By Funke Egbemode
When many took off, he stayed put. When the ones we thought were the brave ducked, he dug and rigged. He sweated and defended the homestead or what was left of it. Even to me, his courage did not make sense. Why swim against the tide when you can just go with the flow? Why stay in a house with half its roof blown off? What is the sense in not just holding on tight to a tattered umbrella but also taking shelter under it? The umbrella itself looked like it needed help.
Leave and let the house crumble. You can build another one. But he stood there in the rain, in the scorching sun. He even bellowed in a fearful voice at passers-by who thought something was really wrong with him. He flexed his muscles at those who had armour. He looked them in the eye and dared them to cross his threshold.
Who the dickens did he think he was? But he paid us all no mind. It was his umbrella to keep, torn, shredded or bent. He mobilized money and started the rebuilding. When he was let down by those he trusted, he soldiered on. When those whose expeditions he sponsored aimed arrows at his bare chest, he nursed his wound, lips pursed in pain and determination. If he shed a tear, it was in private. If he bled, he hid the blood. To his tattered tent he held.
Then one day, he rose out of the ashes, with his umbrella in his hands, this time like a sword. He had rebuilt the house with everything he could muster. Soon, those who watched him rebuild and those who went away all came back, together. He welcomed them. And they all sat under the umbrella. Then one day, he said he wanted to become the leader. Some of the ‘returnees’ also showed interest. They all agreed to a fair contest. Then the demon of conspiracy came into the house and possessed almost everybody. Stabs in the back, followed by another stab in the heart led to a bloodied floor. Things became blurry and slippery. Of course, things fell apart. There was no centre for anybody to even hold.
Now, the builder is angry, raving and raging. What was taken from him he has sworn nobody else would get. He has even gone after those who left the house a second time, bellowing harder than before. He is like one character in Yoruba movie I watched a long time ago. His name was Cause Trouble. The name still makes me smile every time. But the most apt description for me, at least today, is the debt distrainor as described by Reverend Samuel Johnson. Distraining for debt among the Yorubas used to be a big deal in those days. A ‘distrainor’ is a licensed by fire-by-force debt collector who sits on the debtor in every way until he pays. He is said to ‘d’ogo ti’ until he collects.
Pay attention to how Rev. Johnson describes him.
“The distrainor is a man of imperturbable temper, but of foul tongue, a veritable Thersites. He adopts any measure he likes, inflicting his presence and attention on the debtor everywhere and anywhere he may go, denying him privacy of any kind, and in the meantime using his tongue most foully upon him, his own person being inviolable, for touching him implies doing violence to the person of the authorities who appointed him the task. Loud in his abuses, intolerable in his manners to all in the house whilst going in and out with the debtor till the inmates of the house get tired and quickly finds a way of getting rid of the distrainor by paying off the debt.”
Our builder, Cause Trouble or Distrainor is ‘drawing gbese’. He’s giving everybody in the house high blood pressure.
“He must not take anything away from the house but he may enjoy the use of anything he finds in the house.”
Does he remind you of someone?
This is a peaceful piece.
The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.
