POST 2: Babaaláwo Of Our Times. Chapter 1 (part2): Tuesday

 Chapter 1 (part 2): TUESDAY

Hearing the words “Holy-Ghost-Fire,” the commuters waiting at the nearby bus top, who had previously been languid in their lingering - the blazing sun having baked them into a lethargic daze - suddenly roused themselves and also began chanting: “Babaaláwo! Holy-Ghost-Fire! Babaaláwo! Holy-Ghost-Fire!” at the top of their voices.
They never failed to amaze me. In one instant, it seemed as though the sun had done them a serious disservice; as though they had just run a full desert marathon in the wrong direction, and desperate for fluids, were all just about to start licking the sweat off one another for sustenance; as though they were next to death: one slumping on the other, the other doubled up in agony, a few of them clinging on to the lawn umbrella’s shaft for support, and the next moment - upon hearing those invigorating words - they became as animated as demon possessed needle sharers; jumping up and down in one spot without actually leaping anywhere, like impatient grasshoppers stranded at red lights, and chanting fervidly until they were all foaming at the sides of their mouths. 

Customarily, although our exchanges had never been as curt as this, they always led to this same end. Sergeant Derin would ask where I was off to - I would say I was making my way to the shrine. He would ask if I was a Babaaláwo - I would admit to being an apprentice Babaaláwo, a trainee Traditional Religion priest. He would then scream: “Holy Ghost Fire!”, this was a prompt for me to hit the ground at full speed and begin simulating convulsions - suggesting that the policeman’s words were in some way banishing my demons of Traditional worship. Because you see, in Côte d'or noir, anyone who is neither a practicing Christian nor Muslim must have demons which need banishing, but more importantly, in Côte d'or noir, every uniformed buffoon and his neighbour with the tanning yams is either a chartered exorcist or a licensed executioner. I was tired. 

That Tuesday, I did not hit the ground. Nothing was going to make me voluntarily play along with Derin’s game. My mind was elsewhere. It was a Tuesday and I was asking God “why?”, which says a lot. In hindsight, the last time I had been that depressed was back in England, but that’s a different story which I’ll come to later. Right then, Derin did not matter, his gun did not matter, his colleagues with their rubber truncheons did not matter, the howling masses by the bus stop - already scouting the pavements for loose objects to pelt my inner demons into submission with - did not matter. The only thing that mattered was getting away from the place as quickly as possible so I could have a bit more time to reflect and feel sorry for myself. But as I walked on - not hitting the ground and writhing away like some salted worm - Derin blocked my path, pushed me back, and drew out the words: “Hoooly-Ghooost-Faaaiyaaa,” very slowly, but pronouncedly. However, it seemed as though he was asking the question: “Holy Ghost Fire?” 

I had never heard him say it that way before. He sounded quite Middleclass English as he spoke the words. The last time I remember hearing anyone phonetically draw words out that way, I was attending a job interview back in Birmingham, and as I waited in the office reception, a secretary - who I had previously told I would like a black coffee, as she had asked - returned a short while later wearing a sceptical frown, to confirm: “Wouldn’t you like some milk with your coffee?” And now, with Derin blocking my path, and frowning at me with that same disbelieving expression I received from the Birmingham secretary all those years back, he seemed to have spoken his words with the exact same tone. It was as though he was asking: “Wouldn’t you like some Holy Ghost with your Fire?” 

The next words that came out of my mouth were quite uncharacteristic of the new me. In some way, caught up in the chaos of Côte d'or noir with it’s unending frustrations, I had managed to build myself an impregnable barrier of calm and level headedness over the years. Up until then, I had prided myself on being able to show more restraint than most others. But the events of the days leading up to that Tuesday seemed to have undermined that barrier, as the “Sod off! Sod off you wretched bastard!” which I spat out - with some spit - was a throwback to the one time in my life when I thoroughly embraced ruinous ways.

Sod off is not a common insult in Côte d'or noir. And at that time, to my knowledge, I did not consider it one of the more sordid utterances in my stash either. I’ve heard some truly vile things said over the last few years in Côte d'or noir: Insults which graphically describe the numerous self-pleasuring techniques an antagonist’s father employs in public locations are tossed about willy-nilly to yield little reaction, and it’s not uncommon to hear an angered soul swear on his life how he witnesses daily, a dozen or so randy mountain goats bedding an offender’s sister. But judging from Sergeant Derin’s reaction, none of these were as offensive as my insult – my relatively innocuous “sod off”. Because his reaction was of one, who: either thought I had spoken an unredeemable abomination, or as is more likely to be the case, had no idea what it meant to sod off. I say this because I know Sergeant Derin well, and ignorant is but one of the many adjectives I can aptly employ to paint a picture of the wretch. In this case, it’s quite clear that the less he understood, the more insulting he thought I had been. He understood absolutely nothing of what I had said, hence…

Obviously feeling quite disgraced, Derin slapped me hard across the face, and began unleashing his truncheon to carry on with some heavier duty thrashing – still wearing that horrible smile. But before he made much progress - without considering any repercussions - my open palm lashed out across his face whilst he was in mid truncheon withdrawal, reciprocating in kind. 

His hat flew off. Immediately after I hit him, I remember him not looking up, but freezing when my slap landed - becoming very startled by it. His truncheon was in his hands, it was halfway withdrawn, but he was frozen - staring down at either his truncheon by his waist, or his hat on the ground just by his feet – I‘m not quite sure which. He was clearly in unfamiliar territory - he had no idea what was going on: he slapped, he did not receive slaps. In those moments, people like him don’t wonder why they‘ve just been slapped, but wonder why their hats are on tarmac. Thinking: “I, Sergeant Derin have just been slapped” to himself would have been quite unbearable. Then his lips began quivering, and the glaze left his eyes. I remember nothing else till Friday. That was Tuesday.