for me and I feel like reliving those beautiful times again!

THE FATEFUL SIESTA

T hen, one fateful day, I had breakfast with my younger brother and, as usual, we went outside to play with other children in the neighborhood. When we were tired of playing, we returned to have siesta. We slept for about an hour before it was lunch time. The food for two of us was set and I sat down to eat but as I did so I saw that my younger brother did not join me, as usual, to eat his own food. Rather, I saw that he had not gotten up from bed, but was being carried out of the house. I heard screams of fear and sorrow and people shouting that he be taken to the head of the village. That was the last I saw of my immediate younger brother!. We could no longer eat or play together again!

Of course I grew up to understand that he had passed away in that last siesta we had together. It was not long after that tragedy that my mother’s younger brother (my uncle), came and took me away from his parents, my grandparents. My uncle was a photographer by profession and he dressed in a suit with a woven scarf round his neck. I recall that he carried me on his shoulder as we looked out of the window from the train travelling to Zaria in the northern part of the country where my parents lived and worked with my little sister.

THE SECOND WORLD WAR

T here in Zaria, I started school with the kindergarten class when I was six years old. It was fear all over the city of Zaria at that time (in the middle of 1940’s). The second world war was at its end but the effect of its rounding off was being felt in Africa and many other British colonies. We could not use lights outside the house once it got dark and blinds had to be drawn so that there would be no sign to indicate that the area was inhabited by a population of people. My parents instructed me never to be out after dark.

The sound of flying airplanes sent fear down our spines as we ran helter-skelter to hide as well as turn off all lights so as to avoid being bombed. The war finally ended and we no longer lived in fear except that I was forbidden to go to certain parts of the city where a certain tribe lived as a community. The reason for this was the rumor that this group of people kill humans for food (Cannibals). I went to school and did so very well that my little sister asked to follow me to school. Now in retrospect, I feel rather priviledged to have experienced the effects of the end of that second world war as I recall the fear that gripped me in 1968 when I came close to a civil war.

THE BIAFRAN WAR

I knew there was fighting in the Eastern part of the country between loyal troops of the country and the dissident troops made up of Easterners. It did not impact on me until