OMO MUSHIN
Between walking around with a pocket knife as a six-year-old and stepping out of your house to a masquerade holding a machete, I can’t tell which is more typical of living on the streets of Mushin. Maybe it is the occasional breaking of bottles to scare off a rival. Or the intense build of verbal fights that gather crowds, only to have the situation deflated before the actual fight happens.
As a confam Omo Mushin, every other person is slow and dull to you. The excitement never dies. An always-happening street, they called it.
Everywhere in Mushin is a market or a market stall. Petty traders have shops in front of their houses or in locations where they feel they might make the most sales.
By the end of the day, when most shops close, night traders come to display their wares in front of other people's shops. A little tip to the street vigilantes, and they look the other way.
Everybody knew everybody in Mushin, never by their government names though, only street names. Or peculiar behaviour.
Living in Mushin was a never-ending adrenaline rush.
No kind of stories told by your naive classmates in your fancy school could interest you, especially having lived just before Ojúwòyè market and currently living with Èkó boys' high school just down the street. Their stories top it all.
Actually, stories from Mushin top it all. The stories are always interesting to hear and pass along when you are but a mere bystander. Until you cease to be one.
One day, when you were six or five, you can’t remember precisely, your mother was making dinner and ran out of groundnut oil and asked that you get her some to finish dinner.
It was in the early evenings, and like New York, Lagos never slept, so what was there to worry over? After all, it wasn’t even dark yet.
You rush out with a bounce in your step, lest you look timid and might call unwanted attention. But what you didn't know was that you would call attention regardless.
You had successfully bought the cooking oil and were returning home with your bounce still in place when you felt a hand grab you from behind. The 4L keg dropped from your hand, making a thud that would resonate in your memories for a long time. You struggled with all your strength to get out of his grasp, but he had already lifted you off your feet. You called out to the guys going about their day smoking and drinking on the streets like always, but all they did was laugh. A few steps down, an older woman would snap at your assailant to let you go, and that would be your saving grace.
You would turn to look at him, and it was the boy with the weird-looking face that had been catcalling you all week. He might have been twice or thrice your age, but you can't really tell. Later you will grow up and understand his face was weird because he had a congenital anomaly and might have been even older than you assumed.
You ran to pick up your keg with the oil still intact and sprinted home. You frantically narrate your ordeal to your mother, who immediately turns off the heat beneath the food she’s cooking, grabs two scarves, and ties one on her head and the other on her waist because those people wanted to see crazy. “Let’s go,” she beckoned. By the time you get to where the weird-looking boy and his group were, he would have left the group.
The other guys would deny anything ever happening, ever seeing you, or even knowing you. But you knew them - they were the street miscreants, the same people you would ask a few weeks later not to smoke on the bonnet of your father’s car. Defeated, you and your mother would return home, lock the doors immediately and lock the memories away.
Many years later, you would learn about Adverse Childhood Experience - ACE. ACEs are potentially traumatic experiences that occur before one clock 18 years of age that might affect your adulthood experience. And like a gate opened at dawn, the memories come rushing back, you couldn't help but wonder if that is why you always locked the door behind you once you get home. To keep the monster out perhaps. But one thing is sure, you were lucky and your "little" story wasn't peddled on the streets of Mushin like freshly fried puff puff. Soon, you cannot help but wonder how all those tragic stories have affected the victims.
Stories out of mushin are indeed everything, some which in hindsight you realize are traumatic experiences wrapped up as gist, others are purely comic rumours that got you through the day. Such was that of Kaosara.
Kaosara, a girl just about your age, had four perfectly placed dots right in the middle of her forehead. Word on the streets had it that she got the marks when her grandma threw a fork at her from across the street. It was said that the fork went in so deep, that she couldn’t pull it out by herself. Kaosara, a well-known talkative, helped spread this story too, you never understood why.
Another peculiar story that stuck with you is that of your neighbour. You can’t remember her name. So you call her Chioma in your head. Chioma’s story is unforgettable not because it is well told, but because you saw it play out first-hand.
TW: Rape
Chioma was Mama Igbo’s middle child, quite reserved, just like the rest of her sisters. They were known for keeping to themselves. Their mother on the other hand was known for delivering an overly appropriate amount of trouble when sought out. So, that afternoon, when her eldest daughter ran out to the streets shouting Bòdá Olá’s name everybody knew there was trouble.
Your six-year-old mind could not comprehend what was going on. So you asked Amara what was going on. Amara was the youngest and closest to your age.
Amara would go on to tell you that Chioma was raped by Bòdá Olá and that she was no longer a virgin. Var-gin, vergin, veghin you would roll the word over your tongue severally.
Mobile phones weren’t a thing back then, very few people had them. Hence, call centres were “The Business” at that time. Bòdá Olá used to help you all call your parents in their absence while they pay later. Bòdá Olá managed his sister’s business centre just opposite your house.
She would also tell you that Bòdá Olá threatened to kill Chioma if she told anyone. And that they only found out because she wasn’t eating, was crying and bleeding.
All these were news to you, particularly the word virgin. You would ask what it means for her not to be a virgin. Little Amara who was just as naive as you, would tell you it means her future husband would always hate her.
But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was on the street. As usual, the street miscreants were out with broken bottles in hand searching for Bòdá Olá. You would later realise that the miscreants weren’t enraged, as they were no different than he was. Instead, they were excited. They merely enjoyed the violence and nothing more. On the street, women stood in little groups absorbing the scenes so they could have a story to build on and share with their market friends. You would watch the whole saga unfold from behind the gates, ready to run in case anything happens – after all, you were in Mushin. Because yunno, always guiding.
In a short while, policemen would parade the streets trying to calm the situation. Long after Bòdá Olá had locked himself inside his room refusing to come out and the miscreants had threatened to set his house ablaze. What would stick to you were the voices of the women hurdled in small groups, an earshot from each other and the questions they were asking amongst themselves.
What was she wearing? ‘What was she doing in his house? ’ ‘Where was her mother?’ ‘How are we sure she's telling the truth?’ ’why she no stay one place?
Occasionally one woman from the group would shout at the miscreants to leave his door. After all, he was an Àfín.
Remembering this incident, you would realise that rape culture didn't just spring out from thin air, it has existed forever. It only got fancier with names like ‘slut-shaming,’ ‘victim-blaming,’ and ‘rape culture.’
Your family would move away from Lagos the following day, so you never got to know how the ‘situation’ ended. But you would occasionally think about Chioma and hope life is fair to her and that she's getting by easy.
You would also hope the traumatic event did not determine her life. In the same vein, you would hope every single Omo mushin moved past the horrors and traumas of that time and place. And hope that they move through life surrounded by people who love and care for them.
But life, especially that of an ‘Omo Mushin’ is not a fairytale and wishes aren't horses.
Glossary
Mushin: An area in the slums of Lagos state
Omo Mushin: A child that lives, was born, grew or is from Mushin
Ará Òrun: means one from heaven literally, refers to masquerades as they are considered spirits.
Confam: Confirm but in pidgin English
Ojúwòyè: A market in Mushin
see crazy: to want trouble
Bòdá Olá: Brother Ola
Always guiding: To always be prepared for anything
Àfín: A person living with albinism
I have held on to this story for so long because it feels incomplete, and not well written. And tbh I’m tired. For context, I started writing this piece in April 2021, I had the idea a little while before that. I even tried to submit it to different magazines, but again it felt incomplete. So this is me letting go.
So let me know if you like it, and don’t forget to clap and share. Gracias…
Oh and all bits & parts of this story are true except for the bits that aren’t 🌚🌚
