A few weeks ago I shared a short story I wrote on a train on this blog, and inadvertently started a new series where, once every few weeks I’d share a new short story I’ve been working on. I’m back this week with another one of those, called I was there. I’d love to hear what you think of it. Let me know if you’d like more of these in the future.
— I Was There —
The little one came home from the place they call school and asked the most unexpected question.
“Mummy,” she said, “did you know that our fifth anniversary of independence is tomorrow?”
“Yes, my love.”
“So…” the little one looked at the ground for two heartbeats, “how did our country get its name?”
“Good question,” the female human adult said, before giving a made-up answer. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: how did I know the answer was made up? It’s simple. I know, because I was there. I was there when the name was coined all those moons ago.
It was a sunny day. All my days were sunny back then. After all, we were in much warmer climes, in the land of always summer. That’s where I was born, and I’d seen but a few moons back then. But I digress.
On that day, the sun was at the highest point in the sky when the male human adult, the one who slept in the house, was in the main room in the front, along with another male human adult who was often around but never spent the night in the house. They were sitting in their soft earth, speaking their common tongue, complaining about the sun in the sky, and wishing they were home, their home. The female human adult was elsewhere, in the small, hot room in the back, concocting some sustenance for the male human adults.
The female emerged from the small, hot room with those liquids – the colour of walnuts – the humans love to drink even though it makes them woozy. I could never figure out why they seem to love it so much. I tried some once – what was left when the humans were done with it. It tasted terrible, smelt funny too. Why they like it so much, I’ll never know. Maybe it’s because they tend to speak more truths after they’ve had lots of it. Maybe that’s why they enjoy it. I’ve also noticed it makes them take more notice of me. They tend to want to talk to me when they’ve had some of their special liquid. They talk at me, tell me what to say, and when I say what they want, they make those loud sounds that come from their bellies.
Anyway, after the female left the room, the males made some noises I’ve never understood, adjusted in their soft earths, and started speaking about what they always call “official business.”
The male who slept in the house pulled something out of his skin pouch and spoke of the task they’d been handed. They had been instructed to come up with a new name for the region.
“I say we name it after the river,” the one who slept in the house said, ”that’s what we’ve done with a lot of the others.”
“Why that’s a mighty fine idea,” the male who slept elsewhere said, “easy, straightforward, memorable, none of this impossible-to-pronounce nonsense.”
“Jolly good!” The one who slept in the house slapped his thigh. Both males raised their liquid-filled pouches and brought them close to each other, something I’d seen them do many times before, when they were happy about something. But just before their pouches came together, the female popped her head out of the little hot room in the back.
“Hate to break it to you boys,” she said, “but the name’s taken.”
“What?” Both males looked over to her.
“Yes,” she said,” just north of here, the region’s governed by the French.”
“Unbelievable!” The male who slept in the house went red in the face. “Those French bastards.”
“Sorry!” The female disappeared back into the hot room.
“What else are we supposed to call this god-forsaken furnace?” The male who slept in the house raised his voice now. “And where’s my lunch, woman? We’re wasting away over here.”
He always called her “woman” when it was feeding time, just something I noticed over the years.
The female popped her head over again to say she was working on it, and went back to making various sounds with pouches and sticks in the hot room, leaving the two males to come up with nonsensical options and then dismiss them as quickly as they came up. This went on for some time. The female emerged again, wielding the stick with a hollow end she always used to stir their feed. She stood still in the hallway for a moment, like she was waiting to be noticed. But the males paid no notice of her, until she made a sound like there was something lodged in her throat. I know there wasn’t anything there, she did this quite often when she wanted the males’ attention. And it worked, because they stopped their chatter and looked over.
“Yes?” The one who slept in the house looked at her.
“If I may make a suggestion,” the female said, “I know the river’s taken as a potential name, but how about naming the region for the area around the river?”
Both males were silent for a few human heartbeats, and then came a sound, the same sound from both of them, which they tend to make when they’re unhappy about something.
“Why don’t you leave the official business to the men, dear? You just focus on getting our meals over to the table. We’re starving!”
The female went back to stirring the feed and the males went back to chatting. Then the male who never slept in the house said: “Maybe she’s on to something.”
“Don’t be silly, old boy. We can’t name a region with two words.”
“Sure we can! The French and Portuguese have done it.”
“But we’re not the French. Or the Portuguese, are we?”
“No, but still –”
“We’re not doing it!”
More silence.
“Although,” the male who slept in the house broke the silence, “we could merge the two words into one.”
And so the two males played around with words, switching the order of the name for the river and words for area or region, trying out different words in turn, chopping off parts of words and merging them with others. This went on for some time, until the female screamed from the little hot room.
“For goodness sake!” She re-emerged in the doorway in full view of the males, without her stick this time. “Forgive me, gentlemen,” she said, “for losing my temper, but it’s right there, in front of you. The word I believe you’re looking for is Nigeria.”
“Nigeria,” I heard myself say. It was a new word for me. “Nigeria. Nigeria. Nigeria.”
“See?” The female said to the two males. “Even the parrot likes it.”
And that’s how the country got its name.
N.B: In case there’s any doubt, this is a work of fiction and in no way attempts to portray a true historical account
P.S.: My debut non-fiction book, Art Is The Way, and my middle-grade novella, A Hollade Christmas, are out everywhere now. You can get them in all good bookstores and from all major online vendors.