By GANI KAYODE BALOGUN
A few months after the civil war, some Igbo people who fled to the East started trickling back to Lagos.
My father, who worked with the Railways before starting his own sawmill business on Tapa Street, Ebute Meta, became the host for some of his old colleagues from his NRC days.
Due to the fact that he was putting finishing touches on to our house at Orile Oshodi, but had no intention of moving in for another couple of years, he gave it out to some of these returnees, rent free.
By the time he was ready in 1974, he informed those still living there, as others had moved on, of his intentions.
To his surprise, the man closest to him among the lot, who was acting as caretaker for the bungalow, refused to budge.
Not only was he not willing to give up the room and paulor my father planned to use for himself, he had also sublet two other rooms.
When my mother and her brothers living with us wanted to form a posse to throw him out, my father stopped them.
Curiously, a week or so later, the man just packed up all his belongings and moved out quietly.
Of course, my father was also a Mukadam, a descendant of the man that brought Islam to Amunigun.
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Make of that what you will.
Despite that incident, most of the tenants in that house are from that part of the country. My father did not use that to stop renting rooms to Igbos in all his properties. Even the two houses he lost at Ojo Street, Maroko, before the demolition were full of Igbo tenants.
While some continue to play the victim card, Yoruba Demons, that specimen of male perfection, continues to date and marry the very best of Igbo beauty.
While I did not inherit my father’s god-like patience in the face of such provocations, I inherited his ability to know there are good and bad people everywhere.
What Reuben said, just like what I just narrated, is a recollection of a single incident.
One.
But the reaction by the people from that part of the country, looks like he massacred a whole village.
Maybe what he said hit a raw nerve because it is closer to the norm than the exception.
It is what the Yoruba will call the Elefo tete syndrome.
Methinks, if people feel truly offended by what he said, all they have to do is counter it with facts.
Obviously, emotions and sentiments would not change the narrative, only comprehensive data will.
So far, all I see is a large dose of intolerance, served in a large cup of righteous indignation.
While some continue to play the victim card, Yoruba Demons, that specimen of male perfection, continues to date and marry the very best of Igbo beauty.
Oops! I did not just go there!
I did, I dey for Indy, come and beat me.
Our people should learn to relax, o jare.
None of us is leaving this life alive.
My10kobo.
