The Coffin-maker

By Isaac Attah Ogezi ‘The Director-General of the Federal Capital Development Authority (FCDA) further warns that all owners of illegal structures erected three metres along the Nyanyan-Abuja Road are to demolish same within two weeks’ time as this Announcement shall not be repeated. All those concerned should please take note of this important Announcement ….’ The stern voice from the car stereo went on repeating this riot act several times before it lapsed into silence. Kanadu finally turned it off to digest the Announcement just relayed. Crazy people, he muttered under his breath. Dis El-Rufai wan’ kill people. ‘Im an’ Baba Iyabo. Abi dis country na dem papa propati? And the casualty rate would be high. People would die like the fire incident that razed Wuse Market a week ago. While the fire raged, some ill-fated traders who couldn’t watch all their earthly possessions go up in flame, dived into the fire to be cremated along. Yes, dis country hot pass hell. But the more people died, the more money he made. Na so life be! He smiled ruefully. Suddenly, he saw the on-coming bus like a bat out of hell. Quickly, he swerved his Honda Accord to the kerb almost pitching into the ditch. He swore under his breath. But for his luck rather than the reflex action that averted this accident, he would have made one undertaker richer. Yeye man! He spat after the man with blood-red eyes of marijuana smokers behind the steering wheel. But that was an effort in futility, for the accursed man was far beyond his spit. Wrong overtaking. This lack of patience on the part of our road-users has long become world-famous. De country bad; na so so plenty people dey beg Baba God may dem die for roads. People whey life done tire dem. Dis one na anoda suicide people de carry style kill demself! As he neared his shed, he could see the coffins conspicuously displayed by the roadside by his rivals. Stupid ignoramuses, he spat again. He slowed down, took his left and drove slowly on the dirt road to his office. He stepped down importantly, and hurriedly made his office within a few seconds, acknowledging the greetings of his boys with a dismissive wave of his hand. His one-room office was air-conditioned, expensively rugged from wall to wall, and well-equipped with ultra-modern gadgets in vogue. An inner door led to the large showroom where he normally ushered in his numerous customers. The eerie feeling a stranger would have was that this was another graveyard, what with the empty coffins occupying every little space in the room. They were sixty coffins in number and of different sizes. He always counted them the first thing in the morning and the last thing before he left for home to ensure that none of his smart boys would be greedy enough to sell anyone in his absence. Person no fit trust dis agbero boys whey I get here. The backdoor of the showroom led to the large carpentry workshop where his large army of employees was always at work, sawing and hammering at wood to make beautiful works of art that would convey the remains of dead people to the earth. Kanadu did not become a rich coffin-maker by a sudden leap into the soft, cosy lap of fate. No, his was by a dint of hard labour. He clawed and clawed his way to the top first as an ordinary carpenter in Abuja before the idea of making coffins dawned on him. This money-milling idea was triggered off by the daily happenings in Abuja. A voracious reader of many inspirational pamphlets, he believed that the world was ruled by ideas. Idea na money, was his philosophy of life. And he lived by that philosophy like his daily prayer. It was one simple idea that made him what he was today – bought him a car, a house, plots of land and even married a wife for him. Surely, idea na money! The high rate of deaths in Abuja had never inspired him to become a coffin-maker until one fateful night. He was home that night in his roach-infested single room he shared with five other loafers, after emptying a big bowl of soaked garri and kwukwuli into his stomach. He brought out his crumpled pamphlet, No Condition is Permanent, written by one Onitsha-based author who claimed it had sold over two million copies world-wide and made many poor people millionaires overnight. No sooner had he begun to read it under the weak light of the bush lamp than a hard thump came on the door, almost removing it from its hinges. ‘Who be dat na?’ he asked. ‘Na we, broad Kanadu. Please, make you open de door.’ He obliged and opened the door. A whole family of six was gathered at his doorstep in all manner of bereavement. A look at them was enough to discern their mission. He took the lamp and locked the door. ‘Who be dat?’ He asked so as to know the size of the coffin he would make. ‘Na my husband Ike, broad Kanadu. ’E die today’, replied the mother of the house. Death had ceased to shock him ever since this new government came up with its plan to restore the city of Abuja to the master-plan, thereby destroying many illegal structures. Yes, Kanadu was not surprised. The deceased was among those whose houses were destroyed by El-Rufai’s men some few weeks ago in the name of illegal structures. All his investments went down with the building. Poor man, he died of hypertension. Lucky for him, he had finally gone home, home whey better pass ’im yeye country. At the shed, Kanadu brought out his tools and went straight into work, sawing and hammering away into the night. After three long hours, a coffin was ready. It was during this time that he received the great inspiration that was to affect his life tremendously. There were so many carpenters in Abuja, yet nobody thought of specializing solely on coffin-making. Yes, he would be the first to specialize in this new, undiscovered terrain. Like any original idea, the society at first attacked it unreasonably. For when his first set of coffins were displayed, he became the laughing-stock of his fellow carpenters. They leered at him behind his back even to his face. He soon became the Coffin-maker to them instead of Kanadu that his father, may his soul rest in perfect peace, gave him. But this mockery was in few days replaced with envy when the money began to pour in. First he bought a car, followed by a plot of land in an expensive area and a wife to boot! All these within three months! No, there must be some money in this venture. The envy of his mockers was instantly transformed to rivalry. Every carpenter wanted to be a coffin-maker in Abuja. The market was soon flooded with coffins of different sizes and makes. To distinguish his coffins from his arch-rivals, Kanadu had to improvise on all imaginable designs on his coffins to stand out of the crowd. He knew what the public wanted and strove hard to satisfy them. At one time, he discovered that the gold-embroidered coffins were in high demand by the rich, and he saw to it that some of his coffins were gold-plated. The coffin-maker is like a doctor or gravedigger who knows how to keep his personal emotions from his professional life. It is a morbid art that must be worked to perfection devoid of petty emotional feelings like all creative arts. However, nothing seemed to amaze him like man’s senseless craze to be buried in a well-designed coffin as if that automatically meant a special place in paradise! All dis wahala self, na worms go chop am finish! He mused. Was it not the other day that he heard how some spoilt rich people were busy scrambling for spaces that they’d be buried in for over four million naira in Victoria Island in Lagos? Wetin person no go hear for dis yeye country? Well, as a coffin-maker, he had to earn his living by humouring them along. He took his time to make beautiful coffins that would soon be food for the worms like their human contents. Na so life be! Person whey die no go ever come back again! Kpafuka na kwench!

The Cricket and the Clay

By Isaac Attah Ogezi We alight from the school bus onto the pavement in the front of our house. With our school bags strapped on our backs, my younger sister and I race to our gates and climb up the stairs. After a couple of rings of the doorbell, Ori, the housemaid, ushers us in. As usual, we don't expect to see either of our parents at home by this time of the day, but as from four p.m. above. Instinctively we pause in our strides at the sight before us. Who is this? For reclining on one of the sofas in our sitting room is an old woman, half-asleep. Our parents didn't tell us that we were expecting any visitor. Perhaps awakened by our loud cheery entrance, she opens her eyes. 'Is that you, Egwurube, Ogabanya?' she asks rhetorically. ‘Come to your grandmother's arms, children,' she invites with outstretched arms. What a surprise! Happily we run into her arms. She doesn't call my sister and me by our English names, Edward and Evelyn, but our native names. We are always delighted to see her because of the air of hilarity that pervades our house with her arrival. Again she tells us children stories of yesteryears. 'Grandma, could you please tell us a story?' requests my younger sister, Ogabanya. 'Dear me! Don't you see that she's tired and needs some rest after a long and tedious journey from our village?' queries our mother. We have all trooped outside to sit on benches in the open-air verandah after we have had our supper. It is a breezy, moonlit night and the heat within is unbearable, coupled with the power outage. 'You didn't hear me complain, did you?' asks our grandmother. 'Besides, we can't begrudge her of such a privilege which you yourself enjoyed at her age,' she adds mischievously. Turning to my sister, she asks, 'What story will you have me tell tonight, my dear?' 'Just any one with animals in it.' 'All right. Here you are.' There is a slight pause as grandmother stuffs her pipe with tobacco leaves and sets it alight. Suddenly a faraway look comes on her face as if she is magically beholding the bygone period of the story she is about to tell. 'Long, long time ago, in the animal kingdom,' she's begun, 'there lived Cricket and Clay who were always at loggerheads. As at the time I'm talking about, crickets' teeth were as spotlessly white as peeled cassava tubers. One day, Clay brought a complaint of stealing against Cricket before Lion, the King of all animals in the kingdom. According to him, Cricket stole some yams from his barn under the pretext of foraging for food. After listening carefully to the allegation, Lion asked Cricket if what Clay had said about him was true. Cricket denied vehemently, muttering curses under his breath. He challenged Clay to prove it. In those days, one of the ways to settle a dispute, as the custom was, was for the accused to challenge his accuser publicly to a fight or contest. In order to prove his innocence, Cricket challenged Clay to a contest, and a day was fixed for it. Before the race, Cricket went and held a secret meeting with the ancient rainmaker of the land and paid him a hefty sum of money. Unknown to Clay of what Cricket had done, he went about boasting, thumping his chest that he would defeat Cricket in the contest. At last, the long-awaited day of the contest dawned with fanfare, and all the animals in the kingdom gathered at the grandstand to watch the great contest. The drums rolled, the flutes sang. The okanga, the talking drum, sang praises of both contestants, regaling the audience with the exploits of each of their ancestors, which made their bare bodies throb with palpable excitement. The starter's shot was fired into the air from a dane gun and the two contestants swung into action. As Clay, a mere lump of clay that he was, leaped from one point to another on its head, Cricket sprinted away. No sooner had the contestants begun the race than the rainmaker unleashed torrents of rain from the skies upon them, pelting the earth mercilessly. Both of them were thoroughly beaten by the rain, soaked to the skin. It was a downpour never witnessed within living memory. Unfortunately for Clay, at every step he took, he began to disintegrate. At first, he was alarmed, but he vowed never to lose the race to Cricket. He continued to melt away gradually until nothing was left of him except for some wet soil spread haphazardly all over the place like ashes. Meanwhile, Cricket panted ahead despite the poor invisibility induced by the heavy rain. On arrival at the agreed point, he began to feel cold and went to dry himself by a nearby tripod hearth. It was while he was comfortably warming himself that news got to him that his challenger, Clay, was no more alive. He had been slain by thunderbolts and shafts let loose by the rain, his remains melted away in the flood which flowed down the stream. When Cricket heard of this, he burst into laughter, chirping jubilantly. He laughed and laughed and laughed until tears were coursing down his cheeks. How dared Clay imagined that he could defeat him in a race? Seized by an uncontrollable paroxysm of laughter, he didn't know when he fell into the fire. Though rescued quickly by kind bystanders, it was too late as his once handsome face had been severely burnt. The healer did his utmost but he could not restore Cricket's face to its former state; his teeth were burnt beyond repair and have remained ever so. That was how Cricket got his burnt teeth and his generations after him.' At the end of the story, we children are asked to tell the lessons we have learned from Cricket's downfall, his vices that should be avoided like the plague such as cheating and its attendant repercussions, and how over-confidence in life and excessive celebration of one's achievements could ruin a man.