EXCUSE ME SIR: Scent of pubescence

As a small boy, I was a big boy. I wore tailor-made clothes and ate organic food. I could walk to a garden behind my house and pluck mangoes and oranges and tangerines, directly from the low-hanging trees. The vegetables I ate were farm fresh. Supper left an after taste even when the moon had vanished from the midnight sky.

The headmaster and principal of the schools I attended were my father's personal friends. They came to our house every Sunday to partake in our afternoon rice party. They drank my father's original White Horse whiskey, whose scent travelled far and wide when uncorked.

I did not have to go the florist to pick flowers for my beloved. Sunflowers, frangipani and golden bells grew in front of our house. If the sun was too high and the earth was baking my bare feet, I retreated to my grandfather's large orchard and enjoyed what nature had to offer. Some lucky days, I got to drink fresh undiluted palm wine from Mr. Monday, my grandfather's in-house tapper.

Girls I rolled with were fashionable, both in hairstyle and dressing. They strutted like peacocks in heat. Brightly coloured boubous swept the grounds at Sunday afternoon disco halls, and flirtation filled the air with the scent of pubescence and innocence. Boys' bell-bottom trousers were larger than royal umbrellas. And platform shoes made us walk like stilt-dancers. Life was high.

At school we had annual photography sessions, where each and every student practiced poses for weeks before the photographer's arrival. And yes photographers were treated like kings; they got all the beautiful ones. They were magicians that froze beauty for eternity, so they were loved freely. Photographers also had some of the coolest nicknames - Sunny De Ricko, Alabama and Afro were the most famous ones around. They had a swagger that couldn't be duplicated by anybody else.

My friends and I were young architects, engineers, artists, innovators and rocket scientists. We built tree houses, toy cars and made beautiful art works. We acted our own dramas and choreographed our own moves. I made telephones with my mother's thread and empty milk cans. I played football; I had fights that were settled before parents got involved. No knives and definitely no guns.

School was smooth and cool. I had report cards that showed how well or badly I did in the three terms. There was no room for hanky panky with results; they were called in the open. On the day of "calling results", parents, grandparents and olofofos filled our school compound to cheer brilliant pupils and boo dullards.

Grammar school students were the cream of my society, university students were presidents and VIPs.

I had only two churches to choose from, there was no confusion. There were the liberal, live and let live Catholics and the no-nonsense, devil battling, hallelujah singing Apostolics. I chose the Catholic church; it was much simpler and more forgiving of my youthful excesses.

Then there was almighty Christmas, the bringer of joy. Preparation for Christmas started with choosing what to wear. There were those that wore Bata shoes and those that wore Florsheim. And I couldn't wait to grow up and wear steel-toed stilettos like my older brother. Christmas was full of scents. From my mother's store where fresh onions were kept to Emos the tailor's shop, where the aroma of new fabrics rent the air. Yes, the ever-elusive Emos, the tailor that promised to finish your suit in November and you would be lucky to get it on Christmas morning. Once the tailor took your measurements, clenching an SM or Gold Leaf cigarette between his teeth, he'd subject you to an endless wait, like a man on death row.

Christmas Eve saw me singing carols I barely understood. And I'd say the rosary hurriedly because the DJ's speakers churning out the latest songs from the disco hall and the scent of the next day's rice and stew had already lodged in my brain.

Christmas morning was flowery, especially if the new tailor-made suit fitted and the Florsheim shoes weren't tormenting. Frying onions and tomatoes took over the air. The gentle harmattan breeze changed the atmosphere. Then I'd hit the street and visit uncles and aunties and make money. Plenty of money. There was peace everywhere. The Village was where life was high and peace reigned supreme.

Year in and year out, this was the lovely life I led.

Until now. The city has spilled into my village. News of broad day light robbery, cold-blooded murder and brazen kidnapping has snatched the Christmas I use to know.

Apparently our government is clueless when it comes to citizens' security and peace of mind. And I wonder what life or Christmas is left for our children and future generation that would love to smell the scent of their pubescence.