By Oladeji Popoola
CBN lecture theatre was almost deserted that afternoon. I was seated and flicking through my ZOO 115 notebook in the gallery when Peter’s call drifted my attention to my Tecno WX3 which cried out.
“Guy, don’t dull things. The party is on.” Peter said.
“I will join you soon,” I hung up.
I soon left the lecture theatre. As I found my way to the venue which was the greeny open land that sprawls into the Chapel of Resurrection and UI Central mosque, I met two ladies in an earnest discussion along the Benue road.
“Convocation’s treat is 44 units, I can’t afford to re-run it,” I overheard one of the ladies saying to the other lady as I walked behind them.
“Babe, last year, o mad gan,” She continued. “My room and my pots were filled with a variety of drinks and rice.”
“I missed the treat last year cos I couldn’t afford to miss tests,” the other lady replied.
“Test?”
“I don’t mind to miss a test. Convo-food is an annual thing.” Food first and other things after,” she replied.
“You are on a strong CGPA my friend; you have nothing to fear…”
“See whining”
“There is this bald Professor, my HOD, he is a sadist. I am sure he would be agape when he sees by himself what is left in the lecture room. I can faint if one lecturer threatened me with a test at this time,” she said.
“Miss For-Food-Only,” the other lady burst into laughter.
I walked past the ladies. Their discussion went on. It was the first day of UI convocation ceremony. Peter and I had had a pre-plan for the ceremony. “There is something we called Afope, free meal in my hometown; Oyo. We would clad in our beautiful outfits, shine our shoes, use perfumes and we would head to the ramshackle stadium near the town’s famous market. There they throw a party every weekend. Naming ceremony, funeral and festival; we were there. We never miss those foods.” Peter once recounted his experience to me. And he had promised to prove to me that the tales were not concocted. He had also told me about the so-called convo-food hunters. He said when they returned from their food hunt, not only that their protruded bellies would speak for them, but the so obvious packages they usually returned with would bulge the eyes and were meals they would munch on for days. I also dreamt of this; the free meal.
As I set my foot on the venue, noise and music welcomed me and I saw legs prowling into tents. I called Peter’s number countless times, no hope he would pick up my call. I decided to hunt for food alone but as a newcomer, how and where to begin the hunt from became problems to solve. Perhaps that is how newcomers feel? But something became clear to me as I wandered around. I met those who seemed like street beggars and Alimagiris. The thought that I shared a common image with the marauders and the paupers baffled me for a while. But before the feeling that accompanied the thought would murder my little courage I set my mind on what had brought me to the venue.
Variety of soft drinks stared at me as I kept wandering around catching no fun. No familiar faces. No hey, you coward your food is here. At times I stared at the graduands and their invitees as the cameramen shun their light on their gleaming faces.
“Sege! Segun!” A throaty voice cried out for me in the distance. In the throng, he filtered out. I knew the voice belongs to Peter.
“Guy, what are you doing here?” Peter asked, laughing mockingly.
“Does one need to be asked what one has come to do in the market?” I replied, yawning.
“But this place is not a market.”
One old man came to where we stood, playing a talking drum. “Omo elewe, student, e fun mi lowo, give me money.” the old man said with his mouth reeking of tobacco
“Baba no money. Enugbe.” Segun said sternly and the man seemed to understand him. He went away.
“My gold! My phone!” The rancorous cry of a woman reached us. We briskly trailed the cry to the woman. She was now surrounded by the crowd. Her cry went on.
Now the woman was saying to the crowd, “They came to me, they called themselves UI students; they said they were well-wishers, I served them food to satiation but they left with my gold, my phone. They have stolen my Italian bag. They have murdered me…”
“Thieves are everywhere.” Peter said to me as he dragged me out of the crowd. “We need to leave now before they start pick pocketing. Thieves are everywhere.”
