Baba Legba’s First Letter to Edmonton After A Long Hiatus | Minkail Olaitan

‘The air was never still, but now it breaks feathers.’ 

Dear Edmond,

I picked up my pen after a decade-long hiatus from the business of writing. What else could be done when muse troops profusely like a downpour in my head? I find it delightful that the first person I’m sailing my words to is you, dear son. This is probably a golden opportunity to serenade you with my experiences, the forming of my identity — a rogue, as you grew up to learn through the calling of people. For a moment, I wrestled with the idea of making the central character of this letter or writing narrowly about me. However, the innate sense of artistic expression sizzling in me would not permit me. Instead, I’ve decided to make it like a lake spreading into many brooks along the path. But above that, how are you, Edmonton? I was wondering if life has been doing you well. 

I learned recently of the heavy damage rain is inflicting over there. I learned several houses have become floodways, which forced house owners out of their properties. Let me enlighten you a bit. About two decades ago, some officials distorted the town planning of that area because of their greediness. They willfully ignored the proper layout of the city and rolled out lands to developers who were also uninterested in the city outlook but their uncensored profiteering. The landscape became increasingly blurry, and nature pathways were inadvertently blocked. Nature is haughty, unemotional and unpredictably dangerous; it may lie innocent for centuries, but when it rages, it can reduce the tallest structure to dust, or, as it is commonly known, deface it. The adversity the rainy season reveals has always been here during the dry, but neither harmattan nor dry is capable of inciting the revolt. I’ve read myriads of concerns written in papers, but none sound wholesome enough, so I can’t wait to read your thoughts on the subject next time you write to me. 

I hope this won’t dwindle your enthusiasm. Speaking of human challenges—you were still young and had just one business at the time—breezing here and there with the rawest smiles ever. Your small eyes glued to the television, sometimes I wonder whether you truly understood what it was the people on the screen were saying. I guess one of the maker’s ways of saving children from the burdens of the reality of the time is to blast them with a lack of understanding. Otherwise, Earth would be reeking of pangs. That reminds me of a day NTA was airing a documentary of the world war; the way you threw yourself in the air and landed on the upholstered chair with unmistakable excitement sent a cold wave into your mother’s heart. 

She muttered, “You’re lucky the world doesn’t have to learn about us through the kaboom of an atomic bomb that wrecks a whole civilization into ruins—you are lucky you can find a smile easily.” I didn’t know what she was thinking about, but I knew it wasn’t your fault—you were too young to bear the humbling burden of life. The next day, you were together composing a song, which she later titled “Balm to the Injured.” I knew, regardless of the circumstances, a mother will always tend to her child. She won’t disrepute her child for yesterday’s incident. 

‘Eustress’

Over the past 6 decades and 3 years, I’ve experienced life in different forms, and each phase makes up my personality buildup. My voracious appetite for order, my steadied soul and the unmitigated regrets that sip on at times—but without that except my one-time friend, Lowo, who erroneously says that we can fashion our lives perfectly without any emotional injury. Unlike Lowo, my life is dotted with vivid expressions of imperfection. I dashed into rooms where orders are held high, threw fingers into the faces of people, yelled at innocent kids, beheaded bottles of beer, and at one time, puffed tobacco like a chimney. 

That’s not all about me, except I want to give you a chance to build up your single story arc. There are also numerous people who know I’m a good man. A compassionate voice that fights for the general good of society. I am an enlightened advocate of love, but never one who will contort himself to fit in with people’s ideas of values. My father discovered this fascinating trait early, and while others celebrate my academic grades, he’d always say, ‘My stubborn scholar,’ with a bright, broad smile on his face. The type that means, I’m proud of you. For a long time, I wondered why I felt bad about being called stubborn by my own father. My notion was simple: I don’t condone being cheated or trampled on. But when my father told me the story of men who have made great strides, I picked up from him that they were all stubborn. 

You didn’t meet my parents alive, and for that you’re unlucky. In fact, should you have met my father, my achievements would be a mere reflection of his to you. He used to be a professor of philosophy, a rare breed. His eyeglasses fittingly rest on the bridge of his nose, and pristine fashion tastes added to his classic appearance and reputation. I was so lucky to have a scholar as my father and a singer as my mother. So during my childhood, either I’m found in a room cluttered with books and journals and maps, or I’m found composing with my mother as we sing in unison the yet concluded lyrics into perfect tone. Such luxury was my childhood — an enlightenment for my mind and music for the soul. It was a camaraderie of both chaos and order. Some days my father fed me with hair-raising stories of African leaders; another time, the poignant tales of bloodshed in the society before your birth. 

You met the ruins of this country. The patches and recurring trauma of several massacres, leadership dilemma and utter cluelessness. You met a country with a broken soul and shattered spirit. I joined several groups with brilliant, unapologetically talented folks, which is a sacred mandate to fight and bring back the true moral values and ideal system of leadership. We drew the battle line, armed ourselves with our skills, and became a virile social justice writer. Bolarin, an Ijesha scholar with strange poetic mastery compiled several chapbooks, and Alongo, with his clangorous voice, recounted the misery and plight of the common citizens in his socially conscious music and several others with their unique skills. It was a war against the existing, corruption-invested system. At first, for protection purposes, I wrote under the byline ‘anonymous,’ but as time went by, when my courage soared to a degree, I picked the name ‘Baba Legba,’ which many now call me. 

‘Taming’

But even a monster has the limit to which it could tread. For some it could be as simple as an apple bite, for another a dungeon filled with ferocious snakes, and for some, it’s the thighs of the Delilah or monstrosity of Jezebel. For our coterie, it was the death of Bolarin. I still have a vivid memory of that unforgettable day. Bolarin had just launched his third chapbook, “These Leaders Are Quacks,” which was the most unapologetic and terrifying collection to his name. He was unsparing in his poetic expression—Alongo termed it “chaotic and honest.” He hosted us at his apartment in Bodija, where he read his collection to the coterie, and we reveled until the dark hour. In the morning the news broke that Bolarin had been murdered overnight. He was defaced by whatever weapon was used on him. I fell on my knees, overtaken by compunction. Bolarin was just a talented poet; I was the one who initiated him into the coterie, and I was never there to protect him. His books, particularly his latest collection, were carted away, and some were totally destroyed. We found several pieces in his house the following day and trails of blood that are still stuck in my head. Bolarin’s death was the expected quake that sent chill waves into my heart, and I’m guessing today, the entire coterie. That being how the monster in me was tamed, but I still write after that terrible nightmare. 

Edmonton, that’s all I ever desire, to be a rogue, a voice for the voiceless, and perhaps a little strange hope for many hopeless. I’m aware, however, how meager that may sound to your generation and how nonsensical and ridiculous the modern parents would perceive it. Who in his sane clime would choose to be an “observer and thinker” over a prestigious medical doctor, politician, poet, or attorney? Regardless, I won’t hesitate to acknowledge, “I will.” Because that’s where I found peace and happiness. Every single time I remember my golden days as a respectable thinker an observer, and a writer, I would feel a surge of current running through my veins and it all feels like I should have something to trade with the time that has whizzed past me. Or I should whisk my hands and wake Bolarin from the dead. 

Regardless, every man must voluntarily take the risk of yielding his place for another man. Dear Edmonton, death attracts rebirth. Now, this is the heart of this letter, the sole reason I put my pen in between my tired fingers and subsequently on paper in between your hands now. It’s all about choice. To fight for a country that doesn’t honor your existence, to love your fellow man without reservation despite knowing the height of danger associated. To lift others when they are down below in the mire, aware that their immediate gentlemanly nature is relative. Or to incite others to pick a fight for the greater good, like I did with Bolarin despite knowing it wasn’t going to be a fair fight. But again, I would have preferred I take the direct brunt of the issue rather than my good brother. 

Son, never allow people to be the judges of your choice; choose whatever makes you happy. Anything that you know you will voluntarily struggle for. Don’t be caged by the psyche that society dictates for a man or a fellow human standing as a benchmark of your existence. None of that is valid, and never should they determine your ability. No man under the skies is complete, just like society is incomplete without you. This I discovered in my early years as a weird observant and boundless thinker; that a man should dictate his environment. That man is the adaptation he’s learning so hard to master.  

Since no building can say a word about the man to own it, or the door can refuse entrance of anybody, or currency (money) dictates its value to the spender of it. Everything is man-made. The ideas, the rules, the ethics, the laws, the closeness of the door, the wide opening of the door, punishment and reward, successes and failures—all are from the subtle creativity of man, some men actually. Therefore, Edmonton seeks only to have you be yourself and be happy for the decision you’ve made. The only ultimate rule is death. And you can choose to not die if you can bury yourself in people’s hearts.

There are lots in the old skull to pour, my dearest son. But strength betrays my fortitude. I hope you will be swift in your response, because this old spirit is enthusiastic and has cycled back to infancy. Also, things can be quite elusive at this age. Your man is losing his brain to emptiness but will make sure to use the remaining time to pass down a goldmine of wisdom I have acquired through keen observation of man and his society. 

Peace forever,
Baba Legba