The Man Who Brought Down Rain

It was July of 1992. I was just shy of ten years old. My parents had decided we would be spending our long mid-year vacation with my aunty Ebere’s family in Kaduna, Northern Nigeria. All of us except father who would stay back in Lagos and continue to chase the bread. Father was a software engineer with an auto dealership and his job did not permit such leisure trips as often as he would have liked.

At the time though, travelling to Kaduna could hardly be called a leisure trip. I still remember the day we touched down at the local airport, after what mother described as her most uncomfortable flight yet, (she hated flying so every trip seemed to top the previous one in discomfort) we got to the luggage area only to discover that one of the duffel bags otherwise known as Ghana-must-go was missing. In her typical dramatic fashion, mother forced the airport staff to search for it. The fear of angry mother was the beginning of wisdom. They soon found it with another passenger who claimed to have mistaken it for hers.

The Northern weather was hot and humid. Incidentally we had arrived Kaduna at a time it was said to be at its worst drought period. It hadn’t rained since February, the temperature was almost 40°C and the atmosphere was arid. Uncle Pascal, auntie’s husband was waiting for us at the airport exit. He was a tall strapping man with a slight limp; it wasn’t immediately noticeable unless you stared. He told us he had been shot during the Biafran war and the bullet was still lodged in his thigh. Years later I would find out it was caused by a village bicycle accident. An impetuous looking boy in his early teens stood by his side. He wore stonewash Jeans and a high punk haircut. He was my cousin Emeka.

 After exchanging pleasantries, they helped us carry our luggage into the car. Soon we were on our way to Uncle’s house. Mother sat in front with him while my brothers and I sat behind with Emeka. They had slept off, no doubt tired from the trip. As the eldest I stayed awake, staring out of the window. Kaduna was a calm city in comparison with Lagos’ fast-paced milieu. There were occasional high-rise structures but it had its fair share of savannah grasslands. Many times Uncle would slow down to allow herdsmen cross the road with their cattle. One striking feature I recall about Kaduna was the turbans; I had never seen so many turbans in my life before.

Uncle’s house was in Unguwar Sarki, some 20 kilometers from the airport. It was a fenced modest bungalow with considerable surrounding space. Like our family, theirs was lower middle class. Not rich, but comfortable enough to provide everybody with what was necessary. Aunty Ebere came out to meet us. She is mother’s older sister; with the same slender build, fair-skin and gap-tooth, they were quite alike but I always liked to think mother was prettier. Maybe I was just being biased.

The next two weeks were fun; we spent most of that time visiting Kaduna’s geographical treasure troves, Kagoro Hills, the Kajuru Castle and Matsriga Waterfalls. I already had a fascination for nature even as early as then. Uncle was a good host and Aunty a great cook; together they made our picnics a lot more interesting.

Unfortunately two weeks was just about enough time to entertain the short attention span of our Lagos-spoiled selves. The heat was becoming intolerable and there was nothing new to offer us anymore. The last bit was when Uncle took us fishing at Rigyasa Lake and we discovered it had almost dried up. That day we came back home dejected. My brothers and I soon became bored with Kaduna.

Looking back, I know now that the hot oppressive weather played a big role in our discomfort. My lips were cracked and I was in a desperate relationship with Vaseline. I just couldn’t do without it. My brother Kene’s dust allergies kicked in and his drugs were in limited quantity. I often heard mother and aunty discussing how the drought had affected the cost of food in the markets because they were scarce. Even Uncle’s tomato garden in the backyard suffered from blight. At this point, local farmers were calling to the heavens for a miracle.

We were entering the month of August and it had yet to rain. I had to find a way out of my fast dulling vacation. I formed a mischief alliance with my cousin Emeka; mischief because that was how aunty Ebere chose to define it. She always believed we were up to no good and she was right. Emeka was that wild cousin who always got you into trouble but you did not mind because it was fun. We had found a way to make up for the boredom by playing a series of practical jokes on unsuspecting victims.

Cordelia -bless her soul- was my auntie’s help and she happened to bear the most of our silly pranks. One time we took out the wood decking from beneath her bed, leaving only the mattress. We laughed hard as she fell in shock when she tried to lie in it. Needless to say, she did not find it funny. Another day, using luminous markers we painted bizarre patterns on Rambo, Uncle’s basenji and let it into her room around midnight. Her resounding scream was epic!

After that incident, auntie Ebere had had enough of us. We were idle she said and decided to give us chores of our own. In my own opinion, once you started doing chores on a vacation then it was good as over. The next day, we were made to wash the paint off the dog, every shinning pattern of it. Then we were told to take some beans and pepper to grind at the market (we would be eating moi moi for dinner). It was on this particular errand that I witnessed the miracle that formed the title of this story.

Unguwar Sarki market was not very far from where aunty lived, about a ten minute bus ride. Twelve year old Emeka was familiar with the route. Back then, gbomo gbomo kidnappers were not as popular in Kaduna as they were in Lagos. Being the older and stronger one, Emeka carried the beans jar.

The market was very busy and you could hardly get anywhere without bumping into someone. The air was pungent with the gamy odour of cattle both alive and slaughtered. We quickly finished with our errand and paid the grinder, a matronly Fulani woman who was impressed by Emeka’s fluent hausa. On our way to the bus park we stopped for a few cups of fura de nunu, that sweet milky brew hawked by yarinyas you see on the back of the ten naira note.

It was during this short beverage recess that Emeka noticed a small crowd of young boys our age heading towards the large building opposite. It was the Kaduna Township Stadium- often used by Ranchers Bees FC for their football matches. The poster above advertised a music concert playing that afternoon. The musician was some dread-haired Rastafarian I did not know at the time. Na Magic Fajic dey sing, I overheard one of the boys say.

Come on Emeka said, this should be fun. And he ran towards the stadium. I followed him wondering what the fuss was about. The gate fee was fifty naira, too expensive for us to even consider. Emeka’s impetuous self soon found a breach at the back fence which the boys we saw earlier had discovered and began to climb through.

He gave me the jar of ground beans and hoisted himself over while I watched. Next it was my turn. I had to pass him the jar first; standing on tiptoe I spilled some bean paste on me as I struggled with the weight. Soon I had one leg over the rickety fence- this was dangerous, and if we were caught we could be flogged with koboko. Fortunately we were not.

By now I was sweating profusely from the heat and the overhead sun did not make it easier. Notwithstanding we were now inside, among the crowd that cheered the Rastafarian musician on the centerfield stage. He was dressed in a tall hat and leather sleeveless jacket without a shirt underneath. The din appeared to lessen as he started performing his next act. The intro guitar tunes were catchy and I found myself nodding along like a bobblehead toy.

“The sky looks misty and cloudy
Looks like the rain's gonna fall today...
Lord, oh lord ye!"

The crowd went wild at this opening line. It didn’t matter that the heat belied the content of his lyrics. Everybody cheered. Somehow that afternoon, under the scorching Kaduna sun we all felt a collective yearning. A prayer to the gods for rain, and Magic (Emeka later told me that his name was Majek) was the musical vessel through which this prayer was channeled.

“I'm a hungry man and I don't wanna be angry
Send down the rain to water up my seeds
Send down the rain, Send down the rain…”

Suddenly a dark shadow fell over the Kaduna stadium as heavy clouds floated and blocked out the sun. Majek did not relent as gentle winds began to rattle the building’s shutters. He sang on, much to the screaming delight of the fans. His tenor voice was as supplicating as it was commanding, emotive yet firm. Light rain drops started drumming gently on the zinc roofs. It seemed to add its own music to the band’s instrumentals.

Nobody tried to avoid the rain. It was a soothing relief for a long suffered burden. They sang along and danced in it, amidst the threatening thunder and flashes of lightening. What had once been a hot sunny afternoon only a few minutes ago was now a wet twilight atmosphere. And by the time Majek began to sing the second chorus, the rain had become a heavy torrent. Surely the gods had answered our prayers.

“…cause i'm a living man, got a lot of works to do
send down the rain, papa papa papayo,
Yaya, yaya yayayo, send down the rain!"

At this point Emeka decided it was time to leave. While some of us hurried out of the stadium, many remained behind to continue singing. My last glimpse of Majek was of him cradling the microphone and singing his heart out, oblivious to the downpour soaking him. I am willing to bet that he sang that song to the end.

At the bus park, it wasn’t difficult getting a bus to Ibrahim Biu road. When we got home we couldn’t have been any wetter. Mother made me soak myself in a tub of hot water for several minutes while I sipped hot Milo to avoid catching a cold. Thankfully I did not.

We stayed another two weeks in Kaduna after that eventful rainfall and it rained almost every day after that. I recall Uncle announcing happily that his precious tomato garden was starting to heal. The following week, we paid another visit to Lake Rigyasa and had lots of fun fishing, even though I did not catch any fish. Uncle caught two!

In all the five weeks I spent at Kaduna that year, it is the gate-crashed music concert featuring Majek Fashek that remains the highlight of my vacation. For a long time I had a super story to tell my friends back in Lagos, and apparently I still do to this day.

This story is dedicated to young Majek Fashek 

Click below to play "Send down the rain"

majek fashek send down the rain

Get this mp3 download

A Woman’s Walk

Whenever Thalia went out, everybody stared. Right from the moment she stepped out of her apartment and into the hallway, the spyglass on the door opposite would darken. Somebody was watching; no doubt it was the nosey middle-aged woman who occupied it. It happened every time to be a coincidence. Thalia paid no mind; the old lady was as harmless as they came.

On the ground floor when Thalia was leaving the elevator, Mr. McCabe from 4b was always waiting to enter it.  Always. In his hand were some envelopes from the mail. Did he get letters every day? And why did he usually check his mail the same time every morning? These were questions she had asked herself in the early days, until she noticed he had the same stack of envelopes in his hand every time; same colour same date. He didn’t even bother to change them. She let his ruse slide but often wondered what his excuse to Mrs. McCabe was.

“Hello Thalia, going to court?” He asked, ogling at her.

“Yes Mr. McCabe”

“Knock ‘em dead. The other attorneys’ got nothin’ on you.”

She smiled as the elevator closed behind her, leaving him to bask in the scent of her Womanity™ perfume. How he came to the conclusion that she worked in a court beat her. Out in the street, the Manhattan cold wind blew in her face and she drew her Donna Karan coat tightly around her. Its cashmere feel was perfect for this weather. Once again she drew several stares from men and women as she walked past. She was used to that by now.

A hobo stretched out his hand at her, perhaps for some spare change. Thalia ignored him; she had lived in New York long enough to recognize innocuous types like him. She walked on, crossing the street and taking a right to the Starbucks store along 7^th Avenue. There wasn’t a long queue and in a few minutes, the barista handed her a cup- her usual peppermint mocha. It was wrapped in brown paper bag because of the heat. He needn’t have bothered, she was wearing leather gloves. She took one sip and frowned. As usual American coffee lacked that rich black flavor traditional Mexican-Americans like her were used to.

She looked at her Omega Lady-matic; it was 7:28am. She was just in time for her train. The subway was filled with several commuters going to wherever. She avoided a piece of gum on the tarmac which would have ruined her expensive red-bottomed pumps. Inside the train, she was happy to find a vacant seat right in the center. She soon settled in and began to read a magazine. Her Birkin purse was on her lap, she refused to place it on the floor like other women did their cheap bags.

The train was now full and ready to leave. It was the Seventh Avenue Line heading for Downtown Brooklyn. She pretended to study her magazine, fully aware of other passengers around her. Most commuting New Yorkers knew to keep their eyes busy and not stare blatantly at other passengers; it was an unwritten rule. However now and then Thalia would look up deliberately and catch one or two spectators who would quickly avert their gaze. This always amused her; once a man got into trouble with his wife for staring at her.

As the train left the station, Thalia caught her reflection in its glass-doors opposite. She could see what the fuss was about. She was stunning and she knew it. Her long wavy dark hair fell past her shoulders. Her lips were a dark mauve shade thanks to the MAC collection she bought last Christmas. Even though her skirt was almost knee length, her long legs always attracted more attention than was necessary. She wasn’t just stunning, she was sophisticated- and she always dressed the part.

                                                                          LIDIYAOSTAFIYCHUK 

The train ride lasted a little over twenty minutes. She got off at her stop, leaving in her wake, a trail of exotic perfume and several stares behind her. Once, she turned back to acknowledge her small kingdom of admirers which included both men and women. She loved it- in fact it thrilled her. Outside the station she hailed a cab to Brownsville, East New York.

Inside the taxi, she proceeded to perform her usual ritual. First she got out a plastic bag from her purse, removed her Louboutin heels and exchanged them for a pair of nondescript flat sneakers. Ah, the relief she sighed. Then she took out a clasp and did her long hair in a conservative bun. A few times she caught the driver watching in the rear view mirror but she couldn’t care less.

Next, she took out a blotting paper and dabbed her lips on it to reduce the intensity of her lipstick. She did the same to her makeup. Minutes later she was as plain as the girl next door. They soon got to a less busy part of town; this neighborhood was strewn with warehouses and broken down incomplete buildings- a completely different and seedy side of New York.

Thalia paid her fare to the bemused cab driver and left him to his thoughts. He would have a lot of that. She strolled inside town, much easily now on her sneakers. A couple of kids played hopscotch on the sidewalk and some guys tossed dice in front of their tenement building. She walked till she got to a large seemingly abandoned warehouse branded Maryvale Courts [the ‘S’ was missing]. Thalia smiled, in a way you could say she worked in a court after all.

Inside the warehouse was extremely busy, far from its abandoned look on the outside. Three guys were offloading cargo from a truck; the body paint on it read ‘Scrap Metal’. Thalia knew the items were not scrap metal. However, some men in greasy jumpers appeared to be polishing metal scraps in a section of the building. It was all a ruse. These man had also hidden sub-machine guns within easy reach. She reported at the adjacent entrance and signed off an attendance register before proceeding to an inner room. There, a woman with a body scanner was waiting.

Thalia declared her possessions before a caretaker and stripped to her underwear; bra and panties. The woman scanned her for extra items and cleared her to pass. She would retrieve them later at the close of work. Further inside the building, Thalia joined four other women- including two immigrants who spoke little English. Together they sat in their underwear and counted stacks of raw cash which formed the proceeds of Don Carlos’ daily sales of heroin. At the moment there were five huge bales of uncounted cash.

The time was almost 8:30am. Thalia grabbed a bundle of cash from the bale in front of her and ran it through the De La Rue machine watching keenly as the digits added up. It was going to be a very busy day.

The End.

PSA: Histrionic Personality Disorder- HPD is real. If you know somebody close to you who may be suffering from it, please contact the relevant support groups.