The Englishman feeds his dog with bones. The Nigerian feeds his dog with chocolate. The difference is chocoholic.
There are no bones in chocolate.ย ย ย
In his classic How to be a Nigerian, Peter Enahoro, aka Peter Pan, recounts the chocolate-and-bones matter thusly.
A Nigerian student bought a very expensive roast chicken in a London restaurant and decided to eat up even the bones. A nearby Englishman wondered aloud what Nigerians fed their dogs with.
The Nigerian was very prompt with his answer: Chocolate!
That is our way. Any other way spells how not to be a Nigerian.
This brings me to the story of how some white men flew into Nigeria to record the life and times of a man whom they adjudged to be the oldest living man in the whole wide world.
The white discoverers came with the most modern cameras, television monitors, high-tech lighting, super-duper super-computers, and sundry gizmos and gadgets.
There was so much talk of having the old Nigerian enshrined permanently in the coveted Guinness Book of World Records as the oldest living hominoid North and South of the Hemisphere.
The white explorers set up their filming equipment on the frontage of a non-descript bungalow in the Ikate suburbia of Lagos, Nigeria, and the oldest living mortal of their discovery sat upfront on a cane chair, with plenteous klieg lights shining on his woe-be-gone face.
โPa, why have you lived this long?โ the foreign interviewer fired the first question.
โUnlike most Nigerians, I donโt drink alcohol, I donโt smoke, and I donโt do Womanology,โ answered the old man.
โWomanology!โ screamed the interviewer, his pointed nose shooting up and his equally pointed jaw almost dropping. โThatโs a new one. Can you explain the terminology to us? I mean Womanoโฆโ
โWomanology is a rabid disease of the Nigerian he-goats called men,โ said the old papa. โI donโt go to the other room at all! I have no interest whatsoever in breasts and buttocks and the aperture underneath!โ
Just then, a loud commotion emanated from the back of the house. There were sounds of bottles breaking and wild screams of unprintable curse words.
โWhatโs the cause of that?โ asked the frightened white interviewer, pointing toward the back of the house from whence cometh the brouhaha.
โIt must be my elder brother,โ replied the old one, shaking his head. โEvery day he wastes his life smoking and drinking, and any night without a woman is a funeral!โ
โSo you do have an older brother?โ the interviewer queried, unbelieving.
โYes,โ said the old man. โHe is a disgrace to the family!โ
โAaaaah!โ cried the interviewer. โSo you have an older brother who is the direct opposite of you? A boozer and a brawler and a crawler! He is the interesting old man to interview. Get thee away from me, you lifeless papa!โ
The interviewer was about to dash into the house when the old brawler came bounding out, almost pushing the excited white man to the ground, whilst being grabbed at by a half-clad middle-aged woman.
It was total commotion writ large.
โPay me my money!โ screamed the nearly naked irate woman at the brawler.
โE sweet me, e sweet you, who go pay?โ the old brawler screamed back at the lady, mightily struggling to disengage himself from her vice-like grip.
โShameless old rake!โ The woman was still screaming, eyes flashing red.
The old brawler took his time to look at the gathered white men in turn, and then queried: โWhite men, what are you doing here with this my bloodless brother?โ
โWe thought he was the oldest man until we discovered youโฆโ the white interviewer was saying.
โHow can a bloke who doesnโt drink beer and clear bushes grow in age?โ the old brawler interjected, quaking with laughter and hollering. โMore rounds, more years!โ
The white men looked at one another in wonder. Even the lady was relaxing her hold on the blithe old man.
โMy brother is the perfect example of how not to be a Nigerian,โ the old brawler was saying, looking from the white men to his brother while avoiding the woman by his side. โMy brother does not belong here at all.โ ย
โLetโs talk,โ said the white interviewer, closing in on the brawler.
โLetโs get to the bar at Divine Parish and I will talk,โ the man said, gesturing that the white men should follow him to his regular watering hole. โBooze is a Nigerian!โ ย
โYou are going nowhere without paying me my money!โ the lady cried, grabbing back at the departing old brawler.
โWe shall pay you in his stead,โ one of the white men said to the lady.
โHow much is it?โ asked the other white man.
โGet me all the Naira in my wallet,โ said the interviewer. โWe have to pay her.โ
โNobody eats my chocolate on credit!โ howled the woman, still grasping at the brawler. ย
ย โYou are shit!โ the old brawler shouted back at the woman, unrelenting, as ever determined to have the last word. โYou told me you were chocolate but thereโs no sweetness in you! Nigerian chocolate is shit! Thatโs why our dogs eat the damn thing!โ
โYou are the dog!โ yelled the woman in finality while stretching out a hand to be paid by the white men.ย
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