EL5 ’22. We Are Nothing Beautiful
Counsel 21/04/2023
By midnight April 30/2023, the most mutinous ELS Class of 22' would have hobbled on with springs as sure as their piles of hope of better days ahead, some keen or not, others nostalgic, and/or regretful of the four-year, well, five-year marathon which, seriously supervised by a drove of trained adults who would later define each one’s performance by as much amiability, retention capacity and comeliness as could be rallied within and without academic circumference.
Counsel, feral, gaunt, brilliant, notoriously gay and loud may be missing— the indulgent admissions of a reverend did put her away— a miracle couldn’t undo that.
For all the loveliness Phina, Amara, Vivian, Amanda, Geraldine, Juliet, Stella and their cult of celebrated grandeur could permit, these day-one principalities and powers— Emele, Ifeanyi, Michael, Summer, and formerly Ebuka, Somto, recently Efiok, Yagazie— would never miss a Zeh. It is for the culture that they always turn up— albeit belligerent.
The group ever-present in times of fun would animatedly give others what classroom concerns could not permit for half a decade. Emele, the King too silly to sieve sentiments from ancient grudges, would be there; to recite all that is required to earn a nod and a knowing look from admirers, onlookers, and, never-to-become fans. Hands far-flung, head thrown back, he would likely chuck off some theatrics — full-scale dramatic— wear a branded Tee with the words 'Poet' boldly engraved beside the given name; he may likely take up some extra slots, ask for extended moments to perform more, such is his fetish for poetry, his lunacy for assonance.
So would Mark, finely, prying, loudly accomplished, full of life, crossly proud, (anyone’s cheerleader), vocal and owned— the DE guy who’s revolutionizing Igboness, and ana m anụkwánú ife. With bands about his fingers, a paper in hand and a sandy look up his brow, he would probably give a homily, a charged reprimand, and an unwarranted admonishment about where to go from here and how everyone should geddifok out there and make it, he would seldom fail to raise awareness of the need to court culture, Ọdịnala, identity, Igboness and Art. Best bet, he’ll bang the mic after calling out the Igbo elites for what he calls "faux elitism" which in Kofi Awoonor’s words, they allow the rest of Nigeria (here interpreted as 'strangers’) to capitalize on and "walk over our portion." He’s that crass, all proud patriarchs are crazy crass.
Yet. There will be two altars- one for those before (we already met them) and another for those to come- a later batch of I-have-evolved-see-me-I-can-talk puppies who, for whatever reason found their voice, their place and space to sit and speak, only at the tail end of the programme; they would be there too. If for anything, to usurp the old order for the last time.
It could be a Kammy karma kind of night so that one-time anonymous players would re-echo stale truths, sour lies, and cold animosity; open old sores, collect old debts and maybe raise a glass to everyone’s tons of success. Surely it would be a date picked fine for scholars cast in the mould of Luchy, Esther, VerO, Tamara, Stephanie and other scattered plugs.
More than anything, it would be a great guise for the servants—Heaven’s comrades— who in continuous service to the Lord kept their thighs taut from wearing trousers; you see Martha, Oluchi and Oluchi, Tamara and co, even Angel whose conversion shook hearts like égbè ntụ, together with Fr.—father by age and espionage—sent by chance and personal insistence to save folks and redeem debts. It would be a night to cement moments people saved others half a dozen chaos, lack and dejection.
Nothing will be missing, no one, including the big ballers of the back rows, talk about the Judes, Sixtus’, Wallace, Gentles [a paddy of life] — who would never miss a chance to see an old lady sing, and you are certain to find him—Obinna, with chests as hard as hard as he goes, paparazzi’n the podium, putting finishing touches to a night of sin and smiles, and a chairmanship cap keenly contested. It cuts hard to not expect him—Sylvester— the notoriously famous Jagaban, whose fondness for order, a fetish for complaisance and wonder of organization justifies a seat with the pantheon of the Greek gods, as one who led the worst kind of best brains.
It is not every day you find coursemates who become bedmates, and it’s a good omen that beautiful things can happen when people quit pretending to not love cuddling, knacking and frolicking. At no risk of making the highlights, you will find Anyafụlụgo and his Ìfèọma, Michael and his dewdrop, Edna, possibly Chuka and his soft-bum Ella, Alex and his long-standing best friend, or even Reynolds and his now fav person, Amara—beautiful things come to every party. Ugly things too.
The end of every event is the most memorable, moments are treasured for what they are, for after a while they become too long and too big to fit in a pot. They take a new form, sometimes a new space, often a box, a cloud space or a Facebook timeline. If this Bachelor’s degree were a living thing it would be a five-year-old, lively, bubbly, growing and kicking orange for balls. Five years is such a long time, also a small time to soothe old sores or broker new friendships.
It is enough time to see through every character, everyone for who they truly are, for who they’d likely become and where they may likely go. Just as is obtainable in every nnukwu ajọ ọhịa, there are anụ ụkwụ, anụ ọjọ, anụ wayọ na nke wayO, ma anụ nwéré obi — all of which na agba na ọwa há. We are like that in many ways: meek and composed, brash and assertive, unassuming and modest, loud and expressive, self-tempered and hot-blooded, properly loved and half wanted. All of us in our own mould.
We are that diverse: different families, social and economic backgrounds, opinions and worldviews, aspirations and ambitions — it is ignorance of view to beg homogeneity. It’s sheer ignorance of history, even, to expect agreement once or twice. Ọtụtụ anyị bu ndị Igbo, we thrive with a spirit uncaged, we crave separate uncharted waters, stopping at nothing to see our views ‘undiffused.’ We are egalitarian and ELS '22 is egalitarian.
A microcosm of society cannot divorce itself from the social and cultural environment that feeds it; how could anyone even attempt to guarantee that we will be loudly one? We are not like that, nor are we like those who sing like the sound of waters, we can be, but we are not.
We are young thinkers, scholars, and critics and we are not beautiful. We are all shades of good, bad and ugly. We are water with no clear-cut course, we are that, and we can’t be contained. We are the container. We now have a lifetime to hold content as much as is excellent enough for the top and when we get there, hoping to hold the ladder for the next best classmate.
That’s how we revel in rebellion. That’s how we reach out to one another in adult life—that’s how to appreciate literature —how not to harbour ill will against a character in a story. For we are not the author.
We are each a character in a unique story. So why not enjoy others’ roles in their own story, never judging, never loathing, only holding our own opinion of them, to ourselves. As characters in a script, we should focus on evolving to the fulfilment of our audience. Only then will our story see a space on the shelf next to Achebe, Adichie or Okigbo. And Counsel.
