Wynjew was simple as they came. Just as some people happily considered themselves great successes, he considered himself a great failure. He would say "I am a complete unmitigated disaster " to people he'd just met most likely at some run down disastrous beer parlor which served Isi-Ewu and besides which ran a stagnant open sewage gutter.

The vortex of failure he liked to think was like the eye of the hurricane. 'Tis peaceful there. He considered himself good hearted and once upon a time would have believed himself to have been good-natured. He was older now and with age had come the bile of rejection, of being passed over by life for being who he bloody well was. "I'm bloody well who I bloody am" he loved to declare - especially on nights of unimportance.

Nights of unimportance?

Sure. Susan his darling wife had insisted on finding out where he went on Friday nights and returned from in the wee hours of the morning, staggering. Slightly under the impetus.

So he had happily invited her to his hangout. The boys talked laughed and did nothing of particular importance and at midnight, Susan slept. Two hours later she woke up whether from the bites of the noisy mosquitoes or because Wynjew's shoulder kept heaving and shifting as he laughed, I couldn't tell.

Subtly she suggested to him it was time to go to no avail. Three hours later, Wynjew lazily and most reluctantly got up, helped his groggy wife, well beaten by mosquitoes, into the car, and drove most carefully home. No mention was made ever of his nights out. Boys should be left as boys she learnt with finality.

He'd been coming to this here bar for the last 15 years! It was his church and temple. All his friends he'd met there. All his business dealings were conducted there. All complaints were sorted out there. Judge and jury hung out there. He made it a point of duty to have zero dealings with people who were not part of his fellowship.

He had a great understanding of the transience & vanity of life for in the last 15 years men he had drunk with, and crawled through the same gutters with, had cut deals with had died and been buried. "Peter died and was buried like a dog,” he said of a particular friend of his. Not in derision but actually with a few tears in his eyes.

"Life's a bitch" he said n4ext shaking his head sadly. "Nothing dey inside am" he would say in pidgin. "We just de here like dat. Make man pikin de taken am jejely. Nothing de am at all at all" The rest of us bowed our heads as this high priest pontificated on the yeye-ness of life. "Hey Roli" he would shout to the bar-lady "Bring one-one for everybody"

"Life Yeye" he would continue "No be small matter" some lesser mortal would invariably say in support.

A Kokoma band appeared. This one had a guitar player. Who sang lustily:

If you see my mama O!

tell am say O! I de for Lagos

I no get problem

I swear that was the first time I heard the song I thought he had composed it on the spot! My interpretation of the song had also been totally wrong.

I had imagined a young man who had left his village for the big city Lagos in this case and after donkey years had remembered his mother and was saying to her "Mum, I am in Lagos I have no problems" which in itself was patently false. If he was doing fine he would drive home in his German machine and flaunt his new found status.

Where was i?

Ah!

The nights of unimportance did a lot for Wynjew & his ilk. It provided a safety net for those who had fallen on hard times, 'twas church, exorcist, counselor, psychiatrist for them all.

"When we come here we dey naked for each other" Wynjew declared to no one in particular. "Venus veritas" another lesser mortal would say in support.

"Venus Veritas?" an uninitiated asked "In wine there's truth" the entire party said in unison.

"Which language be dat" I asked

"No ask me. I no no book O"

"E be like Latin"

"Na him. Na Latin true true"

On one night I met the legendary Joe Erico and when I tried to eat starch called Usi, and lifted up the entire plate clean from the table, Joe said (and I love him dearly for this) "Make una see Wynjew O. Where you come from. Winegbo! Winegbo! teach am how to eat starch"

Winegbo (pronounced Wyn-gboh) was 50% Socrates. The other 50% vacillated between Priest, Clown, bloody fool, Brother, Best friend, Money lender, Favorite son of the family and Motor dealer. Wyn-gbo would drink for 9 hours straight, return home (driving at 20kmph) and kneel down for 2 hours straight praying fervently, then sleep for 12 hours straight. What the hell? He was a self-made millionaire.

90% of hose who came to this raggedy bar were millionaires. They could have their fill of the most exotic wines at the Sheraton but chose to come here and sit by the gutter and stay close to their simple roots - never mind that they were mostly from middle and upper class backgrounds (Be baffled! this is Nigeria!).

Presently there was commotion at the other end of the open air cafe. Another Kokoma band was impatient to start its routine.

"Una time don expire!" The waiting band cried

"Expired ko! expired ni! which time wey we come? You sure say your watch dey work well so?" The guitar player of the first band said playing all the while.

"Hey Wynjew they are toasting you!" the guy to my left cried out.

“Me? W-w-what are they saying?” Wynjew asked choking almost.

"They are prophesying that you are going to be appointed special assistant to the Assistant Managing Director at the ShadyDeals Oil Marketing company and that you will bounce back to the top. Listen!!” I listened they were saying:

"No forget us O No forget us O You forget us before Dats why your money finish

"No forget us O "No forget us O!

You chop alone before Dats why your money finish

"No forget us O

Wynjew stood up to join them and sand lustily:

I no go forget you O Lai lai

I no go forget my brodas

I forget you before dats why I come poor again

I no go forget una O!

I no go forget you O I

He pulled off his shirt and waving it recklessly over and above his head, pulled off the deftest kokoma dance steps I'd seen in my entire life executed on tippy toes. I should say tipsy toes. Some night of unimportance this was!!

Where was my video camera to record this day for posterity?

I loved my people! I loved my origins I loved my ancestors. They were long dead but had bequeathed to my genes and the genes of my fellow revelers that unique ability to make fun of adversity - to dance and chant and mockery of the elements, the vicissitudes of life, the mosquito.

Presently NEPA struck. Darkness. No one blinked. NEPA returned. No one cared.

We all danced. Some to remember, some to forget.

Wynjew raised his half empty bottle of Odeku to the night sky.

"Who are you toasting?"

"Susan. My wife!"

"Akproka!!" Wynjew cried repeatedly. "IYou followed me here. Oh you this girl" He said happy at her daring exploit. He kissed her repeatedly on her forehead.

He grabbed his wife like he'd never seen her before and they danced to the cheers of all around.

STOP PRESS

Wynjew got the job with the Oil marketing company and promptly there were massive fuel shortages across the country. Wynjew became rich beyond anyone’s imagination and yes he returned every Friday night to drink and to remember.