Chapter 2: Homecoming and Heavy Palava

After I graduated from university, I came back home again.

The return journey from city no easy, but as the danfo reach our village bus stop, that first breath of farm air make my body calm. Harmattan never reach, but the breeze get that dry, dust smell. I miss the old road, the noisy compound, even the sound of cock crow every morning. For village, things dey slow but sweet.

The village dey struggle, and farming no really dey bring money, so I found work for city.

Na so e be for many people. All my mates for secondary school, some don dey Ibadan, Lagos, even as far as Abuja dey hustle. But home still be home. My people dey pray say one day I go make am big come settle dem well.

My papa and mama still dey for village. Dem say dem no fit adapt to city life, and I no force dem.

Each time I call, papa go laugh, say, "You wan make I dey drag bus with all these small small boys?" Mama go add, "Abeg, I like my farm and my friends. No city wahala for me." I gree, let them rest.

Day before Independence Day, I finish my work early, rush go park, buy ticket, and enter bus back home.

Road jam no small, but as driver blast Fuji for bus, everybody dey gist, chop gala, and drink La Casera. My mind dey race as I dey imagine the village breeze and mama’s soup.

But as I reach house, I notice say something dey off. My papa just dey look the orange trees for farm, face full of worry.

No be him style to keep quiet, but that day, he no talk as I drop my bag. Na only sigh I dey hear. Even mama dey quiet for kitchen.

“Papa, wetin happen? Something dey worry you?”

The air thick, nobody dey smile. I walk come near am for backyard, breeze dey blow small-small, but e still cold for body.

I ask am, “Tell me, maybe I fit help.”

I talk soft, make e know say I dey serious. I sit down for broken stool by him side, try catch him eye.

He look me, not too sure: “October don reach. The sweet oranges wey everybody plant nearly ripe, you know na?”

His eyes red small, voice low. Even the way he clear throat make me fear. He rub hand for face, look ground, then look me again. For small time, e no talk.

I nod.

I remember last year when everybody dey happy about orange trees. This year, everywhere just dull.

He sigh heavy.

The kind breath wey person release after hard work, as if him fit blow the wahala commot.

“But wetin be the use of ripe fruit? Not too long ago, village head send message say the factory wey promise to buy our oranges wan run. Dem talk say sales no good, so dem wan cancel the order. Me and your mama even clear all our old crops overnight to plant these oranges. Now, how we go do?”

His voice dey shake, I fit see the pain for him face. All the farm work, now e dey look like waste.

“As village head hear this, he and some of your uncles no fit rest. Dem go meet the factory, cause wahala.”

I picture the elders, wrapper and cap, matching go confront the factory people, voices high. For this village, nobody dey carry last, especially when money enter.

“The factory no get choice, dem agree to buy, but dem talk say price must come down. Dem say sweet orange too plenty now, dem no dey make money. Before, dem dey buy for 600 naira per kilo, now dem cut am reach 200 naira.”

My mouth open small. From 600 to 200? Na real wahala be this one. For farm, na full loss be that. Nobody dey chop orange for morning, afternoon, and night.

“We no fit even cover cost. No be wickedness be that? The men vex, say dem no go sell, make the oranges rot for ground. The factory people happy as dem hear am, just drive commot. You no reason say the village head no try at all? How he go talk that kind thing? Even 200 naira still be money—better pass make e waste. Dem fit talk their mind, but na we, the ordinary people, dey suffer.”

I see the way him fingers dey tap for trouser. Old man wey suppose dey rest, now dey reason money wey no reach hand. Village palava get as e be.

“Pikin, you dey city. You fit use your connection, ask your people, your friends, see if dem fit buy oranges for Christmas?”

He look me with hope, voice drop. Na rare thing. For our side, papa no dey beg pikin. I feel am for chest.

Tears nearly drop from my eye.

As I look am, I remember all the days wey he carry me for back, teach me plant cassava. Now, na me he dey look for help. I hold myself tight, no let tear fall.

“Papa, to find one or two people no go solve anything. Even if dem wan support us, na retail dem go buy—three or five kilos at most, two or three baskets reach. And if person chop too much orange, e go cause wahala for belle. City people dey care about health now. Who go buy orange full house?”

I try laugh am off, but the thing heavy. E be like say solution no dey. People for city now, na fruit salad, smoothie, dem dey do. Dem no dey buy in bulk, except market women.

My papa vex, press cigarette for table, voice strong.

He never vex like this before. "So all our work go waste? You go just look?" The old man voice choke room. Even mama come out kitchen, wipe hand for wrapper, look both of us.

“So na so you dey talk am? The oranges for house go just rot? All our years of work na waste?”

He dey shake small, as if him wan break something. I no wan talk back make I no disrespect am. Silence fill the compound.

I grip my hand tight. I wan argue, but as I see him face, my words just hang for my throat.

I bite my tongue, just dey nod like mumu. Sometimes, to keep peace for house, na silence be the answer.