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    The Tale of The Cow Tail & Other Stories from the African Diaspora
    The Tale of The Cow Tail & Other Stories from the African Diaspora
    The Tale of The Cow Tail & Other Stories from the African Diaspora
    Ebook131 pages2 hours

    The Tale of The Cow Tail & Other Stories from the African Diaspora

    By Lanre Ogundimu

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    About this ebook

    A mysterious childhood ritual. An evening of carousing in a carousing in a raucous, village night-spot. The agony of unrequited love. This is the journey that awaits readers of The Tale of The Cow Tail. The collection of both fiction and nonfiction is an eclectic mix of stories that reflect the richness of Nigerian culture. The stories are informative and offer readers insight into African proverbs, perspectives, lifestyles and tradition. They are tales about fundamental human rights, corruption, greed, rebellion, passion, friendship, rage, laughter and human frailty. They also contain elements of surprise as well as morals and odd twists. Although the collection places special emphasis on West Africa, it also highlights experiences of Africans living abroad, thereby fostering global understanding and an appreciation of the Africa Diaspora.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEsteem MultiMedia
    Release dateApr 29, 2012
    ISBN9781476252339
    The Tale of The Cow Tail & Other Stories from the African Diaspora
    Author

    Lanre Ogundimu

    I’m a journalist by profession, and a public relations practitioner by occupation. I’m also an author, and my first book was published in March 2012. I enjoy reading and writing, listening to instrumental music, Apala and Highlife (West African) music.

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      Book preview

      The Tale of The Cow Tail & Other Stories from the African Diaspora - Lanre Ogundimu

      The Tale of the Cow Tail & Other Stories from the African Diaspora

      Copyright©2012 by Lanre Ogundimu

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher or author (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews).

      Esteem Multi Media

      Healing Pathways...For a New Generation

      200 Riverfront Dr. #8j, Detroit, MI 48226

      www.Esteemmultimedia.com

      Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

      Cover Design: Tony Mokwe

      Layout: William Townley

      Copy Editor: Sonya Vann

      ISBN 978-0-615-60104-5

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Print Edition can be found at: www.EsteemMultiMedia.com

      Dedication

      To my wife –

      For accepting me for who I am—

      a quiet, ascetic book lover.

      Preface

      Every human life is a work of art and, within us, stirs a story waiting to be told. But you never know how interesting your experiences are until you begin to share them.

      Many people are like me. They have a problem finding the time to reflect on the present, ponder the future and turn to the past to elicit that treasure trove of memories. They also have a difficult time making a commitment to do the very thing they have been dreaming about: writing. For many years, I nurtured a myriad of stories in my mind. One day, I finally conquered the demon by putting those tales onto paper. In the process, I removed a heavy burden.

      This book is the result. Some are stories of my life, some are stories I heard from friends and families, and some are stories from my escape into my own world as I daydreamed during quiet moments.

      They are stories of love and hate, good and evil, sobriety and drunkenness, vices and virtues, and sadness and joy. They are also tales about fundamental human rights, corruption, greed, rebellion, mystery, passion, friendship, rage, laughter, youth, old age, human frailty, death and immortality. And the stories contain elements of surprise as well as special morals and odd twists.

      Part One is a collection of true stories based on my recollections of some events in my life and the lives of people very close to me.

      Part Two is a mixture of some true stories and my thoughts on some topical issues and societal values. It’s a compilation of witty sayings and native anecdotes that have had a strong impact on my life. In some cases, I changed the names and personalities of certain individuals to protect their privacy. Also, I rearranged the sequence of events and timing of some stories, and recreated dialogues to advance the tales.

      While working on this project, a voice continued to ring in my ears. And the message was this: Our lives are creative tales begging to be told. They are outrageous episodes and quiet adventures.

      Simply put, our lives are books waiting to be written.

      Part One

      Saraa

      The devil always provides food for a stray dog. – Yoruba proverb

      That adage pithily captures my experience and that of my young friends as we grew up in Ebute Meta, Lagos, in the late 1960s and early 70s. Ebute Meta was a great place for children because we never lacked good friends (or bad ones for that matter). The area was a well-planned maze of tidy streets and roads that resembled rows intersecting and connecting. House number 18 Ondo Street, West, where I lived, was a compound of detached two-story buildings. These were not blocks of flats, but a stretch of rooms (some of them apartments) all sharing common utilities—kitchens, bathrooms and toilets. About twelve families, comprising around 40 children, lived in the compound. Many of the other compounds in the neighborhood were also home to a number of large families. It was a close community and every child in it knew one another by first name.

      We always looked forward to the occasional tales by moonlight by any elderly mother in the compound. Usually, a mother who was free that evening (most often my mother) would gather us together and sit us on raffia mats or on the bare concrete floor while regaling us with stories about how the greedy tortoise got its hunch back and ragged shell. Or she’d tell us how the dog escaped with its family to the moon, and how its shadow could be seen if one looks closely under the moonlight. We loved it when she made funny gestures or changed the inflections in her voice to imitate characters in the stories, making us laugh or feel scared. Often, what we loved most were the songs that she rendered. Every story was accompanied by a melodious or soulful chorus, and we always sang along gleefully.

      But one experience was even more exciting: making boats out of paper and racing them along the drainage. We cherished those paper boat sailing contests. The gutters, which were around two-feet wide and connected from street to street endlessly, were cleaned by the Lagos City Council workers frequently. Because of their dedication, there wasn’t an acrid stench, except the smell of burnt tar or bitumen that came from the well-coated road.

      We first made the boat by folding a sheet of paper intricately into a square or rectangle. We re-opened only one fold, which we then folded in half from top to bottom but with a crease down the center. From there, we continued to create intricate folding patterns, tucking, creasing until the paper looked like a triangular bowl with the tip at the bottom. The boat that eventually emerged was a fine piece of craftwork.

      We then gathered together, sometimes with children from my compound or our friends from opposite or adjacent houses. As our boats sailed along the channel, we followed and watched them from house to house and street to street. The boat that remained afloat longest was the winner. Sometimes, we would race for about 500 meters before realizing that we had gone far.

      Occasionally, we went to the Odaliki compound, three houses away, to watch the Igunnuko masqueraders as they visited Mama Tawa’s family. Mama Tawa was Nupe, an ethnic group from Niger State, the middlebelt of Nigeria. My parents never knew we went to the gathering of masqueraders. Yet, we managed to go, and we enjoyed them immensely, especially when we got a chance to see Kurekure–the little masquerader—as he flipped or somersaulted to the heavy rhythm of the bembe drum.

      Our greatest thrill was the intermittent "saraa" (sacrifice) given by some families. Once, a particular family in my compound gave the most enjoyable saraa. Why the saraa? For whom? Who advised the family to do so? What curse was it meant to cure or wave away? We never asked and never probed. Later, when we had grown up and many of us had become spiritually enlightened, we started to ponder on those saraa because it meant something more than a mere feast.

      Saraa originally means alms and is a concept of Islamic origin. Among the Yoruba, sacrifice is known as ebo. Hence, to offer sacrifice is "ru ebo." Sacrifices can take several forms and are offered for various reasons. It could be for religious charity; as an offering to deities and a request for material blessings; as a tributary like those by the Sango worshippers; and to placate a god (etutu). Its purpose is to commune with the gods. Hence, people bring offerings of goats, kolanuts, bitter kola, chickens, clothes, palm oil, cowries, money and bean cakes—anything that is believed to be liked by the gods. The belief is that a man who offers sacrifices regularly and adequately will receive favor from the gods.

      Here is the crux of the matter. Over the years, I’ve concluded that the saraa given intermittently by a particular family on Ondo Street was sinister. As a Christian, I support alms giving and charity to the poor. But I detest the type that is offered to deities and meant to steal children’s

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