Warri pikin

Even though the author is referring to life in warri, anyBoko Nigerian who was a child in the 70s and 80s can relate to this experiences with slight variations pending on location

by Choice Ekpekurede

For a moment, let us drift a
little away from the reality of
daily hardship occasioned by
the political and economic
irresponsibleness of the
misleaders that have taken
over the reins of government.
Go back in time with me, if
you would, to a few highlights
of childhood life in Warri
(stylishly nicknamed Waffi)
back in the day. The challenge
that this setting presents is
that a non-Wafferian may be
totally lost as to the meaning
of many of the words or
expressions from the Warri
pidgin dialect used in this
piece. This is one instance
where your Oxford Advanced
Learner’s Dictionary is useless.
Not to worry: I have
endeavored to stay outside of
the syllabus of your next
examination. Just enjoy the
ride.
This will be a brief
retrospection. Leave aside for
now the historical and political
brouhaha of Warri. Whoever
seeks to pursue that will find
an inundating number of oral
traditions, position papers and
counter-position papers,
books, websites, and
organizations to consult: the
British Treaties of Protection
(1884, 1893, and 1894),
http://www.itsekiri.org , http://
waado.org and the Urhobo
Historical Society,
http://www.ijawfoundation.org , the
Ijaw Youth Council, the Ijaw
Elders Forum, the Urhobo
Progressive Union, and the
Itsekiri Leaders’ Forum, just to
mention a few. I assure you
that you will not go far in
consulting any of those
references before you get a
feel of the perennial ethnic
tension in Warri.
When I was growing up, the
ethnic tension was not a
bother to me or to my peers
with whom I played or went
to school. That is how I like to
see Warri. Tribal differences
had no influence on my
choice of friends. It did not
matter at all whether they
were from Urhobo, Itsekiri,
Ijaw, Ukwuani, Igbo, Yoruba,
Benin, Esan, Igala, Agbor,
Isoko – you name it. We were
all Wafferians and we took,
and still take, pride in the
Warri brand of pidgin English.
I cannot tell you with
confidence the current
population of Warri. You will
see figures from over
300,000 to over 500,000. I
have even seen estimates in
excess of 1,000,000. The last
time I checked the website of
the National Population
Commission and clicked on
the “Censuses” tab to see
whether I could find an
official population estimate
for Warri, I was answered
with a dead web page with
the inscription “Content
coming soon”. That is the
website of a major federal
agency that has been in
existence since 1988! After all,
Jesus is also coming soon. The
website of the National
Bureau of Statistics is even
funnier. Besides not making
any meaningful statistics
readily available, it has a link
on the homepage to “Statistics
Office of other Countries.” So
I wondered: have these
people never checked out
those links and compared
those websites to the one
they have created for
Nigerians?
Anyway, according to the
controversial 2006 Population
Census, the Warri metropolis
(comprising Warri South, Udu,
and Uvwie local government
areas), has a population of
638,250. Documentations,
which may have less than
scientific accuracy, show the
average population density of
the Warri metropolis to be
777 per sq. km (Warri South:
479 per sq. km; Udu: 541 per
sq. km; and Uvwie: 1311 per
sq. km). Warri – and by
extension the entire Warri
metropolis – is very mixed, but
the town is apparently
dominated by the Urhobos,
the Itsekiris, and the Ijaws –
three tribes among whom the
battle over the ownership of
Warri continues to rage.
I was born when Warri was
part of Mid-Western State
(known as Mid-Western
Region prior to its renaming
on May 27, 1967 by the
Yakubu Gowon
administration), a state carved
out of the defunct Western
Region on August 9, 1963 and
comprising the Benin and
Delta provinces. When I grew
to the age of reason, Mid-
Western State had on March
17, 1976 been renamed
Bendel State by the Olusegun
Obasanjo military
government, with Benin City
remaining as the capital. With
hindsight, the further
balkanization of Nigeria is
indeed regrettable – from 19
states to 21 states (September
23, 1987 under Ibrahim
Babangida), to 30 states
(August 27, 1991 under
Ibrahim Babangida), and to
36 states (October 1, 1996 by
Sani Abacha). Not only has
the splintering of the states
not brought any significant
benefits, it also has deepened
tribal and ethnic divisions. In
addition, it has worsened
waste and avoidable
duplication of political offices
and public spending. It is a
key factor in the
unsustainable size of our
recurrent expenditure. I
cannot tell you enough how
much I miss the days when
we had just 19 states
(Anambra, Bauchi, Bendel,
Benue, Borno, Cross-River,
Gongola, Imo, Kaduna, Kano,
Kwara, Lagos, Niger, Ogun,
Ondo, Oyo, Plateau, Rivers,
and Sokoto).
To the non-Wafferian, every
time Warri is mentioned oil
money comes to mind. True,
oil money is important to the
economy of Warri, but the
economic backbone of Warri
is Main Market, Ogbe-Ijaw
Market (commonly called San-
san Market), Market Road
(including McKeeva Market),
Pessu Market, Ibo Market,
Okere Market, Polokor
Market, Igbudu Market
(including Hausa Quarters),
Enerhen Junction, and Warri-
Sapele Road (from Enerhen
Junction to Main Market).
“Face-me-I-face-you” is not as
rife in Warri as you would
find in Lagos. Most Wafferians
grew up in “room-and-palour”
apartments. Of course, back
in the day, we did not use the
word “apartment”; we would
say “room-and-palour house”.
The “ajebutters” among us
usually lived in “flats”. It was
not uncommon to find an
entire family (father, mother,
and children) living in one
room, with a huge curtain
separating the “mama-and-
papa bed” from the rest of
the room. A “compound”
usually has several room-and-
palour “houses” or a number
of flats or a mixture of both.
Oftentimes, when a
compound has a flat and
several room-and-palour
houses, the flat was occupied
by the landlord. Weekend was
usually the time to “wash
gutter”. Washing of “gutter”
would rotate among the
tenants and the landlord and
it was often a major reason
for quarreling.
Whoever washed gutter had
the responsibility that week of
washing the “man toilet” and
the “man bathroom” and the
“woman toilet” and the
“woman bathroom”, which
were communally shared by
the “compound people”.
Washing the toilet hardly
made the originally white
ceramic toilet bowl white. At
best, the bowl would still be
mostly covered with green-
brownish gunk that almost
never came off – even with
hard scrubbing. Luckily, most
latrines were pour-flush
latrines, with the rim of the
toilet flush with the floor; so,
we did not have to worry
about sitting on the toilet; we
squatted to “kaka”. By the
way, toilet paper was a
luxury; cheaper alternatives
were in rich supply: old
newspapers, “cement paper”,
paper torn from old school
exercise books or other books,
or water. We also had to
make sure
we went to the toilet with
water for flushing. Every now
and then, someone would
sneak into the toilet, defecate,
and sneak out without
flushing. You might also be
unlucky to find the floor of
the toilet splashed with
“oprokotorprokotor shit”.
The bathrooms were not the
best places to be either. I
hated to let my bare skin
touch the walls, even after
they had just been washed.
In many ways, our compound
was like one huge extended
family. My parents did not
have to be around for me to
be punished for bad behavior.
Every “brother” or “sister” in
the compound was at liberty
to mete out punishment.
Then they would later relate
my misbehavior to my
parents, who would deliver
another round of punishment
for the same offense. These
days, children, especially
those “wey their papa hold
pepper”, get as punishments
timeouts, curfew, no-TV, or
they have privileges such as
going to a party or
overnighting at a friend’s
house suspended. I was not
as lucky. I knelt down and
closed my eyes with my hands
raised up; I did “pick-pin”; I
did “sit-on-the-wall” with
hands stretched out in front
of me and raised to shoulder
level; I had the back of my
hands struck with the bladed
edge of metal- edge rulers; I
was flogged with “water-
cane”, “koboko”, and belts; I
got “wozed” and “konked”.
Especially with my mother,
every infraction of mine was
met with a ruthless “bulala”.
School
discipline was not any
different. One time, four of
my classmates were made to
hold my hands and legs, one
on each limb, while my
teacher lashed my “yansh”
almost like a slave-master
would. My mother happily
stood by and cheered them
on.
Granting that some parents
abused the practice, corporal
punishment, for Wafferians
and Nigerians in general, was
a very – in fact, the most –
acceptable method of child
discipline.
Let us stay on the subtopic of
school life for a moment. I
went to two primary schools:
Agbassa Primary School and
Dogho Primary School ‘A’. I
did not attend “akara school”.
School routine was about the
same for all public schools in
Warri. The first business of
the day was the “assembly”,
where we received moral or
religious instructions and
announcements. Every school
day, we sang the National
Anthem (“Arise, o
companshon; Nigeria’s
call . . .) and recited the
National Pledge. We also
said the Lord’s Prayer: “Our
father who art in heaven, allo
be thy name; thy kingdom
come. Thy will be done on
earth assissi heaven . . . .” At
the assembly, we always sang.
Below are some of our regular
songs:
1. “To me, to me, no
mascarama she may be, she
may be; I have traveled round
the world; I’ve been looking
for Mama; there is nothing
like Mama to me.”
2. “The day is bright, bright
and fair, o happy day, the day
of joy; the day is bright, bright
and fair, o happy day. Happy
day!”
3. “Thread the needle, thread
the needle; long, long thread
the needle; the needle long,
long thread; our bisis-a-ay,
bisis-a-ay; up up Dogho
school – hurrah! Up up Dogho
school; Mr H. M. headmaster
– hurrah!”
4. “Holiday is coming, holiday
is coming; no more morning
bells, no more teacher’s
whips.
Goodbye, teachers; goodbye,
scholars; I am going to spend
my jolly holiday, my jolly
holiday, my jolly holiday.”
5. “O my home, o my home,
o my home, o my home;
when shall I see my home? O
o o o o o when shall I see my
native land? I shall never
forget my home.”
6. “Bah bah bla [black] sheep,
have you any woo [wool]; yes,
sir, yes, sir, three bags foo
[full]; one for my master, one
for my day [dame], one for
the little boy who leedandelay
[lives down the lane].”
The list could be very long.
Let us leave it there. We
marched as we sang. We got
in trouble if we were caught
not marching. We marched to
our classes in an orderly
fashion. The boss of the class
was the class “aunty” or
“uncle”, depending on
whether the class teacher was
a female or a male. Every
class contributed money to
buy brooms and, at least, one
bucket for storing drinking
water during class time. The
class teacher or the “monitor”
assigned who swept the class
and who fetched water. It was
the monitor who wrote down
the names of “noise-makers”
and the names of those who
spoke pidgin in class. Boy, we
dreaded to have our names
on those lists. When we smelt
foul air in the class, we knew
someone “don mess”. One
sure way of catching the
culprit was for everybody to
stand up “make dem smell
our yansh” in turn. This
method never failed. We
usually blamed the class
teacher for our bad grades:
“The teacher cut my mark give
the monitor.” You were
regarded as clever if, as
shown in your end-of-term
report cards, you regularly
“carried” 1st, 2nd, or 3rd.
During “labour days”, we
were each expected to go to
school with an “ojigbe”. Failing
to report with an ojigbe
earned us lashes. We would
cut grass with our ojigbes and
go home often with blisters in
our hands. It was not a big
deal.
These days, we take ironing of
clothes for granted. Even
though my uniforms were
regularly washed, I never had
my school uniforms ironed,
from primary 1 to primary 6.
We did not even have an
electric iron in those days –
and it was not because my
parents could not afford it.
Break times were always fun.
We did long jump, “running”,
and “jumping”. For the guys,
our biggest recreational
activity was soccer – it could
be “choosing”, “monkey post”,
“raking”, “court”, “sufferly” or
“centerly”, or a match
between two classes. We very
much cherished our peers
who were good soccer
players. A good soccer player
should be a team player, but
should also have personal,
admirable soccer skills such as
the skills of doing “heighting”
or “throwing shagalo” or
dribbling an opponent and
getting the ball through the
opponent’s “leaking-pio”.
When we played matches, it
was not uncommon for one
or both sides to do
“ekpor” (also called “jass” or
“medi”). The most common
type of ekpor was one that
involved “odoko” (also called
“red neck”) and a piece of red
cloth. The side that won often
went home with a song of
celebration. The commonest
song that I remember is this
one: “Win dem, win ekpor;
win dem, win jersey.” Playing
soccer in the rain was fun. We
would challenge the opposing
side with the song “Rain ball,
come down.” Soccer,
however, was not always
played in a friendly way.
Oftentimes, we resorted to
“ugbo”, singing as we played:
“Ugbo yan yan yan, ugbo.”
For the girls, “Siwe” and
“panyan” were very popular
games.
Those of us who were given
money to school and those
“wey thief money come
school” bought food during
break. We did not let go any
opportunity to get “muni” on
what we bought. If you “bet”
“I-like- my-thing”, you would
have to surrender your food
to your partner if you did not
say “I like my thing” before he
said “I like your thing.” You
would also surrender it if you
“bet” “tiko” and your partner
succeeded in slapping your
food out of your hand.
Vendors sold all kinds of food:
“jolo-jolo”, “kpeku”, “ice fish”,
white rice and stew (including
dodo and beans), banga-rice,
coconut-rice, jolof-rice,
“butter- bread”, “usi-
pheniyan”, “coconut cando”,
“bole”, “ube”, moi moi, agidi,
akara, “agidi-jolof”, “ikara”,
“kuoka”, “congo-meat”,
“kpekere”, cherry, mango,
orange, guava, “ebelebo”,
“oghighen”, “isheku”,
“owe” or bush-mango,
“sawashop”, “paw-paw”,
“chenjerin”. “tapioka”, “guguru
and groundnut”, “Hausa
groundnut”, “akpu biscuit”,
“kpokpo-madiga”, “kuli-kuli” –
you name it.
We had other game choices at
home: “war-start”, “wording”,
“otori”, “sisiskilolo”, “mopo”,
“polingo”, “oko”, “oto”, “koso”,
whot, ludo, and “rubber-
seed”, for example.
“Jangoliva” was also very fun.
You might remember that in
otori, your goal was to enter
“ugba”; you might also
remember the otori song:
“Otori, ototo; I dey come-o,
yes-o; make I come, yes-o;
who I catch, yes-o; I go take
am do pepper- soup-o, yes-o.”
We also did non-monetized
gambling games. Common
ones in this category included
the card games (“animali”,
“footballers”, and
“musicians”), “cherry-
seed” (especially “nearest-to-
the- wall” and “kill-and-pack”),
“sardine key”, and “koso”. It
seemed then that once you
started playing “jogba” you
were on your way to
becoming a “jaguda”.
Potentially injurious games
included “koto”
and “sopi”. I am not sure if
“sopi” can be regarded as a
game, but I do not know what
else to call it. We did other
dangerous things such as
“tangoliing” the backs of
moving pick-up vehicles. Then
we had our local acrobatics:
“backy”, “backy-to-backy”,
“backy-to-fronty”, “big bose”,
“hand-no-touch”, “Ishan [for
Esan] style”, and “iron-sheen”.
We were also very creative.
We made “borris motor”,
“mili-cup tire motor”, safes,
“kpasha” (especially during the
Okere juju feast), “fawo cage”,
“bird cage” from bamboo,
kites (that often got stuck on
overhead electric cables), and
drums (made with “baby-
food-cup”, umbrella cloth,
and elastic bands cut from old
tire tubes). We scavenged
additional toys from “oyibo
dirty”. Because I just
mentioned “fawo cage” and
“bird cage”, let me quickly
recall some of the common
birds found in Warri. I and
my
friends had a lively discussion
on Facebook recently when I
brought this topic up. Gladly,
they made the bird list more
up-to-date (and this is by no
means comprehensive).
Common birds in Warri
include the following:
“tolotolo”, “agric-fawo”,
“native-fawo”, “old-layer”,
“dada-fawo”, “gini-fawo”,
“keneri”, “gri-gri, “okoloko”,
“lekeleke”, “God-bird”,
“cleany”, “ogwe”, “weaver”,
“ole-fawo”, “kpukpuyeke”,
“zin-bird”, “killi-fisher”,
“okpukpuru” (which was
always regarded as a witch),
and “lekuku”.
I told you at the beginning
that I was going to be brief.
In a bit, I will shut up. We
hunted birds with catapults
and with our bird cages. We
went fishing on ponds
covered with “tebetebe”, using
“shikoko” as our fish bait. I
think some people also used
“ogoro-fish”. During the dry
season, when water had
receded from the ponds, we
would “dig pond” to catch
“orhuenre”, “oworo”, and
other fish. Our bait for
catching “ogoro” (both
“okpolo” and “ekere”) was
usually the red “Niko paper”.
Catching “adadamu” was not
very easy; it was much easier
to catch “abaka”, a lot of
which we caught and housed
in empty matches boxes.
Although Warri is a coastal
town, very many Wafferians
lacked swimming skills. We
did not have access to
swimming pools, where we
could have learnt how to
swim, and we were not
allowed to go to any river to
swim. We did, however, take
the initiative to learn the art.
Even though we knew our
parents would “ekwe” us if we
got caught, we sneaked out of
the house to various
“dambas”. There were quite a
few dambas in Warri; Gallup-7
was well known. In those
days, we heard stories of how
children got drowned in
certain dambas, but that did
not deter us. We learnt
several ways to prevent our
parents from detecting that
we had gone to swim in a
damba. One way was to apply
Vaseline on our body after
swimming to prevent our skin
from appearing “white”. You
could also use “ori-ibi” or “ori-
ikokodia” in place of Vaseline.
Another way was to close our
eyes when we went under the
water to prevent our eyes
from appearing red.
One characteristic feature of
Warri was that almost every
Warri “pikin” had a “guy
name” (a nickname). We
teased each other a lot with
those names. We also had
names for certain human
anatomical features. For
example, if you had a big
head, we would call you
“ozengbe”. If the head was
long along the sagittal plane,
we would call you “opi longi”.
You would often be teased
with the song “Opi longi,
Onitsha mango.” If you were
fat, we would call you
“atigbi”. You would be teased
with the song “Atigbi
tigbamgbam tigbam.” If you
were very skinny, you would
be “tinigboko”. You would be
teased with the song
“Tinigboko skelenti gboma.” If
you were very tall, you would
be “ogolongo.” If you were
short, you would be “eteh”. If
you had a big navel, you
would be “big pompu”. If you
had a big belly, you would be
“ogoro bele.” If you had
bowlegs, you would be “kobo-
leg”. Knock knees would be
“k-leg.” Furthermore, do not
expect to hear the correct
English names for things in
Warri. Be prepared to hear
names like “okrubas” (ant),
“okpor” (walking stick),
“mugu” (someone who is
naive), and
“lakpalakpa” (ringworm).
When we did not get along
well, we would “bet enemy”
with each other. We snubbed
each other with “Shamkpa;
enter my armpit; if here no
contain you, here go contain
you.” Saying “shamkpa” to
your peers was a good way to
“bunch” them in public.
Fighting, as you would expect
of children, was also common
among us. We often goaded
our pears into fighting with
the song “First to blow, toro;
first to blow, toro.” When
involved in a fight, you would
do your best not to let the
other guy “take you take
saigbotor” and not to let him
“put san-san for your face”.
There was a very exhilarating
gimmick we played on
pedestrians. At night,
especially after NEPA “don
seize light”, and it was very
dark, we would sit
somewhere in front of our
compound, at a spot where
we could see oncoming
passersby on the street.
Unknown to passersby, we
would have a piece of
snake-like material on the
opposite side of the street –
across from our compound. A
string, which could not readily
be seen in the dark, would be
tied to the material. As a
passerby got close, we slowly
pulled the attached string to
create the simulation of a
snake crawling across the
street. Almost always, the
passerby got thrown into a
frenzy. We got our kick from
that.
Kidnapping was not one of
our childhood fears in Warri.
Our fears were the spirits that
came from the “bedigran” on
Cemetary Road and those
ghosts that lived in Elders
Town Primary School, in the
woods and trees of Ojojo
Primary School, and in the
bush behind Olodi Primary
School. We feared “gbomo-
gbomo”, “iko-iko”, “omote-
kpokpo”, “fairy market”, and
“Agbassa juju”. We feared
every “ojuju” even though we
danced “ojuju Calabar”. We
feared those household-name
“jagudas” like Ogobo, Agbassa
Robinson, and Enerhen Giant.
We also feared those jagudas
that seized our balls and
“obtained” us at Olodi
Primary School. Yes, we were
fearful of those guys who
fought with “itagba” or
“otishe” (“blow-and-fall, slap-
and-fall”, etc.).
My parents never took me to
any amusement park, but I
got entertained a lot. We
would watch “Hausa- cut-im-
bele” right in front of my
mother’s store. We watched
live Ishan (Esan) dance at
home and Okere juju dance
during the Okere juju feast.
There were several local
performances that we
watched for free, especially at
Market Road and at San-san
Market.
Market Road was a second
home for me. There my
mother had her “provision”
store. By the way, she was a
distributor to Lever Brothers –
yes! Like very many Warri
children, I helped my mother
to sell. Occasionally, I would
hawk some of our
merchandise in and around
Market Road. Yes, I helped in
the business, but that was
how I got the most access to
“gbeskele” my mother’s
money. I also sneaked out of
the store, on occasion, to do
“carry-carry” – and this was
before the days of
“wheelbarrow”, which has
now replaced carry-carry in all
the markets in Warri.
Nowadays, children talk of
dishes or silverware. Back in
the day, we had “rubber”
plates, “iron” plates, and
“breaking” plates. “Evwere”
was used mostly for banga
soup. We made eba with
“oturni-garri”. When we
washed a pot that had
become blackened by fire, we
washed the “shacoal” off with
sand or “iron spwensh”. These
days, we hear of fast foods
and other good stuff from Mr.
Biggs, Sizzlers, and Double
Delight. Back in the day, we
had “bons”, “kpof-kpof”, egg-
roll, meat-roll, meat-pie, and
beans- pie. We “soaked” garri
with beans, groundnuts,
coconut, or “kanie [palm nut]
seed”. We did not have
candies; we had “toffee”.
“Kroker fish [for croaker?]” did
not exist in our world then;
we did just fine with “okaka”
and “sabida”. “Men” did not
worry about Hennessy and
Baileys; they were content
with Squadron, Chelsea, and
Schnapps. And “ogogoro” was
a readily available “cheap
highness”. We did not eat
breakfast, lunch, or dinner;
we ate “morning food”,
“afternoon food”, and
“evening food” – unless you
were an ajebutter.
They talk of cable and satellite
TV now; then we scrambled to
find a space to watch the few
black-and- white televisions in
the compound when it was
time for Hotel De Jordan, CI5
(The Professionals), Tales By
Moonlight, Mirror in the Sun,
The New Masquerade, etc. We
sometimes had to go to other
people’s compound to watch
TV. This was especially true
during the days of Things Fall
Apart. When we finally got
our TV, I went out every night
to “turn” the TV pole in order
to tune the TV to the right
channel. Of course, we were
limited to NTA (Benin, Lagos,
Port-Harcourt, and Aba) and
BBS (Bendel Broadcasting
Service). We did not have
fireworks; on Christmas’s eve
and New Year’s eve, we “shot”
“knockouts” and ran around
with “bisco”.
Now I must really shut up.
You see, Warri has changed a
lot – unfortunately, not for
the better. Back in the day,
the post office was really
functional. They brought
letters and packages to our
compound and placed them
in the little in-bound mailbox
in front of our compound. We
had pipe-borne water from
Water Board. We did not have
to worry about kidnapping or
the forms of violence or
thuggery that happen in the
town today. People did “civil
defense” with bare hands in
those days. Guns were not as
common as they are today.
Only a few people, such as
Akataka on Okumagba
Avenue, had guns for
self-defense. The Hausa
“watch-nights” that were
hired as night guards had
bow and arrow only.
There were no community
“youths” (no Uvwie youths, no
Okumagba youths, no Ekpan
youths, no Igbudu youths, no
Ogborikoko youths, no Ejeba
youths, no Itsekiri youths, no
Ijaw youths – no youths of any
kind). Warri was a safer and a
more lawful society. Now
insecurity has gone through
the roof.
Now we have many parallel
governments in Warri: the
constitutional governments
(federal, states, and local), the
government of traditional
rulers and community chiefs,
the governments of youths of
over a dozen different ethnic
communities, the
governments of touts and
“agberos”, the government of
the National Union of Road
Transport Workers, the
government of police and
soldiers, and the governments
of several provincial
“ogbologbos”.

#CONSENSUS 2015