What An Ass Told Me

What An Ass Told Me

Thursday, May 17, 2018 5:44 pm

Olugu Orji

By Olugu Orji

Ass is simply a donkey, but in the irreverent art of invectives, ‘ass’ commands higher value: and we have the Americans to thank for this dubious distinction. I was introduced to the ass quite early in life by no less distinguished a personality than my father. A public servant at the time, he strived to bring me up in the best traditions that post-colonial Nigeria had on offer. If there was ever an award like Grand Disciplinarian of the Federal Republic (GDFR), my father should have earned it effortlessly.

And here was I at the other end, a precociously talented imp of a child who probed the limits and questioned the positioning of every ancient landmark. But my father was fully resolved not to allow this anathema occur under his watch. I was only one of eight siblings yet I was fingered in every family brouhaha. My father met me head- on; armed always with two lethal weapons: an armoured ‘P&T’ telephone cable and scathing words delivered in military-style high decibels.

One word always featured during these scary disciplinary episodes. The word was ‘stupidas.’
For years, I didn’t know what it meant until the day my mother came to the rescue. Stupid ass! Ordinarily, stupid ass is a tautology, but in my case, it wasn’t. Knowing some of my antics and daredevilry, it was an appellation well-deserved. Ironically, during each of those correctional sessions, I would desperately long to hear that word, for soon after it was uttered, my father’s flaming anger only abated.

So now that you’ve met the ass, you’re now better positioned to appreciate the import of my encounter with a fellow ass.

Every tribe in Nigeria has a reputation for modifying and simplifying words and phrases from English and other languages to suit peculiar vernacular diction. In this art, Hausas are best. Doctor becomes ‘likita’, electric transmutes into ‘lantarki’ and Port-Harcourt is re-christened ‘fatakwal.’

In Funtua, in the then North Central State was a residential neighbourhood established by the British Cotton Growing Association (BCGA). The natives took one look at this convoluted, serpentine nomenclature and came up with, ‘Bisije.’ Can you beat that?

I lived in this neighbourhood with my father in the early 70s; the rest of the family having temporarily relocated to Ohafia to await the birth of one of my kid sisters. When I was neither plotting nor executing mischief, one of the saner habits I indulged in was to sit in the front of the house and observe the endless human traffic. I never ceased to be fascinated by the sight of little boys riding on asses laden with sundry goods headed to and from the market. In my mind, I was already conjuring up images of my inaugural ass ride.

That opportunity presented itself sooner than I’d imagined. My father had gone off to work and it was holiday time. I chanced on a lone ass gingerly munching away at a breakfast of dry grass; and the harmattan was in full swing. I approached eagerly but with measured caution. When I got close enough, I immediately identified a challenge: my diminutive stature. But what I lacked in size, I more than made up with raw determination and courage. I clawed and clambered my way up and was finally ensconced triumphantly on the beast. All this while, it didn’t move an inch. I hastily concluded that no animal could be dumber.

The next task was to get the beast to move. I employed my hands, legs and voice to no avail. Just when I was contemplating my next line of action, the ass executed a deft manoeuvre that I can’t explain to this day. But its effect, I can recall all too vividly. I found myself flat on my back, about two metres removed from the ass that now faced me.

When the searing pain in my back subsided and I managed to regain visual focus, I think I saw a smirk on its face just before it spoke to me. Now, don’t ask me to explain because if you’re not an ass, you’ll never understand. Here’s what was spoken, one triumphant ass to a two-legged other:

“Hey dude, I know you’re pretty shaken at the moment but please, listen carefully to what I have to say. Don’t go attempting what you don’t fully understand. You only end up hurting yourself. And by all means, avoid the sin of underestimation. I know I look dumb but as you can see, I’m not as dumb as I look.”

Over the din of the howling harmattan winds, I think I also heard the distinct bellow of my father: “Stupidas!” And my unravelling and humiliation was near complete.

I managed to pick myself up, brushed off as mush dirt as I could and limped off to rue my ignominious defeat. In my newfound sobriety, the ‘ass lessons’ stayed with me for a few days but only just. As is usually the pattern, I ‘recovered’ and then promptly forgot.

A few weeks later, I cast my gaze on my father’s bicycle and the direction of my next adventure was suddenly clear. Unfortunately, the bicycle wasn’t as humane and merciful as the ass. The resultant fall left me with a severely dislocated right knee. It took four years, three extended periods of hospitalization, two major surgeries and one valuable term off my academic calendar to rid me of the effects of that ill-fated but avoidable fall. If only I had hearkened to the ass…

Despite these interventions, I still wound up with a permanent limp to remind me of the huge price that ignoring wise and timely counsel can sometimes exact. Even those emanating from an unlikely a source as an ass!

Having been around for over half a century, I’ve certainly seen and experienced quite a bit. I’ve seen Nigeria up there and I was with her when she was flat on her back. I’ve seen promising careers and relationships crash in spite of being founded on the wisdom of so-called experts. Nigeria, for as long as she has existed, has always sought out these gurus; albeit, at a hefty cost. Yet, in spite of the patronage, she’s none the better.

Take a look at the banking sector. It has always been run by award-winning experts, eggheads and finance wonks. Yet, this bunch has always managed to bring this critical sector to the brink of collapse.

I’m not disparaging fine expertise or those who traffic in it. I’m only suggesting that we take another look at what we’ve so long sidestepped and undervalued. That minority judgement, that lone dissenting opinion, that ragged voice crying in the wilderness against compromise and corruption or that dumb input, might be what we urgently require to exit the quagmire.

One day, I saw a Fulani man roundly outwit a bus conductor who thought himself smart. And the Fulani pulled off this feat without shedding one bit of the outward mien of being a dumbass. From that day, I vowed never to underrate and take undue advantage of anybody: least the Fulani.

Our world is crawling with gurus, geniuses and experts offering wide-ranging products and opinions. For the most part, we’re blessed having them. But judging from our precarious state of affairs, we are obligated to begin to listen to those less-flamboyant and less-articulate voices.

There’s a Biblical account of God communicating through an ass. I’ve never had any difficulty believing the story. If the Almighty can afford to speak through an ass, I don’t see why we can’t stoop to listen to one.

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