EXCUSE ME : A suitcase full of America

It was my uncle that delivered it. My brother in America had packed a suitcase full of “Americana” clothing to his little undergraduate brother, me. I think style and clothing mattered more than books and study in the early stages of a university life.

Anyway, out of the bunch in the box were many T-shirts, jeans in various sizes (including a pair of ochre-red MC Hammer butterfly trousers), white NIKE high top sneakers with orange accents and extra long lacing, and a really cool black fedora hat– my brother was definitely on a mission to turn a village boy to a John Singleton’s BOYZ N THE ‘HOOD character.

But one single item stood out in the suitcase like a diamond among sedimentary rocks. It was a “Michael Jackson Jacket.” I had only seen the maestro wearing similar ones on TV, and never dreamt of owning one. Mine was white, with almost a million and one silver studs that sent off glittering arrows under the Ekpoma sun, where I was a Year 2 student.

There were so many straps and pockets everywhere on the jacket. Zippers like zebras in a jungle led somewhere and nowhere. The inside lining was rainproof and foam padded. The side base was elasticized, a tight fit that gave the wearer a superstar bounce.

Now, this wonder jacket was delivered during Christmas break and I could not wait to wear it and stroll down the dusty red path that led from Rev. Martins Hall to my class room at the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences.

This doesn’t mean I did not wake up in the middle of the night, put on the Levi jeans, and a T- shirt that said “Challenge Yourself To Be Number One” before gingerly donning the magic jacket as if it was a sacred mask. Like a seasoned baker putting a last piece of icing on an important wedding cake, I would place the fedora hat on my Carl Lewis haircut.

It was show time at my imaginary Apollo. Thriller, a major hit even in the remote hinterland of Esan, thumped in my brain. In front of a standing mirror in my room, a dexterous Michael Jackson moonwalk would break out.

I had no problem learning much of Jackson’s steps, because they were the closest cousin to Esan traditional dance of Asonogun, a dance any trueborn Esan starts from his or her mother’s womb. With no one looking, neck twisted, legs went rubbery at knee point, fingers snapped, toes defied gravity in ballerina technique, I howled call and response to an invented audience. Smoke from late evening cooking billowed in from my slightly opened window to complete this secret charade .

School resumed and the January dust and Ekpoma sun were unforgiving. I waited till the second week for campus to be in full swing before wearing a jacket that was clearly not meant for our tropical weather. But it was Michael Jackson’s jacket we are talking about here, and no other student on campus owned one.

On D-Day, my roommates’ wow reaction gave me a sense of what to expect from other students. Like I had rehearsed for almost a month before the launching of my Michael Jackson dress-essence, I donned everything from the jeans to the black fedora hat (the fedora actually made me looked more like Sammy Davis Jr. than the genius from the ‘Beat It’ video).

Through my reflective sunglasses which I had purchased at Ever Jolly Supermarket, I saw glances from everywhere. I felt cool. I was a hit. But I was burning under the jacket. My white handkerchief had already turned brown before I went past the library.

By the time I walked past the girl’s hostel, the stardom I sought and got that day had become a pain. My swagger became a stylish limp. The leather jacket was too heavy for the long arduous walk, I could barely smile back at the girls gazing at me – sweat was blinding my eyes.

My fedora hat was hotter than my mother’s cooking hearth.. By the time I got to my classroom the urge to moonwalk back to the hostel and unburden was strong, but the fervour of challenging myself to be the number one star on campus was stronger. By the time I got to my African Poetry class, I was only half alive in my American dressing.

To worsen matters, my outdated lecturer, Professor Egede, totally misunderstood or misread my fashion style and bellowed, “Victor, you look like an American rice farmer” and the thunderous mirth from my classmates turned me from a superstar to a laughable caricature.

As I watched Michael’s last energetic rehearsal two days before his final exit, I saw a man that challenged himself to be number one until his very last breath. Many appreciated him, some misunderstood him but not even Angel Michael will ever know what kind of macabre music Michael Jackson rehearsed privately when the lights were out.