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THE POISONING By Bob Lennox illustrations by O. Baykal Nixon to resign? Preposterous, was the first thought to my head. But there was another sound breaking my disbelieving reflections. Murderer! Rogue! The voices were coming from the far end of my garden. It was a Sunday but the area around my Steward’s house was filled with people. Angry people intent on harassing one young man who bravely stood up to the verbal onslaught but with the look of a deer caught in the headlights. Wide eyes, resolute stare but with a desire to dart into the open at the first opportunity.  As
a relative newcomer to this nation that had just survived a divisive
civil war, I knew that caution for foreigners was always a good idea but
could not resist the urge to understand the grim tableau taking place on
my rented property just 60 feet away.
I felt a bit like an invisible man as I walked among the spirited protagonists. Almost no one looked familiar. Emanuel , the household steward was nowhere to be seen but Maria, the baby nurse for our children was not only present but at the center of the conflict. Only 19 or so, Maria was the primary caretaker of our youngest child, a boy of 5, recently diagnosed as autistic and in need of constant supervision. Not an easy task for several reasons but one she tried to meet at least 12 hours a day.  If
Maria saw me, she didn’t acknowledge it as she shouted her anger and
distress at the strange and frightened young man at the center of the
growing crowd. "What did he do?", I asked a complete stranger.
Ignoring my presence as well as my question the man shouted in English,
"Then drink some yourself?". He said while pointing to a bowl
of soup steaming hot from the kerosene stove in the glassless window of
the kitchen.
The youth shook his head almost imperceptibly and involuntarily clamped his lips tighter. His reaction  drew a cry
from the crowd as they wagged fingers and shouted angry insults in
Yoruba and Ibo at the boy. One particularly animated lady dressed in the
blue colors of a local market woman placed her face within inches of the
boy’s and punctuated her remarks with the bobbing tips of her starched
gelle. I had come to know these market ladies not only as entrepreneurs
but as leaders who’s opinions were not to be taken lightly. The
starched head covering was tied in a distinctive design that told me
that she was a married woman and the tribal scars on her cheeks
identified Oyo as her hometown. There was no doubt that the youth was
taking her seriously.
"I had taken my Noon break and went to the kitchen of the ‘boy’s quarters’ to prepare some moin moin for my lunch". The dish, made from fish stock was basically a soup. Easy to prepare, the soup had been heating on the kerosene stove when the young man appeared at the window and engaged her in small talk. "Peter, (the wretched lad had a name) asked for a glass of water which I went to the tap to draw". "When I turned to bring him the glass, his hand was just withdrawing from the open window". As she recounted, the moin moin bubbled on the stove but now appeared to have a slight crust of gray speckles on its surface much like the ashes of a cigarette. Peter however did not smoke. "What did you put in my soup" she demanded but Peter denied knowing what she was talking about. His attempts to change the subject only made matters worse. Emanuel, the Cook Steward, returned to hear the accusation but was loath to interject himself into a dispute between two young people. And besides they were both local Ibadanites and Yorubas to boot. He, an Ibo from the East had long ago learned the folly of sticking his nose into such arguments.  The
shouting had attracted the attention of other residents and workmen and
at the time of my arrival the crowd numbered at least 20 and with the
exception of his friend, Peter was quite alone. By now there were more
than 30 people choosing sides and there appeared to be only one
side.Again the market lady ordered Peter to taste the soup and again the
boy stepped backward and tried to avoid showing fear or emotion of any
kind. He was badly in need of practice for he was clearly terrified.
What was my role here? Even though I had no clear vision of what was
going on, there was no one else likely to call the police or intervene.
I had put my name on a list to receive a telephone but had not been
encouraged to think that it might happen any time before my tour was up.
Neighbors! That was it! I could run from house to house alerting my
neighbors that an injustice was about to take place. What a dumb idea it
seemed later. Then from Peter’s friend, what turned out to be the voice of reason. "You know, not everything put into a person’s soup is intended to do them harm". It sounded almost like a riddle or even the uttering of a prophet. It certainly had the desired effect. The crowd became quiet and reflective. The man with the bicycle smiled almost imperceptibly. Even the market woman drew back and while still grim she looked thoughtful. Then from the crowd, a buzz. Not the buzz of angry bees that it had previously been but a chatter of questions and reactions, surprise and understanding expressed in at least five languages. Unfortunately for me, none of them were English. There were even a few chuckles and at least one guffaw. Even with the new enlightenment, the market lady stood her ground. She still was demanding the Peter taste the soup. Peter’s friend whispered something to him and with trembling hands, he lifted a spoon of the soup to his lips with the clear intent to take as little as possible. It was enough apparently because several of the uninvited guests headed for the gate and the street beyond. The market lady, still as grim as ever, now satisfied, lifted the heavy basket of goods at her feet onto her head and with the grace of a gymnast, started for home. Maria appeared chagrined but not anxious to completely accept the explanation that had satisfied the crowd. Peter and his friend seized the moment and wisely disappeared.  Only
the bicycle man remained to enlighten me. Maria and Peter had been more
than friends some months before. As is often the case with young love,
Maria had found a new interest and her reaction to Peter had cooled. To
give the relationship one more try, Peter visited a JuJu man in the
market who assured him that his magic potion (which looked like
cigarette ashes) would restore Maria’s interest and rekindle the
affair.
"Why", I asked, ‘’was Peter so reluctant to taste the soup when it was not poison and could not possibly have harmed him." The man looked at me as he might a fool or a being from another planet. "Because the love potion was intended to make a woman sweet". " He had no way of knowing what would happen to a man who tasted it". As is usually the case with delayed wisdom, it came crashing in on me with unanticipated speed. And then I was alone with my magazine, again pondering the fate of another man who’s attempts to change the course of events with an unconventional intervention would end less happily. END
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Not
possible! But there it was in my two-week old Time magazine, shouting
from the page the words I never expected to hear. The press had been
stressing this option for weeks but The Nigerian newspapers poo pooed
the notion, resolutely supporting the man they considered to be
righteous and unfairly hounded by his political opponents.
"Why
do you think he has tried to poison the girl?" Finally, a voice in
support of the unfortunate boy. Not an eloquent defense but it broke the
trend of accusation that seemed headed for a lynching. Not the lynching
portrayed on the screen in long past cowboy films of my youth but a real
live vigilante stoning of a suspected perpetrator of a crime. I recalled
a recent article in the Ibadan newspaper that described the fatal
stoning of a man accused of witchcraft. The victim had touched a man on
a bus and was charged with "taking away his sex". I had taken
this to mean the accuser’s male organ had vanished. I had always
intended to get a clarification but at this moment had only a guess to
feed my already overactive imagination. Suffice it to say, alternative
justice was a definite option. The young man and his friend were
noticeably aware of the possibility.
