Suddenly, there was a groaning sound, as if coming from a colossal bull with distorted nostrils. I was startled. Then, the gate to the factory burst open. A sea of men in greasy work clothes, like colonies of ants on a hunting mission, thundered out.
It wasn’t easy to spot anyone in particular in the crowd. He was the one who first saw me.
“Terkura!” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his left hand, as if to reassure himself of the reality of the vision before him.
“Terkura!” he repeated.
Like one recovering from a trance, he leapt and swept me off my feet. I was like a baby on his massive shoulder.
“This is my sister’s son at the university,” he said to no one in particular.
He did most of the talking as we trod along. How were my studies? When would I finish my education and begin to work as a big man like those in his place of work?
“That’s where the big men live,” he said, pointing at some blocks of flats. “Those who eat the money while we do the hard work.”
“And who lives here?” The houses here were a sharp contrast from those of the big men.
“Which? This? They belong to the cane cutters!” His answer was nonchalant.
The figures coming out of the miniature houses sent an unsettling shiver down my spine. Their faces were so dark that the only thing that showed that they were human beings was their eyelids, which occasionally fluttered like delicate wings, a fleeting reminder of the life that lay beneath them. They looked like images from horror movies.
“Why are they like that? I mean, all their bodies covered with soot?”
“The sugarcane fields are first burned before they can work in them.”
“What work?”
“Cutting the sugar canes,” he sniggered. “The canes are first cut on the fields. After that, they are transported to the factory.”
“There should be a machine for that.”
He smiled at my remonstration. “Those people, they have magic spells, I tell you. Hmm, fear Hausa men. Look, each time the machines for cutting canes were repaired, they would break down in a matter of a few days. So, the administration has resolved to continue using them instead of wasting money on repairing machines all the time. As you are seeing them there, eh, they won’t bathe for a whole week.”
“Did you receive my last letter?” I was trying to remind him of the reason for my visit.
He chuckled. “Yes. That you want to do some vocational job here. Can you do this work? Anyway, I’ll try and talk to some people.”
Uncle Augustine took me into the factory two days later when he was off duty. The afternoon shifts were at work. Together, we embarked on a guided tour through the various stages of the process of sugar production.
“From the farm, the carts loaded with canes are poured into that place.” The production engineer pointed towards a large piece of machinery.
“There, that’s where the canes are grounded before the sugar is extracted,” my uncle added.
I could see some smashed and crushed canes being churned out and running into a jumbo tunnel. He paused for a long moment and then asked, “What are you studying at the university?”
“Law.” I was telling him this for the umpteenth time. His dark face cracked into a broad smile.
“A lawyer in our family.” I could see the gleam in his eyes. “I don’t know why you want to work. This is a holiday. Why not rest and maybe read your books?”
That was when I reminded him about the vocational job. The pain in his voice was evident. My persistence yielded some results a few days later when he took me to some offices in the administrative block. We were told to return the following week when various seasonal workers would be recruited.
“What about those cane-cutting jobs?” I got to know that those categories of workers were recruited weekly.
“That job is not for people of your type,” he answered.
“There’s nothing difficult about cutting down sugar canes. Is it not like cutting the stalks of guinea corn that we do in the village during harvest?” I countered.
“It’s not that you can’t cut down sugar canes. But, you see, some people are fit for something. Here, cane cutting belongs to the illiterates. You’ll be disgracing me if you do that. People around will say, see Augustine’s brother, who’s in the university, among the cane cutters. It’s because he doesn’t have money to give him that’s why the boy is suffering like that.”
I could feel the pain in his voice as he spoke to me.
But after idling for more than three weeks with no news from him, I decided one afternoon to join the queue for the recruitment of cane cutters.
It was there that I met him, the man who changed my perception of life. He was immediately behind me — tall, slim, and unkempt like many of them. His hair, a wild maze of dark strands, reflected the untamed spirit that seemed to reside within him.
“Put your thumb inside this ink and press here,” instructed one of the men on the recruiting table.
“I can sign my name.” I was peeved by their assumption that every cane cutter was illiterate.
“Can you?”
He was cynical. I snatched the pen from his hand and boldly printed the most intricate signature I could make. For the first time, the man at the desk looked up at me.
“Are you sure you can do this work?” It was more of a statement than a question. I collected the form from him and walked out of the office.
“These people think all cane cutters are illiterates.”
It was the voice of the stranger, as he joined me on the way to the medical centre. I was startled. It was as if the statement came from a different person.
He saw the confusion on my face and smiled. “My name is Abdulahi. You’re surprised at my choice of language, my English?” There was this knowing smile at the corner of his lips. “People always are. You’ve not yet told me your name.”
“Terkura,” I stuttered.
“Tiv! Little wonder. I saw that spark of bravery that your people have been known for for a long time. Pleased to meet you, Terkura.” His stretched right hand grasped mine. “Which institution do you attend?”
“How do you know I’m a student?”
“I know a student any time I see one. At least, I was once one.”
Perhaps that accounted for his flawless English, I reasoned. But why did he have to work as a daily-paid worker if he had a good education, I wondered.
At the medical centre, there was another queue. With our forms and clinic cards, we waited. I was asked to pull down my underpants when it came to my turn. I lowered myself to a seat to pull off my trousers as the medical officer went into the inner room to attend to something.
“What are you still doing here again?” He was ostensibly surprised that I was still there.
“You haven’t attended to me,” I told him.
“What do you mean?” he snarled. “What else do you want me to do? Get out of this place, my friend!” He snapped my form and card from my hand and stamped them, gave me the red card and put the form away.
On our way out of the clinic, I told Abdulahi about my experience.
“What you went through is the direct opposite of mine. For almost five minutes, the man kept pressing my manhood until I began to complain.”
I almost choked with laughter as he demonstrated how the medical officer was manhandling his manhood.
“What we’ve just experienced at the clinic was a clear manifestation of how things happen in society. Now, look at you, very clean and neat. And me, these rags. Because you look neat outward, there was no need to check you. But dirty-looking me is diseased. After all, cleanliness is next to godliness, they say.”
“What state do you come from?” I had asked Abdulahi one day. It was clear he hailed from one of the northern states.
“A true Nigerian.” He was looking at me with that usual smirk. “Tribal, ethnic, and religious sentiments. Everywhere you go, you’ll be embarrassed by these questions — which state are you from? And when you have answered that, they would ask about your tribe. Next, your religion, and even the denomination, and on and on. Truly, those are the bane of this nation.”
I was to know later that he was one man who would never mention his state of origin, tribe, or religion. My respect for him deepened.
We were at the junior staff mess one evening. He ordered a bottle of soft drinks while I opted for beer.
“I used to drink a lot,” he said. That was before his conversion. “No. Not conversion the way you know it. Not this born-again stuff, nor conversion from Christianity to Islam or vice versa, nor any religion that you know. It’s a change of heart, an experience that’s very difficult to describe to one who hasn’t gone through it.”
Abdulahi came to my place to find out why I didn’t report to the sugar cane field as expected. He too reeled with laughter, the same way my uncle’s wife did, when I narrated my ordeal to her earlier that morning.
The whole incident started like this. The bright moonlight that shone through the window where I slept deceived me, making me think I was already late to catch the carts that left for the cane field at dawn. I was told I must be up early so as not to be left behind. As usual, there was a power outage. So, it was difficult to locate my uncle’s wristwatch, which was somewhere inside the room. And, as if in answer to my plight, a cock crowed from a house nearby. This was followed by the noise of a moving vehicle.
There was no need to look for the wristwatch, I told myself. It was already dawn. I groped my way to where I kept the cutlass issued to me the previous day. I found it and, without wasting time, hurried into one of my old trousers and the spare work clothes my uncle had given me. I could hear my uncle’s loud snores roaring from the inner room as I soundlessly closed the door behind me and began to trot towards the cart park.
I was approaching the entrance gate that divided the living quarters from the factory when a hoarse voice drawled, “Who be that?”
My vision was suddenly blinded by a powerful beam.
“If you move, I’ll shoot you.” It was another voice.
And as if telling me that he meant business, an arrow suddenly hit the ground just a few inches away from my feet. My heart almost jumped out of my mouth. I had never experienced anything like this before. What could this mean? I tried to think. Armed robbers? Petty thieves?
“Come here. What’s that in your hand?”
“Cutlass!” gasped one of the voices.
“I’m not a thief, sir,” I said. The machete in my hand clanked on the ground involuntarily.
“If you’re not a thief, wetin you dey do with machete this kind night?” It was a voice behind me.
I turned to face a locally-made gun pointed at my face. My legs began to wobble uncontrollably. I was like a caged animal.
“Look, confess quick, and if you move, Allah, I’ll blast your head with this.” He meant the gun. “And turn your back.”
He began to edge me with the nozzle of the gun towards the others. I was now visibly shaking.
“I suspect this na thief,” he said. I was asked to crawl on my knees.
“Wetin you wan thief here self?” a voice asked.
“Please, I’m not a thief, sir,” I said huskily.
A man came forward and placed a weapon with the shape of a farm implement, popularly called go-to-hell, around the nape of my neck. My heart froze. I started mumbling silent prayers.
“Please, I’m not a thief. I was recruited as a cane cutter yesterday. I’m going to the cart park to be taken to the field,” I babbled.
I was surprised at my voice. It was as if it was coming from someone else.
“Na lie. You no look like cane cutter. Oga, this na proper thief.” It was the man with the go-to-hell. There was a rough kick at my left ribs, which sent me sprawling to the ground.
“Okay. You said you’re a cane cutter, which gang do you belong to?” the man asked.
“Gang 2B, sir,” I returned quickly.
“What’s your farm number?”
I was alarmed. It didn’t occur to me to memorise the number the previous day. “I can’t remember, sir. But, sir, here is my card.”
I produced the card with a trembling hand from my breast pocket. Abdulahi had told me to bring the card along with me to the field for the gang leader’s endorsement.
The man pointed his torch at the card and asked, “What’s your name?”
“Terkura Doki, sir.”
“From which state?”
“Benue, sir.”
“You be Tiv?” Another voice joined.
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
The man spoke to me in Tiv, then turned to their boss, and said, “Oga, nah Augustine Owondo brother.”
“Who’s Augustine Owondo?” the man with the gun asked.
“Enjoyment!” interjected a voice behind me.
“Na true oh. Enjoyment been tell me yesterday for beer parlour that his brother come from university, say na lawyer he dey learn.”
There was an unusual calmness when I disclosed that I was the one.
“So, Enjoyment no see better work for him brother for inside the factory, he come put am for cane cutter?” one of the men intoned.
“This young man should be reading his books during holidays like this, instead of risking his life coming out at this time,” said the man with the gun. He flashed his torch at his wristwatch. “See, it’s just three o’clock. Did your brother know when you were leaving the house by this time?”
“He was sleeping, sir,” I answered.
“Drunk!” quipped someone.
“Mind your business!” countered the Tiv man. “Abi youself no dey drink?”
“Let’s hear word, all of you,” barked the man with the gun. “Now, let someone take the young man back to his house.”
“Make Joseph take his brother home nah,” someone suggested.
The Tiv man readily agreed to this.
The door wasn’t still locked from the inside when we arrived at my uncle’s house.
“Mnsu, sir,” I thanked my escort in Tiv, bowing respectfully to receive his offered handshake.
The sun was throwing sharp rays at my eyes through the window when I woke up later. It was already past ten in the morning.
I woke up as soon as the factory alarm began to groan the following day. This time, there was light in the room. I went in search of my machete.
“What are you looking for this early hour of the morning?” It was my uncle’s voice from the inner room.
“The machete I was given the other day,” I mumbled.
“Are you still thinking of going to join those dirty people?” he groaned. “Well, you can do as you like.”
Soon, he resumed the thundering snores. I found what I was looking for and fled. It was chilly outside. The harmattan weather was quite harsh at this time of the month. My hands were stiff from the cold. I tried shaking them to allow blood to properly flow through them. Still, I walked on.
Soon, ghostly figures of other cane cutters began to emerge from different places to join me at the cart park. Clangs of metal rent the air as the workmen whetted the edges of their weapons, ready for the day’s massacre.
A shadow fell by my side.
“You’re up already! I went to your place to be told that you had already gone.” There were traces of humour in his voice. “That’s what they can do. I mean the guards of your incident of yesterday,” he said. “The real thieves are there in the factory stealing millions.”
I wasn’t in the mood to talk at that moment. He noticed this. There was already a crowd at the cart park.
“Here is where our gang stays,” Abdulahi said, inviting me to sit with him on one of the old tractor’s tyres scattered all over the place.
“Will there be enough work for all these men?” I asked.
He laughed his usual laughter and said, “That was what I thought yesterday when I came here. You’ll soon see that the men aren’t even enough for the job.”
A cart roared into the park. A great stampede started as some men struggled to get in. I made a move to go.
Abdulahi pulled me back onto the seat. “Relax. Ours hasn’t yet arrived.”
I relaxed.
“Ordinarily, this cane-cutting job shouldn’t be done manually,” he began. “Elsewhere, there are machines that do the energy-sapping job. But you see, when the machines were brought, some men in the management discovered that they had nothing to gain from the work done by them. Whereas, they could underpay the workmen who are mostly illiterate, and even put in the names of ghost workers. And so, after some months of the machines in the field, the farm engineers declared them unsuitable for sugar cane farms in the tropics. Make no mistake about this. These machines are used in other places that are also in the tropics. You see, I—”
The horn from the arriving cart cut him off.
“That’s ours!” We sprang up almost at the same time. “Get in quick. And, mind the cutlass. You hear? You can get cut.”
I had already thought of that. With the machete tucked under my armpit, I clung to the side of the cart and hoisted my legs inside.
“Where are you?” came Abdulahi’s voice. He was still on the ground.
“Here, in the cart!” I yelled.
“Oh! You’re in already?” Soon, he was by my side, panting.
A putrid smell hit me as I tried to make myself comfortable inside the cart. It was a combined odour of cheap cigarettes, urine, and decaying flesh. I held my nose.
“What’s that?” Abdulahi asked with glee.
“The smell. I can’t stand it.”
“That’s the smell of reality and the true nature of the society we live in.” He had to shout to be heard, making him appear like an angry preacher admonishing the congregation for their hideous sins. “But what do we do? We close our eyes and pretend that all these don’t exist. We’re all guilty of this.”
“Kai Mallam, akwai Magana ne?” one of the men close to us yelled at us.
“Wallahi, ba Magana,” Abdulahi responded. Then, he turned to me and translated what the person said in English. “He was asking if we were quarrelling?”
“You were shouting,” I pointed out.
“For you to hear me well,” he said.
I got close to the side of the cart and stuck my nose out through a gap between the iron-crossed rods that formed the body of the vehicle. Some cold fresh air rushed into my nostrils, filling my lungs. I was a little bit relieved.
For the first time, I became aware of my surroundings as we jostled through the untarred route. Spread out was an endless, undulating carpet of sugar cane plantations, as far as the eye could see, and at various stages of development. It was a fascinating sight to behold.
Suddenly, a general wail brought my attention to what was happening inside the vehicle. A miracle rain had just burst on us. It didn’t take long before I detected the cause of the wonder. Jetting from some erected pipes, like a geyser in the middle of a desert, was water all over the field.
“Artificial irrigation,” Abdulahi said.
Not long after that, the cart made a sudden jolt and came to a halt. Soon, all around us, were shrills, wails, and cat-calls. Close to where we stood, several match lights flared.
“Dan Kwaya!” someone shouted close to us.
“Asha wuta! Asha wuta!” returned several voices.
There were squeals everywhere. Suddenly, the atmosphere was taken over by the smell of marijuana.
“They smoke weed. These hungry-looking people smoke weed.” Abdulahi’s laughter made me notice that he was by my side. “That’s what sustains their lives. They now live for it. It gives them life. Life can only have a meaning after they have taken it.”
“But, it’s escapist.”
“Yes, a good escape from the worries that beset their hopeless lives. With that in their blood, they would work without paying heed to the scorching sun,” he said.
And, as if by a magical wand, Abdulahi’s hand emerged from his pocket with an already rolled marijuana. He ignited it.
The daily cane-cutting job turned out to be more fun for me than work, though my entire body ached with pain on the first two days. Within a few days, I had picked up a bit of Hausa and Arabic. I even had my first taste of marijuana.
Things went smoothly until the day before the payday when Abdulahi informed me of the proposed strike.
“We’ve discovered that what the farm managers and the gang leaders pay us is not the money on the pay roster.” He showed me photocopies of the document containing the information. “There’s going to be a general strike for the cane cutters tomorrow.”
“Do you think it’s going to be effective?” I asked.
“Well, we shall see by tomorrow.”
He took one final drag from his cigarette, extinguished it by stamping out the butt, and bid me goodnight.
True to his words, all the men came to the cart park without their working tools the following day. All of them wore white flowing gowns, a customary attire for the Hausa/Muslim community during the Jumat worship. It was a Friday and also a payday.
Their cries of “Tawai! Tawai!” filled the air. This was accompanied by the smell of marijuana wafting through the scene.
“Tawai,” means strike in Hausa, Abdulahi told me. A new wave of excitement surged through me. I was interested in the outcome of the event.
“They must dance to our tune,” Abdulahi said. “We want an increment, or, at least, let them pay us what they claim they are paying.”
We patiently waited for one of the management team members to address us. The sun got hotter, yet we waited.
I was beginning to lose hope, but Abdulahi whispered into my ear, “See what I told you. The information we stumbled upon is incriminating. They have sent for me and two volunteers to come to the administrative block for a talk.”
I made a move to go with him, but he cautioned, “This is a bit too hot for a young man like you. I don’t want to expose you to unnecessary danger. Stay behind. I’ll tell you every detail when I come back.”
He hoisted himself into one of the idle carts in the cart park and began to address the crowd in Hausa. There was a general excitement after his speech. Two people were nominated to join him.
For about two hours, we waited. Then Abdulahi returned with his men. A sense of jubilation swept through the crowd as soon as he concluded his speech.
“I told you we’ll win,” he said excitedly as he came down to join me. “With immediate effect, the cane cutters’ pay has been increased by two hundred per cent!”
The junior workers’ mess was tense that night. With more money in their pockets, the men drank and smoked excessively. I was inundated with bottles of free beer. Abdulahi, on his part, kept on puffing one stick of cigarette after another. The atmosphere was electrifying.
“We got them by their balls with that information. I’ll show you everything tomorrow,” Abdulahi howled with contentment.
A man of miniature stature leapt onto the dance floor. In his right hand was a bottle of beer. He was like a baby with a giant toy. He opened the beer and began to pour the contents on the floor.
“Blessing! Blessing!” people cheered.
He then dropped the empty bottle and began an acrobatic dance. Soon, the floor was filled with ghost-like figures dancing with unbridled passion. I joined them.
Then there was a cold hand on my shoulder. “Sorry to disturb you.” It was Abdulahi. “An important information has just been passed to me. We’re told to be careful tonight. I think you should come with me now.”
The seriousness in his voice jolted me.
“I suggest you come and sleep with me tonight. The information I received indicated that my life and yours are in danger.”
I was sober by then. “My uncle will be worried. I’ve never slept outside.”
He considered this for a while. “Excuse me,” he said, and walked away. He came back shortly with four hefty men. I was sure I had never seen them among the cane cutters.
“These men and I will take you home. Finish your drink and let’s go.”
I had lost interest in the drink. “We can go,” I said.
“Be careful, Terkura,” he said, as he bade me good night when we were at my uncle’s door.
“I will,” I said. This was unlike Abdulahi, who always appeared to be certain about everything.
I had barely closed the door when the men came. A loud and forceful banging reverberated at the door.
“Open the door!” The person at the door was furious. This woke my uncle.
“Who’s that fool knocking like that on my door?”
Suddenly, the door burst open. Three men came in. They had guns.
“Where is that man?” one of them barked.
“Which man?” my uncle asked. He looked at me for an answer.
“That man who brought your brother home just now. He was with four men. Where are they?”
“They have gone,” I said, remembering what Abdulahi had just told me about him and me in great danger.
“It’s a lie,” one of them bellowed.
Two men went into the inner room to search. They came out to join us in the parlour shortly.
“They aren’t there,” they informed the man who appeared to be their leader.
“Well, you’ll have to come with us then, since you aren’t ready to tell us where they are.”
He began to pull me along. Then, my uncle, as if recovering from a reverie, barked. “That’s a lie!” He rushed to block the door.
“Look, this man, this is not a toy,” the leader said, pointing the gun at him. “If you don’t want your brother to die, then tell him to show us where to get his friend.”
“He has told you they have gone.” My uncle was breathing loudly by now. “Look, let me tell you, you can’t go with this man when I am still alive.”
“We shall see.” The leader continued to push me forward.
I didn’t know how it happened exactly. What I saw next was the leader on the floor, with my uncle on top of him, struggling to wrestle the gun from his grip. The two other men came to their leader’s rescue. My uncle was overpowered and pushed outside. And then, there was a gunshot. Before his wife and I could come out, the men were gone.
My uncle was gasping when I lowered myself to join him on the floor.
“Terkura, I’m happy they didn’t take you away. Please take care of my children. Be a big brother and father to them. You’re the only one they have,” he stuttered, gasping for breath.
People rushed out to find out what was happening. Someone volunteered to take us to the healthcare centre. My uncle died before we could get to the hospital.
Nobody knew much about my mysterious friend, Abdulahi. From all indications, the killers never got him. There were rumours that he was the spirit of a cane cutter who fell off from a moving cart the previous season and died. Some said he was an angel sent down by God to help his suffering people. Even among the Hausas, no one knew much about him. No one knew where he was staying all along. I never did.
And very little was known about my strange friend six months later when I returned to collect my uncle’s benefits. But in place of the cane cutters were sugar cane harvesters. It was also rumoured that some private hand was going to take over the company.
Today, the sugar company doesn’t operate anymore. A sugar importer bought the place. He had to “kill” the company so that his sugar importation business could thrive. ♦
Sunday Okoh is a writer, editor, and teacher. His published works include Not an Easy Route (a teenage novel), Titilope’s Silly Game (a picture book), a textbook for children and young adults, etc. He has worked as an editor in the following publishing houses in Nigeria: University Press Plc, Ibadan; CSS Bookshop, Lagos; Spectrum Books; Learning Solutions, Ibadan, etc. At present, he teaches English Language and Literature in English, and coordinates an editorial outfit called Everythingbooks.
