It’s Christmas.
But, I am spending it alone. Working and thinking.
While working on my computer, I stumbled on a photo I took with Binyanvanga Wainana in 2016 during the Chimamanda Adichie’s Farafina Residential Workshop For Creative Writers.
He taught me fiction.
And, floods of thoughts have overwhelmed me.
Here is the picture birthing memories:
Here is the story Binyanvanga Wainana judged to be great writing. Just seeing stuffs from my past. It was a classwork written under 30 minutes:
Oba Apagun Pote
By Tobore Ovuorie
Music blared from the heavy duty sound system as the whole crowd danced. On the stage, Apagun Pote, the Oba of Oke-Ado, was with Aduke his daughter while his wife Odebunmi waited to take her turn with him. She shook her body to the rhythm, in a dignified manner, and cast cold spells on her dallying daughter’s back each time the Oba spun Aduke around. She saw that Molara and Yetunde were also seriously dancing, just beside the platform. A young man was dancing his way close to them, wanting a go with a princess—it wouldn’t matter which, Odebunmi thought.
On the open floor, children, women, men and young people had taken over, doing everything from a clumsy shuffle to more complex gyrations, an assortment of people displaying different dancing steps. A few people remained on their seats as food was served.
Esudara had been dancing round the floor, then moved to the back of the platform. He passed a calabash of palm wine to a guard and moved on.
Two gunshots split the air and the merrying crowd went helter-skelter, scattering at the sound and colliding with one other as each sought escape. Oba Apagun Pote turned and saw not a single guard close by. He jumped down from the platform to blend into the crowd but he stood a head over them, and his agbada, studded with ancient and priceless beads, made detection that much easy.
“Ogagun,” he yelled, but his voice was drowned by those of the confused and screaming. Two guards rushed to him and dragged him away. Their faces were not familiar, but he was sure they were his soldiers; he had given Ogagun the free hand to recruit soldiers as he pleased.
“Kabiyesi o,” one of the soldiers said.
“Don’t panic. Your safety is our job. You’ll be okay.”
“What about my daughters?” Apagun Pote asked on top of his voice. He was panting, at the edge of fear.
“They’ll be fine, Kabiyesi,” the soldier replied. More gunshots. Oba Apagun Pote shook. They moved away from the venue, from the houses, and through a footpath, from the village.
Outside the festival hall, Adigun was dragging Aduke as they ran through the bushes. Molara was ahead of them, running while counting her rosary. The gun shots continued and the guests, dancing but minutes before, carried their confusion into Oke-Ado proper. The villagers caught it promptly. It was a sleepy town, the attack was unexpected, the attackers unknown. Villagers ran from door to door, those whose houses were farther away took shelter in other people’s houses. Others ran into the bushes, taking cover behind the big trees.
Three fierce looking warriors rushed into the palace, but were immediately chased out by palace guards. One palace guard, Afonja, did not stop at that. He pursued them through the path leading to Ijede and killed two of them. The third escaped, or rather disappeared. The palace guard searched the surrounds, his feet softer on the earth than a blade of grass, but found no one. Tired now, he rested his back against the bole of an iroko and wondered about his king.
The two soldiers who had whisked the king away were joined by two others. All now waited in an uncompleted building and gradually the tenor of the room. One of the men looked through the window and listened for footsteps.
Apagun Pote is seated on the floor like a prisoner, still in his royal regalia, sweating but very quiet.
“So, gentlemen, what do you want?” he asked the abductors guarding him.
*** It’s just dawning on me today that I will never see Binyanvanga anymore. He died earlier this year.
She Can Fly...! 