I Went To The Latrine

When the automatic doors swiftly slid open, Jackson scuttled away. It was his first time at an airport. By noon, we would be aboard a flight to Abuja to attend my aunt’s wedding tomorrow.  I worried that we had misfired by allowing Jackson come with us on this trip.

Since Jackson’s arrival, it had been one drama to the other. Was it when I bumped into the toilet and found him seated on his heels, doing a number two right beside the toilet bowl? Or was it when I slipped in the bathroom because he had showered outside the tub flooding the floor? Or was it when we woke up to the morning after his arrival at our Lagos home and he was nowhere to be found? The hair on mum’s arms stood like the fur of our fuming cat. Jackson had run away leaving the kitchen door wide open. Mum and I hurriedly headed to the neighbors’ compound. And guess who we met walking leisurely up the dusty, quiet road towards us? Jackson! Then he said in Igbo “I went to the latrine,” pointing at the bush in a vacant plot of land. I began to wonder why there and then, mum didn’t bundle him back to Owerri. I was not having any more of this village boy's antics. In the past, mum had changed house helps like nappies and Jackson was one soiled nappy to be done away with quickly. Only last night mum had forgotten a pot of water on fire. I watched on as Jackson climbed the stool and bent over the gas stove. His mouth looked like a pumped up balloon. He seemed to be emptying his lungs of the oxygen; puffing nonstop air over the burner. The flames hissed as they doused into the gas ring. His fair cheeks had turned red like those of a wailing infant. Then, he took a long sigh. Mum rushed into the kitchen saying her nostrils were on a trail of the reek of cooking gas that had sneaked into her bedroom. “The water was boiling so I quench the faya," Jackson said without being asked. "What!" Mum yelled. She quickly turned off the knob, thankful that there was no incident. 

                                                       ***

Two days ago, at 6.30 AM mum had picked up Jackson from the bus terminal. He had travelled alone from Owerri on the Ekene Dili Chukwu night bus. Jackson walked dizzily into the living room, recoiling in his scruffy self. His arms hugged a small raffia sack to his chest. I overheard him say to mum, "Taateen." She had asked him about his age. He spoke unrefined English with an Igbo accent. No doubt he was an offspring of the heart of a village in Mbaise. My eyes ransacked through his feeble frame. As an eight year old lad, my clenched fist was way bigger than his. He fiddled with the rope dangling from beneath his extra large T-shirt. I narrowed my eyes to read the faded imprint on his chest, ‘ECONET WIRELESS’. The rope must have been torn off the rags of an old African fabric. It fastened the jumbo pair of jeans onto his lean waist. My nostrils didn’t miss the sting of a damp stench on him; a familiar smell on my village cousins who rallied around us during Christmas begging for gifts from the city. Mum immediately got Jackson to empty his sack on the kitchen floor; she tossed a satchet of Omo detergent at him and asked that firstly, he washed all his clothes. I hung around him close enough to have noticed a rumpled photograph beside his belongings. It held the faces of Jackson, a police officer, an aged woman carrying a suckling baby and four little girls seated on a pavement. Jackson said calmly, “Papa, Mama, broda na sista. I am number one.” He had caught my gaze and I greeted him with silence.

    ***

Today, as we prepared to head to the airport, Jackson cried all morning abandoning his bread and tea to the harmattan wind while mum shouted, waving a whip. I didn’t think Jackson loved the idea of living in the city. He moaned about wanting to go back to the village but mum shut him up. She had given his parents some cash, paid his transport fare and after two days he wanted to return? The agreement was to enroll Jackson in a city primary school while he helped mum with the house chores. Mum irritably went on and on about how Jackson was misusing a rare privilege because he was a stupid little boy. I thought his parents were dense to have let him out of their sight. At the airport, Jackson’s face was wrapped in fright. We had gotten to the top of the escalators when we realized he was left behind. Mum went back down, forcefully held his hands and tugged him on to the moving automatic stairs. They had announced boarding for our flight.  As we stepped on the tarmac on a queue to climb up to the plane, the unthinkable happened. Jackson on sighting the airplane began to scream in Igbo, "Big bird! Big bird!!" then turned around and fled into the building. Mum and I ran after him in an upsetting scene, surrounded by an unwanted crowd. Mum was beyond vexed and had Jackson put on the next night bus back to Owerri. And yes, mum had a lot of explaining to do when my aunt called asking our whereabouts. Of course, we missed our flight and my aunt’s wedding.