Not My Business By Rudolf Okonkwo

I bet, you saw the pictures of
those 95 men and women
and children who perished
while scooping fuel from a
petrol tanker that crashed
and later caught fire. But did
you see the pictures of those
poor souls before the fire?
After the fire, their bodies
were stiff like roasted
Christmas goats. You saw
their charred torso,
outstretched arms and legs.
You saw their shrunk flesh,
skin split at weird angles;
contracted muscles, flexed
joints, fractured bones, skulls
cracked along suture lines.
Did you imagine how they
smelled?
Some of them died in a
defensive posture. They were
not fighting the fire with their
bare hands. Their airways
were blocked. Hot toxic
gasses strangulated them.
Others died of asphyxiation.
What were left to the sun
were bellies busted at the
side, with intestines resting
on gray powders all over the
hallowed ground.
Are you disgusted yet?
You really need to see their
pictures before the fire. One
man with a plastic red bowl
scooping fuel and pouring it
into a big black can had an
anxious grin on his face. He
had one eye on the fallen
tanker and another on the
makeshift funnel that
channeled the petrol into the
can. Like the rest of the men,
he folded the legs of his
pants so that it would not be
soaked in petrol. His eyes
sank inside. He wore a shirt
that was bigger than his
body. Maybe he borrowed it
from his older brother. Or
maybe he had recently lost
weight. His hand was skinny.
His body-mass index must be
at the fat to muscle
malnourished level. His
okada, the one with a tuber
of yam in the carriage, was
idling away beside him.
Holding the funnel for him
was a little boy, maybe six or
seven. Maybe a kid who
should be in school but
wasn’t. He didn’t look any
better – the kid, I mean. His
chin was shrunk. His face was
dry with lines of his cheek
bone visible from 1000 yards
away.
By the way, that boy, the one
who wore the yellow shirt
that was torn near the
armpit, could have been our
own Steve Jobs. Somehow, he
could have emerged from
abject poverty to join one of
these young people who
write programs that run the
internet. But he would not do
that anymore, would he? We
wouldn’t even know who
next he was to hand down
his rumpled yellow shirt to.
Anyway, there is no yellow
shirt to hand down to
anyone, or is there?
Are you disgusted yet?
Once the fire started
everyone had to wait for it to
burn out. Villagers who came
around placed their hands on
their heads and wailed and
screamed and prayed. The
fire was more than what
their buckets of well water
could quench. The nearest
fire truck was 40 miles away
in Port Harcourt, where very
important people live – like
past and current governors,
the permanent secretaries
and the oil company
executives. Minutes after the
fire started, the emergency
agency workers came. They
came with the only tools they
have- masks for their mouths
and noses, gloves for their
hands, and body bags. They
are glorified undertakers,
anyway.
It wasn’t only the limps that
were stripped of bones, the
tuber of yam was now a
lump of soot. Looking at the
bodies, nobody knew if they
were men or women. Too
late. The emergency workers
just packed the bodies into
the truck, skins peeling off
along the way. No waiting for
the toxicology report. No
siren. No police escort. No
Boys Brigade band leading
the way to the grave.
A tractor dug up a field
beside a school yard- the one
near the evil forest. Nobody
checked if the hole was six
feet deep or less. Dark
clouds brew in the sky.
Vultures hovered around.
Repulsive stench filled the
air. Someone said a prayer, a
short one at it. Not the
Catholic prayer. Not the
Anglican prayer. Not the
Redeem prayer. And
definitely, not the Winners’
prayer. They just said a
prayer -and a quick Amen.
Those who gathered hissed
that heaven must pay. The
remains were all heaped in
there and covered up, leaving
the flies hovering around the
red soil.
Are you disgusted yet?
We have forgotten those in
the hospital. It will take
weeks before we see their
faces, anyway. They are
wrapped up like mummies.
Their moans are irritating to
the doctors who have no
medicine to treat their burns.
The nurses chase away flies
with antiseptics fluids mixed
with water. When they pause
from doing so, they join the
family members on the
bedside to pray.
Are you disgusted yet?
No, you are not. It is not
your business. You don’t
know these people. You
could have lived all your life
without crossing path with
them. If you were around the
area, like travelling through
their village, your only
business would have been to
wave off the smoke coming
off their bodies to take
pictures with your phone’s
camera. That is all you owe
them -and Facebook. Thanks
for restoring their dignity.
You could relate more with
those who died in the Dana
airplane crash. Those were
your kind of people. They
would not stoop so low to
scoop petrol from the ground
while smoking a cigarette.
But those Dana plane victims
were burnt too, you
remember? They too could
have made it out of the plane
if help had arrived on time.
Do you want to think
further? I bet, you don’t. If
the road was maintained to
begin with, that tanker truck
would not have veered off
the road into a ditch. You
know the contract was
awarded in 2006. But
someone got the money and
pocketed it. A chief, I
suppose -one of those
successful men who own the
land. Those we worship
instead of hold accountable.
Because it was an important
road, another contract was
awarded again. And once
more, the money was
embezzled.
Are you disgusted yet? Don’t
bother your head too much
with thinking like this. After
all, it is not your business.
So these men, women and
children were given a mass
burial because their bodies
were burnt beyond
identification. No fingerprint.
No birthmarks. No tattoos.
The emergency personnel
thought about dental -X-ray,
as was written in their
manual. But when they could
not get a yellow tape to
secure the perimeter of the
scene, where would they get
X-ray machines.
Anyway, with such high
energy fire it was hard to
separate the bodies of
children from those of
animals, like dogs. I know
you didn’t see their pictures
before the fire. But there was
a dog somewhere beside
another idling okada
machine. Yes, there was a
dog in one of those black
body bags.
Are you disgusted yet?
That is what human life has
been reduced to in our
country. Those people were
one of us even though we
may not know it. It was them
the other day. It would be
you and I in coming days.
Please, spare me of your
tufiakwa. Maybe not while
scooping petrol. Maybe while
flying in a plane to go scoop
an inflated contract. Maybe
while driving on the road to
pick an NYSC call up letter
that would otherwise been
posted if only the Post Office
was functional. Maybe while
receiving substandard
treatment for a non-life
threatening illness in a hyped
hospital. Maybe while singing
praises in a church at striking
distance of those who have
lost all reasons and all taste
for roasted yam in their
mouths.
But what am I saying? Poet
Niyi Osundare was right.
“What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the
yam
From my savouring mouth?”
-Niyi Osundare, Not My
Business.

#CONSENSUS 2015