Rebellion

2. Unlike Poles

“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give its sweetness.” – John Steinbeck.

•••

“So, Dayo – what are your plans now that you’re back?”

David Tijani – his dad, posed the enquiry over dinner. Ever since he had arrived at the apartment in the morning, he had been constantly plagued by a stream of endless enquiries from his parents. It was the reason why he decided to stay in Deji’s residence for the whole of the previous day, and not rush home instantly. It was like his folks and family didn’t grasp the essence of the statement – ‘I’m really exhausted, and I just want a break.’ Which he had declared when he first set foot into the house.

But of course, they were Nigerian parents and Yoruba folk for that matter. The clan prided themselves on the fact that they were perhaps the most organized, diligent and the supreme clan in the whole country. He couldn’t exactly heap the blame on them either, every single Nigerian of Yoruba descent always possessed the superiority complex that they were better off than any clan. So, he could understand why his parents were so particular about his plan now that he was back home.

They couldn’t exactly allow him to wallow time away with fruitless activities, and taint his workaholic image that had been adopted by the country as a whole. They cared immensely of how the public viewed his return back to Nigeria, and they weren’t going to let the media and everyone else watching – assume the worst of him.

“I didn’t exactly pre-plan.” He replied, without lifting his gaze up from his meal of Oatmeal swallow and Efo Riro soup – garnished with an assortment of a wide variety of fish. “I’m just gonna wing it. I have quite the number of ideas in my head. For example, I’m gonna take control of my publishing house during the brief time I’d be staying here, and I’m also nurturing ideas of growing and discovering new talent. An instance is starting up a writing academy.”

“And is that going to be profitable in the long run?” His mom enquired, causing him to finally lift his gaze from his meal and to stare at her apathetically. His dad was on the opposite side of the table from where he sat, while his mom was perched right next to her husband on the left. On his left and right was Deji and Dolapo respectively, who seemed not to be moved in any way by the ongoing discussion.

“No, it’s not a profit venture. It’s to help the discovery of young talent out there.” His words tumbled out in a slightly irked monotone. “Getting a publishing deal is one thing when you’re a good writer. Horning your skill and becoming a good writer is another thing. So many talents are being wasted out there just because of the general complacency of the country. I remember back then whilst I was writing in secondary school – I encountered so many difficulties that were hammering enough to make me put down my pen. The poor power supply for example. Everyone has to contend with that and plus, Nigerian parents aren’t usually supportive of wild talents of their kids if it isn’t related to school work. Parents need to be convinced that life isn’t all about academic success and not every kid was structured for such life. I’m just doing what I wished someone had done for me.”

“That’s a good principle, son. It’s in conformity with your Christian faith.” His dad’s reply connoted enthusiasm and support. “Do unto others what you want to be done unto you. Givers don’t lack. And I pray as you continue to help people, your success and wealth would keep on multiplying exponentially.”

“Amen.” The entire table chorused.

Deborah Tijani reclined forward in her seat, and cleared her throat. “So, apart from your literature plans don’t you have anything else in mind?”