Ibadan! Ibadan!! Ibadan!!! You are like the ancient city of old civilization. You are my place of beginning—my garden of Eden. You are the prehistoric city that produced my stock from generation to generation. You are the fearful domain of brave warriors–brave, old warriors who feared nothing but dared all. You are not the smoky, choky, concrete jungle like Lagos but a snaily, sleepy, relaxed and unperturbed land of peace and tranquillity. You are the prime artery, the passageway for the lorry juggernauts from the North. You guide them through the snaky lane of Ojoo and pour them onto the Lagos-Ibadan expressway to their timeless, Lagos destination. Ibadan, ha, you are the citadel, no, the portal, no, the Valhalla, yes, of the valiant Lagelu whose voice was like thunder on the fevered hearts of kings who warred against him.
You are the undefiled land of amala; the land of e wa se gbe ibehun, the land of ageshin kole, the land of cusin cia ni, the land of wetie, nihilistic temper that raged like a bestirred ocean wave. You are the seat of knowledge. A premier city of learning. The gates of UI are still open. Its premiere foundational structure is still the concrete carapace that accommodates, yearly, thousands of youths hungry for learning and thirsty for knowledge.
You are a famous and renowned city. Your life-giving rivers, dense forests, tributaries, streams, roads and footpaths offload into Ogun and Osun with dominating presence. You are the city of cities. You are the largest city in the whole of West Africa. For years, Ibadan had accepted its largest city attribute with humility and studied calm. Ibadan is not loud, loutish, arrogant, boisterous and rude like Lagos. Ibadan wears its ‘no saking’ badge with relaxed calmness.
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Lagos is modern, cosmopolitan and racy. Ibadan is ancient, conservative and slow paced. On men’s faces, tribal marks running from the crown of the head across the bridge of the nose are still visible. Women still wear ‘pele’ on lovely, soft faces. The tribal mark tradition is dying among the new generation of indigenes. Civilization, modernity and rejection of tradition are re-configuring the old love for century-old heritage. On this, Ibadan is becoming ashamed of its tribal mark past glory. My father wore his tribal mark with fierce pride until death. He was the no saking, no nonsense, proudly Ibadan man of the tribal mark generation.
Ah, Ibadan is a land devoid of social pretence. Ibadan is a land of highly socialized people with a distinct flair for the good life. The midweek humble artisans are something else come Saturday evening. Yes o! The Lanihuns, Lagokes, Ladejos, Labanjis and Laniyans, all, are party animals who do the party circuits from Apata to Yemetu knocking down bottles of ‘33’, Star, Guinness, Gulder, Oguro, Burukutu and if the nerve is strong, Paraga. They are the children of Bacchus on Saturdays but hardworking, focused and money-minded bloody artisans on Mondays.
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Ibadan is a mystery. Politically, it had a notorious reputation as a land of mayhem–a tempest-driven kingdom of irrational, wetie thugs. No, Ibadan is not. Ibadan is a mere victim of its past. That old political structure of ugly demonisation has been cleansed. Ogunpa has cleansed Adedibuism from its soul. The heady flux of the activist, wetie sixties which turned Ibadan into a cauldron of political snafu has been exorcised. Ibadan is now a city, no, a nation at ease with itself and determined to forget the blindside of its past, dark reputation.
Ibadan is a land of old, rustic manners. In Ibadan, adults, children all, complete strangers greet you as you walk by and are ready to help. The older you are, the more adulating respect you receive almost daily from contact with people in the streets, shops, salons, canteens, beer joints, commuter bus, Internet cafes, mosques and churches. In Ibadan, it’s thumb up for respect for elders and old age pensioners. Respect in Ibadan, its yes o!
The Ibadan women of my rural retreat are strong, resourceful, genuine, accommodating and dynamic. They are not modernity slaves. They are not after the excesses of the Joneses. They are still humbly and decently attired in buba and iro and no chance for cleavage voyeurism. They plate their jet-black hair with rubber thread in different, intricately majestic and romantic tapestry of meandering beauty. These woven designs are tribute to rural creativity. They carry pots of water, corn, dried firewood or anything for that matter on the head. There is absence of pretentious living.
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In Ibadan, love and romance are hidden and forbidden from public view. I have never seen a man and a woman lock hands in a romantic embrace. Ibadan is timid in love and frigid in romance. There is less sexual plundering of Ngozi, Tinuke and Ekaete in Ibadan compared to Lagos. In bed, though, the Ibadan man might be a rutting, lubricious, Mokola-made four-poster monster with a prize fighter energy to demolish Rashida and Rafatu into ghastly human wreckage, I am yet to hear torture echo from the slaughter room. Our nocturnal life is unpolluted yet with lubricious human heat. Ha…ha…ha!
Ah, Ibadan, to use area boy’s slang, you are too much. Ah, Ibadan, for the love of you, I will not abandon or forsake you. You are like the tree planted by the streams of water. You will continue to yield your fruits in season. Your leaves will never wither from generation to generation. Ibadan: yes o! Toast to the land of my ancestors. READ ALSO:
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