Although it is invisible, 17th Century English philosopher, physician and medical researcher John Locke described a newborn’s mind as a tabula rasa – a clean, unused slate.
Born 224 years after Locke, Sigmund Freud, a Jew and the father of psychoanalysis, while unravelling the human psyche, said the human mind is divided into three parts – the Id, Ego and Superego – each respectively consisting of the primitive, realistic and moral instincts inherent in Man.
Well, I’m no Albert Einstein poring over heaps of ceiling-high books and scratching dishevelled hair with a quill pen, but I aver, in my limited knowledge, that the mind is the most important part of human physiology. Wait, I’ll defend my assertion.
It’s true that every part of the body is important, including the pores of the skin, nails and the hairs in the nostrils. Even science agrees that if the anus clamps shut and rejects to eject the reject, the whole body suffers. I agree, too.
To describe the abstract nature of the human mind, I go to the crossroads where three footpaths meet, where the bush burns without scorching the foliage, where shoes walk without its owners, and where the rain falls without touching the ground. The human mind is the expansive incubator and monitor of brain activities.
Modern medicine is both indulgent and redemptive; it gives genitals to the transgender and life to the comatose. Modern medicine has turned the Operating Room into a workshop where parts of the human anatomy, such as the heart, kidney, liver etc, go for a price, but the human mind has no spare parts or price. Living can still have meaning when other parts of the body ail, but not when the mind ails. When the mind is messed up, living becomes meaningless.
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Ruminating over the elasticity of the mind, an incident that occurred during my National Youth Service Corps days in Enugu State over three decades ago came to mind. After writing my final paper at the Abia State University, Uturu, I was too sure I would be posted to the North for youth service.
I didn’t need to pray for my wish to come to pass, I thought. But lo and behold, I was posted to neighbouring Enugu State! I was crestfallen because I was eagerly looking forward to exploring the North and learning the Hausa language and culture.
“Didn’t these NYSC people see I’m a Yoruba who schooled in the East?” I asked myself many times, reading and rereading my deployment letter to see if there was a mistake in it. Well, bí isé ò bá p’éni, énikán kìí p’ése: when you get to the place of work, you put your hand to the plough.
So, from ABSU, I headed straight up to the NYSC Orientation Camp at Awgu. After three weeks of orientation, I got a letter of deployment to Umuopu Secondary School, Umuopu, in Igbo Eze-North LGA.
The whole of Igbo Eze-North was a palm tree belt noted for superb palm wine: fresh, undiluted àjáàbalè. Umuopu was a beautiful and accommodating land whose centenarian Onyi Isi would have me sit by his side when he held court on market days. I was a VIP because I was the first ever ‘youth corper’ to accept to serve in the land.
Despite building a well-furnished ‘corpers’ lodge with a generator to boot, the pull of Aji, a neighbouring town with electricity, was irresistible. More so, Aji had a highway and a full-fledged secondary school, whereas Umuopu only had a junior school.
As their school-leaving examination approached, the students, together with the Parent-Teacher Association of Aji High School, approached me and my NYSC colleague, Johnson Umor, to move to Aji to teach since the Umuopu school had gone on holiday.
So, Johnson and I rented the top-storey apartment of the popular traditional shrink, Enwe Nwanjo, the late father of Emmanuel, a jolly good fellow. Emma, our landlord, had a beautiful wife called Emilia and a lovely daughter, Kasie. Emma was the elder brother of Florence, my friend, who lectured at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. Florence, I learnt, had gone to rest in heaven.
In Aji, I met a black goddess named Eucharia. Her dimple was the wink of an angel; her smile – the gentle giggle of a Tesla cranking to life in mockery of fuel scarcity. Eucharia was the sister of the vice-principal. Together with her uncle, Eucharia lived on the left wing of the top floor while we, the two Corpershon, occupied the spacious three-bedroomed apartment on the right wing.
I can’t remember what woke me up in the wee hours of that fateful night. But I remember clutching a packet of Consulate cigarettes and a bottle of stout and getting on to the balcony to savour the midnight breeze and pipe to myself.
I swig my drink; I use no cup. After a couple of swigs and smoking my cigarette halfway, I remembered Eucharia. “Did she eventually go home to Nsukka for the weekend or not?” I asked myself. With unsure steps, I walked to her door.
I made a coded hoot in front of her room. No response. She must be sleeping. But the blue light in her room was on. I increased the hoot a little, mindful not to wake the whole house up. Still no response. I peeped through the keyhole and nearly suffered a heart attack.
Right there she was, my Eucharia, in bed with another man! I knocked on the door gently, but they only changed their sleeping positions.
Her head resting on the man’s chest, snuggly. I drew hard on my cigarette again and again and again and again. I was wearing the NYSC white T-shirt over white shorts, and the night was bitingly cold.
So, I went back into my flat, peeped into Johnson’s room and saw he had been sent on an errand by Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep. I wouldn’t have told him about Eucharia, anyway. I put on a pair of trousers, a jacket, socks and NYSC boots; it was going to be a long night, I reckoned. I got another big stout, and I returned to the balcony, smoking, drinking and pondering. Today, today, I must know who the invader was. I was prepared to stay up all night just to know who was knifing my yam with òbe èyìn.
I smoked, swigged and went back to the keyhole repeatedly. Though the room was bathed in dim blue light, I could see them. Their shapes were unmistakable on Eucharia’s narrow bed. Ha! Olopa o! I went back to the hallway to resume my night watch, smoking, swigging and wondering.
The clock ticked past 2am and headed towards 3am as the cold bit harder. “Umm, dis guy go comot today.” I wasn’t going to fight, but I was curious to know. I began to contemplate, “Who could it be?” “It must be an old working-class man”. “It must be a shameless married old man.” Thoughts swirled in my mind.
Slowly, the clock ticked past 4am, and I knew the time was nigh when the thief would make a run for it. I lay in wait on the vast balcony, replenishing my drink and cigarettes.
Then, I heard a sound in the distance. I looked towards the road where the sound wafted from. The sound became a song as I made out a little crowd strolling up the road in the morning haze.
To be continued.
Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com; Facebook: @Tunde Odesola; X: @Tunde_Odesola.
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